Chapter 10: THE LECTURE
The auditorium at Yale held maybe two hundred seats. Eighty of them were filled.
I sat in the back row, Ed's business card folded in my wallet, the three scars on my left arm itching under my sleeve. Two weeks of healing. The wounds had closed but the skin was still pink and tender, a reminder of what happened when I walked into darkness unprepared.
The stage lights came on.
Ed Warren strode to the podium like he owned the room. Tall, confident, the kind of presence that made people stop talking and start listening. He wore a simple suit, no tie, nothing fancy—just a man who'd seen things and lived to tell about them.
Lorraine sat in a chair beside the podium. She didn't need a spotlight. Her stillness drew attention all on its own.
"Good evening." Ed's voice filled the space without amplification. "My name is Ed Warren. This is my wife, Lorraine. And tonight, we're going to tell you about something that happened in our house three months ago."
A projector clicked on behind him.
The image that appeared was unremarkable at first glance. A Raggedy Ann doll, sitting on a white surface, button eyes staring at nothing. Red yarn hair. Stitched smile. The kind of thing you'd see in any little girl's bedroom.
But looking at it made my skin crawl.
"Her name is Annabelle," Ed said. "And she's one of the most dangerous objects we've ever encountered."
He told the story. Two nursing students. A doll that moved on its own. Notes appearing in a child's handwriting. A medium who said the spirit was a dead girl named Annabelle Higgins.
"They believed her," Ed said. "Why wouldn't they? A lonely spirit, trapped in a doll, just wanting to be loved. They gave it permission to stay."
The next slide showed scratch marks. Three parallel gouges across someone's chest.
"That's when it attacked."
I leaned forward in my seat. The story matched what I remembered from the movies—broad strokes, at least. But hearing it from Ed's mouth, seeing the actual photographs, made it different. Real. Present.
"The entity wasn't a ghost," Ed continued. "It was a demon. The story about Annabelle Higgins was a lie. Demons can't possess inanimate objects directly—they need permission to attach to a human host. But they can use objects as vessels. Conduits. A way to get close to the people they want to destroy."
[ENTITY RECOGNIZED: MALTHUS — TIER 3 DEMON]
[WARNING: EXTREME THREAT — DO NOT ENGAGE]
The system notification pulsed in my peripheral vision. I kept my eyes on the stage.
"The doll is in our home now," Ed said. "Locked in a blessed case. We don't touch it. We don't move it. We pray over it every day." A humorless smile. "And we warn everyone who visits: never open the case. Never ask the doll anything. Never give it permission for anything."
The lecture continued for another hour. Case studies. Photographs. The practical realities of demonology—how to identify possessions, how to protect homes, when to call for help.
I took notes. Every word, every detail, every warning. The pen moved across the paper like I was back in college, cramming for an exam that would determine everything.
When it ended, the audience applauded. Ed shook hands. Lorraine spoke quietly with people who approached her, that stillness never breaking.
I waited in line.
Twenty minutes. Thirty. People with questions, with stories, with needs I couldn't imagine. Ed handled them all with patience and warmth, giving each person exactly enough attention before moving to the next.
Finally, I reached the front.
"Mr. Warren." I extended my hand. "I'm Paul Franco. We met at the Morrison house—"
"I remember." Ed's handshake was firm but brief. His eyes assessed me in a single glance. "You almost got killed."
"I know. That's why I'm here. I want to learn. I can help."
Ed's expression didn't change. Polite, but closed. A door that wasn't going to open just because I knocked.
"We get a lot of psychics," he said. "A lot of people who think they have gifts, who want to tag along, who've seen too many horror movies." He released my hand. "Most of them wash out. Some of them get hurt. A few of them make things worse for the families we're trying to help."
"I'm not—"
"Go home, kid." Not unkind. Just final. "Finish school. Find another line of work. This isn't for everyone."
He turned to the next person in line.
I stood there for a moment, processing the rejection. Then I walked away.
The steps outside the auditorium were cold. I sat on them, watching people filter out into the New Haven night. Someone had left a pack of cigarettes on the concrete nearby. I picked one up, lit it, and didn't smoke it. Just held it, watching the ember glow orange against the darkness.
"That went well."
Footsteps behind me. I looked up.
Lorraine Warren stood at the top of the steps. She was looking at me with that strange intensity—eyes that seemed to see more than they should.
She didn't say anything.
Neither did I.
After a moment, she walked past, joining Ed at their car. They drove away without looking back.
But she'd paused. She'd looked. That was something.
I pulled Ed's card from my wallet. The next lecture was in two weeks. Hartford Community College.
"I'll be there. And the one after that. And every single one until they have to notice."
The cigarette burned down to the filter. I stubbed it out on the step and started walking toward the bus station.
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