Chapter 9: THE WARRENS ARRIVE
The station wagon pulled up to the Morrison house at 10:47 PM.
I'd made it back by then, standing in the driveway with my arm badly bandaged and my pride in ruins. The Morrisons were on the front lawn—Mancini had arrived first and gotten them out. They huddled together, pale and shaking, watching their home like it might explode.
Two people emerged from the station wagon.
The man was tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair going gray at the temples, jaw set in the way of someone who'd walked into worse situations and walked out again. He carried a briefcase in one hand and moved like every step was deliberate.
The woman beside him was smaller, almost delicate, dressed simply in a dark skirt and blouse. But her eyes—her eyes moved differently. They scanned the house, the yard, the family, and landed on me with an intensity that made me want to look away.
Ed and Lorraine Warren. In the flesh. Exactly as I'd imagined them and nothing like I'd expected.
"Father." Ed shook Mancini's hand. "Been a while."
"Too long." Mancini nodded toward me. "This is the one I mentioned. Paul Franco."
Ed's gaze shifted. He took in my bloody arm, my pale face, the shame I couldn't hide.
"You the one who poked the bear?"
No judgment in his voice. Not yet. Just assessment.
"Yes, sir."
"Mm." He opened his briefcase on the hood of his car. Holy water, crucifixes, Latin texts, things I couldn't identify. "What did it look like?"
"I couldn't see it clearly. My flashlight—"
"Not physically. With your other sight."
He knew about Spirit Sight. Or something like it. Of course he did.
"Dark. Dense. Like concentrated wrongness. It moved too fast to track. And it spoke." I swallowed. "It said it could smell what I am. That I was wrong. Different."
Ed and Lorraine exchanged a look. Some communication passed between them that I couldn't read.
"Stay here," Ed said. "Watch the family. We'll handle the house."
"I can help—"
"You've done enough." Not cruel. Just factual. "Let the professionals work."
They walked toward the front door together, Ed carrying a crucifix and a bottle of holy water, Lorraine carrying nothing but moving like she didn't need to. The door swung open. They stepped inside.
The door closed.
Twenty minutes passed.
The Morrisons huddled on their lawn. Mancini prayed quietly, rosary beads clicking through his fingers. I stood apart, useless, bleeding through my bandage, listening to sounds from inside the house that I couldn't interpret.
Thumping. Crashes. A voice raised in Latin—Ed's voice, powerful and unwavering. Something that might have been a scream, though I couldn't tell if it was human or otherwise.
Then silence.
The front door opened.
Ed emerged first, sweating, his collar loosened, but walking steadily. Lorraine followed, her face pale but composed. Neither of them was injured.
"Contained," Ed announced. "Not expelled—that'll take proper authorization from the Church, binding rituals, the whole bureaucratic nightmare. But it's locked in the basement for now. Family can use the upstairs, but don't go below until we get clearance for a full exorcism."
Mrs. Morrison burst into tears. Mr. Morrison shook Ed's hand so hard I thought he'd break it. Mancini looked relieved in a way that told me he'd been more worried than he'd shown.
And then Ed turned to me.
"Let me see that arm."
He examined the wounds with the efficiency of someone who'd treated demon scratches before. His hands were rough but careful.
"These'll scar. You'll want a doctor for stitches, but holy water first—demonic wounds can fester if they're not cleaned properly." He produced a small flask from his pocket and poured clear liquid over the gouges.
It burned. Not like fire—like purification. Like something wrong being made right. I gritted my teeth and didn't scream.
"You went in there with holy water and optimism," Ed said. "Against a Tier 2 demon. In a basement. Alone."
"I didn't know what it was until I was down there."
"That's the problem." He capped the flask. "You didn't know. You didn't prepare. You didn't ask for help." His eyes met mine, dark and serious. "This isn't a hobby, son. This is war. And wars are won by soldiers who understand their limitations."
Lorraine stepped closer. She'd been watching me the whole time, that strange intensity in her gaze never wavering.
"What did it mean," she asked quietly, "when it said you were wrong? Different?"
I had a cover story for this. Possession survivor, emerging gifts, leftover sensitivity from demonic contact. The same story I'd told Mancini.
But looking into Lorraine Warren's eyes, I knew she'd see right through it.
"I don't know." The truth, as far as I could safely tell it. "Something changed in me after—after a traumatic experience. I can see things now. Sense things. I don't know why."
Lorraine studied me for a long moment. Her expression gave nothing away.
"There's something about you," she said finally. "Something I've never encountered before. Your soul has... edges. Like it doesn't quite fit where it's supposed to be."
My heart stopped.
"I don't know what that means."
"Neither do I." She glanced at Ed. "But I intend to find out."
Ed reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. White cardstock, simple black text: ED AND LORRAINE WARREN, DEMONOLOGISTS. Below that, an address in Connecticut.
He scrawled something on the back—a date, a time—and handed it to me.
"We give lectures. Train investigators. Share what we know with people who have the gift and the guts to use it." He tucked the pen back into his pocket. "You've got the gift. The guts, we'll see about. But if you want to do this for real—if you want to stop getting people hurt because you don't know what you're doing—come learn first."
I took the card. The paper felt heavier than it should.
"I'll be there."
"Good." Ed turned to help Mancini coordinate with the Morrisons. The family needed to pack, to stay somewhere else until the exorcism could be arranged. Details and logistics, the unglamorous aftermath of supernatural intervention.
Lorraine lingered.
"Paul." My name in her voice was strange—weighted with something I couldn't identify. "Whatever you are, whatever changed you—it's not evil. I can see that much. But it's not normal either. And in this work, abnormality attracts attention."
"From what?"
"From things that would love to know what makes you tick." She touched my uninjured arm briefly. "Be careful. And be honest—with yourself, if no one else. The lies we tell ourselves are the most dangerous kind."
She walked away to join Ed.
I stood in the driveway of the Morrison house, holding a business card and bleeding through my bandage, watching the Warrens work. Professionals. Experts. People who'd been doing this for decades and made it look almost routine.
"That's what I need to become."
Not just someone who stumbled through cases on luck and compassion. Not just a spiritual first responder who ran when the real threats appeared. I needed to be the one who walked into basements and walked out again.
The system hummed in my mind.
[FAITH NETWORK UPDATED]
[NEW CONTACTS: ED WARREN, LORRAINE WARREN]
[STATUS: OBSERVED / UNVERIFIED]
The lecture was in two weeks. Connecticut. A university auditorium where Ed and Lorraine shared their knowledge with anyone willing to listen.
I was going to be in the front row.
And somehow—carefully, cautiously, without revealing what I truly was—I was going to earn their trust.
The card felt warm in my pocket.
"One step at a time."
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