Chapter 13: THE McCORMICK HAUNTING
The station wagon's headlights cut through the Connecticut dusk.
Ed drove with one hand on the wheel, the other holding a case file against the dashboard. I sat in the back with Lorraine, watching the suburban streets scroll past, trying to commit every detail of the briefing to memory.
"McCormick family," Ed said. "Tom and Sarah, daughter Emily. Thirteen years old. Activity started about six months ago—right around Emily's birthday."
"Poltergeist manifestation," Lorraine added. "Classic adolescent energy pattern. Objects moving on their own, knocking sounds, scratches appearing on walls."
"Probably not demonic." Ed glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "Probably. We'll know more when we get there."
I wrote everything down in the notebook Lorraine had given me. Six weeks of waiting since that dinner at their house. Six weeks of reviewing case files, studying methodology, preparing for this moment.
"Don't screw it up."
The same words I'd told myself after leaving their house. They'd become a mantra.
"What's my role tonight?"
"Observe," Ed said. "Carry equipment. Stay quiet unless spoken to. If something happens—and something always happens—don't panic and don't try to be a hero."
"Yes, sir."
"And Paul?" Ed's eyes found mine in the mirror. "If you sense something we don't, speak up. That's why you're here."
The McCormick house was a two-story colonial on a quiet street. White paint peeling at the corners. Lawn that needed mowing. The kind of house where normal families lived normal lives—until they didn't.
Tom McCormick met us at the door. Mid-forties, dark circles under his eyes, handshake that was too desperate.
"Thank God you're here. We didn't know who else to call. The church—Father Matthews came twice, but nothing worked."
"We'll do what we can," Ed said. "Can we come in?"
The inside of the house was wrong in ways I could feel before I could see. My senses had sharpened over the months of practice—Thomas Brennan's hospital had been my training ground, Danny Miller's pool my graduate program. This was different. The air itself felt restless. Agitated. Like standing in a room full of static electricity.
[ENTITY DETECTED: POLTERGEIST MANIFESTATION]
[CLASSIFICATION: ADOLESCENT-CENTERED — NON-DEMONIC]
[THREAT LEVEL: C-RANK]
Not a ghost. Not a demon. Something else.
Sarah McCormick sat on the couch, holding herself like she might shatter if she let go. And in the corner, trying to disappear into the wallpaper, was Emily.
Thirteen years old. Dark hair hiding her face. Shoulders hunched in permanent apology. She wouldn't look at anyone directly—just quick, furtive glances that never lasted more than a second.
"Emily," Ed said gently. "Can you tell us what's been happening?"
The girl shrank further into herself.
"It's okay," Lorraine said. "We're here to help, not to judge."
"Things move." Emily's voice was barely audible. "I don't touch them, but they move. And the knocking—it follows me. Even at school. Everyone thinks I'm crazy."
"You're not crazy," I said.
Everyone looked at me. Ed's eyebrow rose slightly.
"Sorry," I added. "But she's not."
Ed held my gaze for a moment, then nodded almost imperceptibly.
"No, she's not," he confirmed. "What's happening to you has happened to other people, Emily. And it can be understood."
We spent the next two hours setting up equipment. Cameras in hallways. Audio recorders in every room. Ed marked potential focal points with chalk while Lorraine walked the house, eyes half-closed, reading something I couldn't see.
I carried equipment, connected cables, followed instructions. The physical work helped burn off nervous energy. My legs ached from crouching to adjust camera angles. My hands were dusty from handling gear that hadn't been cleaned since the last case.
"Basement," Ed said, jerking his thumb toward a door off the kitchen. "That's where it started, according to the parents. Emily's been sleeping down there since her room got too bad."
The basement stairs groaned under my weight. The space below was half-finished—concrete floor, exposed beams, a mattress in one corner that looked profoundly wrong to be there.
I activated Sense Presence.
The energy hit me like walking into a spider web—not malevolent, but everywhere. Chaotic. Unfocused. Centered on the mattress where Emily slept, but radiating outward in all directions.
"You feel it," Lorraine said behind me.
I hadn't heard her approach.
"It's... scattered," I said carefully. "Not concentrated like a ghost. More like static. Undirected."
"That's poltergeist energy." Lorraine descended the stairs, moving with the ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times. "It's not an external entity—it's generated by the person at the center. Usually adolescents. Usually girls. Their emotions become physical force, but they don't know how to control it."
"So Emily is doing this? Unconsciously?"
"She's not possessed. She's not haunted. She's... manifesting." Lorraine touched the mattress briefly, then withdrew her hand. "Puberty, stress, suppressed emotions—they all feed into it. The poltergeist is a symptom, not a disease."
"How do you help someone like that?"
"You teach them to understand what they're doing. To control it instead of being controlled by it." Lorraine smiled slightly. "You'd know something about that, wouldn't you, Paul?"
My heart skipped.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Of course you do." Her eyes met mine—that intensity I'd learned to recognize, the sense that she was seeing more than the surface. "But that's a conversation for another time."
She walked back up the stairs, leaving me alone in the basement with the static and the fear.
Night fell. The activity began.
It started small—knocking sounds from inside the walls, rhythmic and insistent. Then the lights flickered, went out, came back on in patterns that couldn't be electrical. A vase on the living room shelf slid three inches to the left, stopped, slid back.
"Recording," Ed said calmly, adjusting his camera.
Emily was in her basement room. Her parents sat on the couch, gripping each other's hands. I stood by the door, watching, noting, trying to stay useful without getting in the way.
At 3:07 AM—that hour again, always that hour—Emily screamed.
I was down the stairs before I thought about it. Ed was right behind me, Lorraine following, flashlight beams cutting through the dark.
Emily was on the ceiling.
Not floating. Pinned. Her back pressed against the concrete above, arms and legs spread, face contorted with terror. Something invisible held her there, pressing her into the cold surface like a butterfly on a mounting board.
"Ed!" Lorraine's voice was sharp.
"I see it." Ed raised his crucifix, began reciting in Latin. The words filled the basement, power humming beneath them.
But I could see what they couldn't. With Spirit Sight active, the energy was visible—not a demon, not a ghost, but a storm of unfocused force erupting from Emily herself. Her fear was feeding it. Her terror was making it stronger.
"It's her!" I shouted. "The energy is coming from her!"
Ed paused mid-prayer.
"She's unconsciously doing this to herself," I continued. "She's so scared of the power that it's attacking her. You have to calm her down, not command it!"
A moment of hesitation. Then Lorraine moved past Ed, standing directly beneath Emily.
"Emily." Her voice was gentle, cutting through the chaos. "Emily, listen to me. This is you. This is your energy. It's not a monster—it's a part of you that you don't understand yet. But it's not going to hurt you. Take a breath. Feel it. Own it."
The girl's eyes found Lorraine's.
"I can't—"
"You can. Breathe with me. In... out. In... out."
Slowly, impossibly, the energy began to settle. The static coalesced, pulled inward. Emily descended from the ceiling, caught by her father before she hit the ground.
Silence.
The basement was just a basement again. Emily sobbed in her father's arms. Sarah rushed down to join them, a family reunited around trauma they might actually survive.
Ed looked at me.
I looked back.
"Nice catch," he said.
The drive home was quiet for the first hour. Lorraine dozed in the back seat. I stared out the window, processing everything I'd seen.
"You did good tonight."
Ed's voice broke the silence. He didn't look away from the road.
"Thank you, sir."
"Didn't panic. Didn't try to be a hero. Saw something we almost missed." A pause. "That's rare."
I allowed myself a small smile in the darkness. The Saint Michael medal was warm against my chest.
Progress.
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