Chapter 12: DINNER AT THE WARRENS
The Warren house looked ordinary from the outside.
White Colonial, two stories, neat lawn, American flag by the door. The kind of home that appeared in magazines under headlines about family values and suburban dreams. A basketball hoop hung over the garage. Flowers lined the walkway.
But I could feel it from the car.
The house hummed with contained energy. Not malevolent—controlled. Locked down. Like a vault holding something too dangerous to let loose.
I adjusted my tie for the third time, checked my reflection in the rearview mirror, and forced myself to walk up the path.
Ed answered the door.
"You found the place."
"Yes, sir."
He stepped aside to let me in. The foyer was warm, lived-in. Family photographs on the walls. A coat rack that held more jackets than any two people could need. The smell of pot roast drifted from deeper in the house.
And underneath it all, that hum. That sense of things contained.
"Lorraine's in the kitchen," Ed said. "Dinner's almost ready."
I followed him through the house, cataloging details automatically. The living room had a crucifix over the mantle, fresh flowers on the coffee table, toys scattered near the couch. Normal. Domestic. Not what I'd expected from the home of America's most famous demonologists.
Then we passed a door, and my skin went cold.
The hum was louder here. Concentrated. The door was wood, painted white, utterly unremarkable—but my senses screamed warnings at me.
"The artifact room. The basement."
Ed noticed me looking.
"After dinner," he said. "I'll give you the tour."
The kitchen was bright and normal. Lorraine stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled incredible. And sitting at the table, crayons scattered around her, was a little girl.
Judy Warren. Four years old. Dark hair, curious eyes, her mother's intensity already visible in the set of her jaw.
"Hi," she said to me. "Are you the monster fighter?"
I blinked.
"Judy." Lorraine's voice was gentle but firm. "We talked about this. He's a guest."
"But Daddy said he fights monsters. Like you and Daddy." Judy looked at me expectantly. "Do you?"
I crouched to her level.
"Sometimes. When I have to."
She considered this gravely.
"Good. Monsters are scary. Someone should fight them."
"Judy, why don't you show Mr. Franco your drawing while I finish dinner?" Lorraine suggested.
The girl hopped down from her chair and returned with a piece of paper, presenting it to me with obvious pride.
The drawing was crayon chaos—bright colors, shapes that might have been people, something dark and many-toothed in one corner. A figure in the center held what looked like a glowing cross.
"That's you," Judy said, pointing at the figure. "Fighting the monster."
My throat tightened.
"It's beautiful." I meant it. "Can I keep it?"
Judy beamed.
"Okay. I'll make you another one later."
Dinner was roast beef, potatoes, green beans. Normal food, normal conversation—Ed asked about my job at St. Michael's, Lorraine asked about my apartment, Judy asked if I'd ever seen a ghost.
"Yes," I told her honestly. "A few times."
"Were they scary?"
"Some of them. But mostly they were just sad."
She nodded like this made perfect sense.
After the meal, Ed pushed back from the table.
"Judy, help your mother with the dishes. Paul and I are going to take a walk."
The basement stairs were narrow, wooden, creaking with age. The hum grew louder with every step.
The artifact room was smaller than I'd imagined. Shelves lined every wall, floor to ceiling, each one holding objects in glass cases. Crucifixes. Photographs. Jewelry. Books. A mirror draped in black cloth. A child's toy that made my skin crawl.
And there, in a case of its own, spotlit like a museum piece:
Annabelle.
The Raggedy Ann doll sat on a small wooden chair, button eyes staring at nothing. The case around it was covered in warning signs. A prayer card was taped to the glass.
[ENTITY DETECTED: MALTHUS — TIER 3 DEMON]
[IMMEDIATE RETREAT RECOMMENDED]
[SOUL INTEGRITY AT RISK]
I forced myself to look away.
"You feel it," Lorraine said. She'd followed us down, standing in the doorway, watching my reaction.
"Yes."
"Most people don't. They look at the doll and see a toy. They can't feel what's inside."
Ed crossed his arms.
"Mancini vouches for you. Says you helped him with two cases. Says you've got gifts." His voice was neutral, testing. "I need to hear it from you. What happened to you? Why are you really doing this?"
The cover story. I'd practiced it a hundred times.
"I was nineteen." My voice was steady. Believable. "Something attached to me. I don't know what it was—I never saw it clearly. But I felt it. Inside me. Trying to take over."
Ed's expression didn't change.
"Three weeks," I continued. "Three weeks of hell. I couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't think without it whispering in my ear." I touched my rosary through my shirt. "I fought it off. Prayers, fasting, will. Eventually it left. But something stayed behind."
"Residual sensitivity," Lorraine said quietly. "It happens sometimes. Survivors of possession sometimes retain... echoes."
"More than echoes." I met Ed's eyes directly. "I can sense things. Presences. Intent. I can feel when something's wrong with a place or a person." A pause. "And I want to use it. To help. That's why I'm here."
Silence. Ed studied me like I was a case file he wasn't sure how to categorize.
"The thing at the lecture," he said finally. "The woman who convulsed. You did something."
"I prayed."
"Bull." His voice was flat. "I saw your face. You did something more than pray."
"Careful."
"I don't know how to explain it," I said. "When I pray during a crisis, something happens. The sensitivity—it becomes active. Aggressive. Like I can push back against whatever's there."
"Psychic gifts activated by faith," Lorraine mused. "Unusual. But not unheard of."
Ed was quiet for a long moment. Then he moved to one of the shelves, pulling down a small leather case.
"This was blessed by a bishop in Rome. It's protected half a dozen people from minor possessions." He handed it to me. "Keep it. If what you're saying is true, you'll need protection."
The case held a small medal—Saint Michael, wings spread, sword raised against a serpent.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." Ed headed for the stairs. "We have a case next month. Low-risk. A house in Massachusetts with poltergeist activity. Come observe. Watch how we work. Ask questions."
My heart was pounding.
"And if I do well?"
Ed paused on the steps.
"Then maybe we'll talk about what comes next."
The drive home took two hours.
I spent most of it staring at the medal, feeling its weight, processing everything that had happened.
Judy's drawing sat on the passenger seat. The monster had too many teeth. The figure fighting it held a cross that glowed.
"She saw something. Even at four years old, she saw something in me."
The system hummed quietly.
[FAITH NETWORK UPDATED]
[ED WARREN: SKEPTICAL → TESTING (+15)]
[LORRAINE WARREN: CURIOUS → OPEN (+20)]
[JUDY WARREN: INSTANT AFFECTION (+25)]
One dinner. One conversation. One step closer.
The road stretched ahead, dark and empty. Massachusetts waited. A case waited.
Everything I'd been working toward was finally starting.
"Don't screw it up."
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