Chapter 27: THE JOURNALIST
The woman standing on the Warren doorstep was not what I expected.
Mid-twenties. Sharp features. Dark hair pulled back in a professional ponytail. She carried a leather satchel that probably held a notebook and tape recorder, and she wore the expression of someone who'd been told to expect ghosts and wasn't sure whether to believe it.
"Sarah Chen," she said, extending a hand to Ed. "Boston Globe. We spoke on the phone?"
"Miss Chen. Come in."
I watched from the study doorway as Ed led her into the living room, offered tea, made the small talk that preceded any interview. Lorraine joined them moments later, gracious and welcoming, the perfect hostess for a journalist who might destroy their reputation with a single unfavorable article.
The Globe had been sniffing around for months. Ever since the Ashford case made regional news—the boy who'd recovered from a "mysterious illness" after the Warrens visited—reporters had been curious. Most were easy to deflect. This one had been persistent enough to earn an actual meeting.
"I should be honest with you," Chen said, pulling out a notebook. "I came here expecting to write a skeptic piece. Fraud investigators. Con artists preying on grieving families." She paused. "But the families I interviewed—the Ashfords, the McCormicks, others—they're not victims. They're advocates. They credit you with saving their lives."
"We just do our best to help," Ed said carefully.
"How?" Chen's pen hovered over blank paper. "What exactly is it that you do? The official explanation is 'consulting services for families experiencing unusual disturbances.' That's quite vague."
"The work is difficult to categorize," Lorraine said. "Every case is different. Some require counseling. Some require spiritual intervention. Some—" She glanced at Ed. "Some require more direct measures."
"Exorcisms?"
"When necessary and authorized by the Church."
Chen wrote something in her notebook. "I'd like to observe. If possible. See what you actually do on a case, rather than just hearing about it after the fact."
Ed and Lorraine exchanged one of their silent conversations. It was a risk—journalists meant exposure, questions, the possibility of unfavorable coverage that could damage years of careful reputation-building. But it was also an opportunity. Favorable press from a major outlet could open doors, bring help to families who'd otherwise suffer in silence.
"We'll consider it," Ed said. "There are privacy concerns to address. Families don't always want publicity."
"I understand. I'm not looking to exploit anyone." Chen closed her notebook. "But I am looking for truth. Whatever that turns out to be."
She stayed for dinner.
I joined them at Ed's insistence—"You're part of the team, you should meet the press"—and found myself seated across from a woman whose intelligence radiated like heat from a fire. She asked questions that cut deeper than they appeared, noticed details that others missed, and watched the three of us with the focused attention of a predator studying prey.
Or maybe the focused attention of a scientist studying a new species. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.
"You're not what I expected," she told me during a lull in conversation. "Younger than the others. Different energy."
"I'm a recent addition to the team."
"The Ashford case. You were the one who—" She checked her notes. "The one who 'connected with the boy.' According to the parents."
"I helped where I could."
"They said you carried Michael downstairs after the—" She hesitated over the word. "—the incident. They said you were bleeding. That you'd been attacked by something."
I touched my right arm unconsciously. The scars had faded but not disappeared. Matching now with the ones on my left from the Morrison demon, two years ago.
"The work gets physical sometimes."
"Physical how? What could physically injure you during a spiritual consultation?"
"Miss Chen." Lorraine's voice was gentle but firm. "Some aspects of what we do are difficult to explain without context. Perhaps if you observed a case, things would become clearer."
"That's what I'm hoping."
Dinner ended with tentative agreements. Chen would be allowed to observe a low-stakes case—something minor, nothing dangerous—with the family's permission. She'd submit her article for factual review before publication. And she'd keep specific details confidential if asked.
I walked her to her car while Ed and Lorraine cleaned up.
"You don't trust me," she said as we reached her sedan. Not accusatory. Just observational.
"I don't know you."
"Fair." She unlocked the door, paused with her hand on the handle. "Can I ask you something off the record?"
"Depends on the question."
"The Ashford boy. When he woke up—when he came back to himself—what did he say?"
I remembered Michael's eyes, terrified and confused, searching for faces he recognized. His voice, hoarse from three weeks of screaming, asking for his mother. The weight of him in my arms as I carried him downstairs, lighter than he should have been after what he'd been through.
"He asked if the monster was gone."
"What did you tell him?"
"The truth. That this monster was gone. That he was safe now."
Chen studied me for a long moment. Whatever she was looking for, she seemed to find it.
"I think you actually believe what you do is real," she said. "The ghosts. The demons. All of it."
"I know it's real."
"That's what makes this story interesting." She got into her car, rolled down the window. "I'll be in touch about the observation. And Paul?"
"Yes?"
"Be careful. Whatever's really going on here—whatever you're really fighting—I don't think it's the kind of thing that forgives exposure."
She drove away, taillights disappearing into the June evening.
I stood in the driveway, thinking about exposure. About truth. About the growing list of people who were asking questions I couldn't safely answer.
The Church was watching. Journalists were watching. Demons were watching.
And somewhere out there, Valak was waiting.
The system notification pulsed in my peripheral vision, quiet and steady.
[CANONICAL EVENT TRACKER: UPDATE]
[PERRON HAUNTING: 7 MONTHS]
[STATUS: APPROACHING]
Seven months. Less than a year before the case that would define the Warrens' careers—and potentially destroy a family if I wasn't ready.
I walked back inside, past Ed and Lorraine cleaning dishes, up to the guest room they kept for me now. The envelope from Father Gordon sat on my desk, still unopened. The seminar was in two weeks. Exorcists from around the world, sharing knowledge about a demonic surge that no one seemed to understand.
Seven months.
Time to start preparing.
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