Sister Mary used to say that "our dead are always among us." Most of the time we can't see them, but they with us. "Heaven is not far up in the sky," she used to say, resting her hand above her heart, "It is in here. The kingdom of Heaven is in our midst."

I used to be afraid of Sister Mary. Well, not afraid. She seemed so good. And everybody was always demanding her attention. After meetings, a throng of people always surrounded her, waiting to talk to her. I figured she must be so busy, it would be selfish of me to want to spend time with her. And I think I also believed that anybody as close to God as Sister Mary could see right through the things of the flesh, right through me, right into my soul. And I wasn't sure I was worthy to be seen by Sister Mary.

Though, she was never judgmental. She helped us when James was possessed by demons, but she never said an unkind word afterwards. I never even felt like she thought an unkind thought. And she would have had plenty of reason.

I thought James got possessed because of Sharlinda Sykes. James never told me exactly what happened between him and Sharlinda, except to call her a witch. But I'm pretty sure she had an affair with him. She and her brother Vane were both horrible, she always pretending to be sick, acting like a queen and expecting to be waited on, and her brother, fawning over her, doing all her dirty errands, including setting her up with James. James and Brother Cecil were constantly running over to her house late at night. Vane Sykes would call James in the middle of the night and say, "Her situation is desperate again, she's near death. She says the only one who can bless her is James." She never did say exactly what this mysterious illness was that kept her perpetually at "death's door" but never quite killed her. James said it was some kind of leukemia or bone cancer, though didn't seem sure she was telling the truth. But Brother Cecil told that when they went to her home, her brother would stand outside her bedroom door and stop him from entering. "She only wants to see James," Vane would say. Cecil was extremely apologetic when he told me, avoiding my eyes, looking as though there were more to it than just what he was telling me. "You're James' wife," he said in a hushed voice, "I thought you deserved to know."

Even the church leaders must have thought there was something funny, because Brother John himself called the house one evening, and told James he was no longer assigned as a missionary to the Sykes family. The night after Brother John called, a Saturday, Sharlinda herself called begging James to come give her "one last blessing." James went, without Brother Cecil, and didn't return home till two-thirty in the morning. And that was the morning when he got possessed.

James was supposed to bear witness in church that Sunday. But instead of bearing witness, he stood up and told the congregation he was a terrible missionary and started to cry. Everybody waited for him to regain his composure, but he didn't. He just bawled louder and louder, until Brother Cecil and Brother William stood up, each taking him by one arm, accompanied him down off the stand, and walked him to the back of the chapel and into Brother John's office. I waited anxiously for him to come back out, but he never did. The meeting finally ended, and no sign of James. Brother Cecil came out of Brother John's office and found Brother John and whispered something into his ear, and Brother John apologized to the brothers and sisters he was talking to and followed Brother Cecil back into his office. That was too much. I wanted to follow them in but didn't dare, so I stood outside waiting. Sister Gail saw me crying, and came near and put her arm around me. That's when we were both panicked by a sudden, terrible bellowing from inside the office, like the howling of a wounded animal.

The door opened and Brother William rushed out, frantic and pale. He avoided looking at me. He grabbed Sister Gail and blurted out, "Where's Sister Mary? Brother John wants Sister Mary." He rushed away after she said something to him. I ignored what she said, because when I peered into Brother John's office, I saw James, his eyeballs rolled up into his head, his body rigid and his face pasty white, rising up off his chair. Brother Cecil was straining, holding him down, keeping him from rising right up to the ceiling. Brother John pulled the door shut, though we could still hear the bestial wailing.

When Sister Mary arrived with Brother William in tow, she came directly to me. Brother William wanted to rush straight ahead with her into Brother John's office. But she paused for a moment to take me by the hands, look me in the eyes, and say, "I need you. Will you come in with me?" I nodded yes. Still holding my right hand, she took firm hold of the door knob, twisted, and pulled the door open. James' unattenuated roars filled our ears. Brother John and Brother Cecil were holding James down with both hands, and Brother John was chanting the words, "I command thee, in the name of Jesus of Nazareth, depart from this servant of God."

I noticed how Brother John and Brother Cecil gripped James, their knuckles turning white, their palms leaving dark, oily sweat marks on his white shirt. But Sister Mary's touch was gentle, cool. She let go of my hand to snap open her purse, a forest green purse with brown leather trim, and pulled out a small, maroon bottle of oil. She uncapped the bottle and handed it to me. "Put a drop of this on Brother James' head," she said, "Just a drop is enough." I took the bottle, but then hesitated for a moment. James was writhing back and forth, his teeth gritted, and only the whites of his eyes visible under dark, heavy lids. I didn't quite know how to delicately let a drop fall from the bottle onto his head, with him wildly thrashing about, and still be sure of anointing him and not the floor or Brother John or the chair. So I poured a drop out onto my thumb, looking up at Sister Mary to see her nodding in approval, reached out and grabbed James by the top of his head, and rubbed the oil from my thumb into his scalp. Sister Mary came close and put her left arm around me and put her right hand on his head next to mine. She whispered to me, "Tell him his sins are forgiven, in the name of Jesus."

That stuck in my throat, but I couldn't balk now, so I stammered in a barely audible voice, "Your sins are forgiven in the name of Jesus." I thought, he'll never hear this above his own caterwauling, but suddenly there was silence. And James, who had been rising off his chair like a hot air balloon from hell, suddenly deflated with a deep gasp, and slumped into an exhausted heap. Brother Cecil cried out, and even Brother John was a bit startled, frowning and jerking his hands away from James' shoulder like from a hot stove. Sister Mary held her hand out for the oil, which I deposited back into her palm. She capped the bottle, dropped it back into her purse, and then pulled out a small white handkerchief which she used to wipe James' sweaty forehead and the drool off his chin. She handed the napkin to me. "This is one of the handkerchiefs Brother John and I blessed at our last sanctification meeting. Have James keep this on his person at all times for the next week or so."

James seemed catatonic. He was still deathly pale, and we couldn't coax him to say a word. He was able to walk with assistance, though he didn't seem to know which way to go without guidance. So Brother Cecil and Brother William drove him home in Brother Cecil's beat-up old Chevy. When they arrived, they took him upstairs to his bed and tucked him in. "Call us if you need anything," they said, before fleeing the house.

Sister Mary drove home with me, and stayed at our house for rest of the afternoon. She helped me cook some chicken soup and make a fruit salad and bread, and she sat in the bedroom while I fed James. We just made small talk. She only mentioned the whole incident once to say, "Don't worry about James. And don't blame yourself." Then she put her arm around me and pressed her lips against my ear and said, "You did an excellent job, Sister," and kissed me on the forehead.

"Why couldn't Brother John cast out the demon?" I asked.

Sister Mary smiled delicately. "Each spirit is different," she said in a low voice only we could hear, "Sometimes you can't cast a demon out. You must forgive it."

By the next morning, James was able to talk again, but he was not the same after that. He grew sullen and resentful. Brother John called and told him he would be relieved from missionary duty for a while. He didn't want to talk about it with me, but he said something about Brother John saying that before he could serve God as a missionary he needed to "set his house in order." But James didn't really "set his house in order." He started coming home late from work smelling of alcohol. Then he would watch sitcoms or trashy talk-shows on the TV until one or two or even three in the morning. James never hurt me, he never hit me. But he was always angry at me about something, about the dishes or the dinner or the bills or the dirty clothes. And after he stopped going to meetings, I could never go to the church without him quipping sarcastically, "Don't forget to pray for me," or "Don't let me spoil your day of holiness."

I was spending more and more time alone. In the evening, he would fall asleep on the couch. He was already in a half stupor from his drinking. I never talked to anybody about James, perhaps because I blamed myself for his condition. Perhaps I had not been the right kind of wife, had not supported him enough. So I would lie in bed alone, at night thinking, wondering, sometimes dreaming.

One night, I dreamed I was at meeting, sitting next to James, who was puffing and sweating, and turning red in the face and crying out. I was startled by a hand touching me on the shoulder from behind, and I turned around to see Sister Mary. She put her arms around my chest and whispered to me, "Sister, I need you to help me give a blessing to the world." And Brother John stared at me from the podium and growled, "How can she bless others? I don't think this sister has set her own house in order."

I awoke crying. The bedroom was pitch black and the air felt humid and thick. There was whispering and breathing all around me. A gentle voice whispered to me, "Sister, we need you." And another voice whispered, "Don't be afraid." I was enveloped in sweet, dark, warmth, and the warmth was seeping into me, filling me with pleasure. "This isn't right," I thought, "What is happening to me?" And still another voice whispered, "You deserve some joy that is all your own, Sister." And another voice, "Let us bless you so you can bless the world." And another, "Don't be afraid." I had been holding my breath in tight, pulling myself in, recoiling from the many hands that were tugging at my bed sheets, pulling off my night clothes, stroking my hair, warming my skin. I tried to speak, but my throat was too tight, so the question just rattled around in my brain. "Who are you?" I wondered. And a voice whispered, "Don't you recognize us? Don't you know us?"

I had never imagined angels anointing me in this fashion, so I worried they might be evil spirits. But then I remembered James, pale and writhing, showing only the whites of his eyes and a tongue curled in agony, and it occurred to me that demons did not emanate this kind of gentle ardor. This felt too good to be wrong. So I sighed and allowed myself to breathe in deeply, to fill myself with the warmth, and let the Spirits cover me with their kisses and the caress of their hands, like the stirring of an estival breeze. I took it in and told myself, "This is finally my anointing."

When I woke the next morning and looked around me at the heap of dirty clothes covering the chair in the corner and overflowing onto the floor, and the half-opened window shades covered with dust made more visible by the stark sunlight shining through, my memories of the past night took on a nonsensical cast, surreal, like a dream. What had seemed transcendent and profound in the darkness and the stretched out time of a sleepless night now seemed odd and embarrassing, even frightening. I held myself tight under the covers and wondered: parts of it had seemed too vivid to be a dream. Then I saw a little girl standing in the open door way, intently watching me, sucking her thumb and tugging at the bottom of her dress with her free hand.

I stared for a moment and then said out loud, "Who are you?"

She pulled her thumb out of her mouth, giggled, and shouted, "Good morning!" Turning, she ran down the hall and clomped noisily down the stairs.

What was James doing downstairs, I wondered. Had he left the front door open and invited the neighborhood children to run through the house? I heaved myself out of bed, only to realize I was completely naked. My nighties were crumpled up in a thick lump under the covers at the foot of the bed. I fished a bathrobe out of the heap of clothes on the floor, wrapped it around me, and ran after the girl.

"James," I yelled, "Have you left the front door open?"

I arrived at the foot of the stairs, looked around me, and froze.

The front door was shut tight and bolted, and there was no trace of the girl. James was lying half on the couch and half off, in his usual morning-after torpor. A stranger sat on the floor, leaning his head against James' thigh, with his arm draped across James' lower torso. He stared at me lazily, cat-like, pretending to ignore me but taking careful stock of me all the same through half-shut eyes. He was dressed all in white: white tie, white shirt, white coat, white trousers, white socks under white crocodile leather shoes. His skin was thin and pale, almost translucent like a snake's, but his eyes were keen and fiery.

Before I had recovered from the fright of seeing a complete stranger in our living room on such oddly intimate terms with my husband, I caught sight of someone else. An old woman sat at our dinner table. Her jet black hair was pulled back tight into a bun and she wore a large, frilly, black and red dress. She wielded a steel butcher knife with a handle of wood and bronze, and was hacking laboriously at a bloody chunk of meat the size of a pot roast sitting on the table in front of her. She chopped at a piece and then pulled it off with her left index finger and thumb, tearing it away from the gristle, gingerly plunking it into her mouth and then chewing vigorously while continuing to work with the knife. I watched in sheer astonishment, though she seemed totally oblivious to me. There were several other curious cuts on the table, and as I studied them, I gradually realized I was looking at a liver, a heart, an arm, and — the piece she was not too delicately consuming — a human head. I screamed.

James bolted awake, rolling his head and moaning before he eased himself stiffly into a sitting position and cried, "What, what?" The man in white wrapped his arms around James' legs and leaned his head against James' knee. The old woman continued her gruesome feast.

"Who are these people?" I shouted, the panic in my voice rising.

James looked around him and then gawked scornfully at me. "What the hell are you talking about?" he coughed.

"Who are these people?" I shrieked, "There" — I pointed at the floor next to him — "and there" — I pointed at the dinner table — "and there?" — I nodded at the dismembered head.

James craned his head around toward the dinner table behind him, stared blankly for a few moments, and then jerked back toward me and spat, "I repeat: What the hell are you talking about?"

I faltered and hesitated, grasping for understanding.

That was when the old woman spoke up. "There were five very bad ones," she said, in between chewing, "I'm finishing the fourth one right now. It will be finished him in another few days. But that last one clinging to James there is particularly vicious, the worst of the lot. Separating them will be tricky." She paused to saw off what I now recognized as a cheek. "You were unlucky, child. Five bad ones. But it's not the worst I've seen. Once I had to eat six in order to purify a house. Six was the worst."

"Who are you?" I gasped.

"What did you say?" grunted James, "Are you crazy?"

"Don't you recognize me, child?" the woman asked. She stared hard at me, stood up and stepped backwards into the sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows. The heavy wrinkles above her brow, lively, deep set eyes, jet black hair, olive skin. She looked different from the pictures I had seen, but I recognized her as my great, great grandmother Teresa. She nodded at me.

"I've had as much as I can stomach this morning," she said, "I'll have more tonight for dinner. I need to rest now."

She turned toward the basement door at the back of the kitchen. "Don't be frightened, child," she smiled faintly as she disappeared past the edge of the kitchen door frame, "it's the way of the earth. All things eat and are eaten."

James tried standing up, but the man in white held his legs tight, and James just strained ineffectually for a moment and then collapsed backwards groggily tumbling down. "I need a little more sleep," he mumbled.

I watched James warily from the kitchen in the morning, never taking my eyes off the man in white. I could barely stand to be anywhere near James, now that I could see with my eyes the vile creature that had sunk its claws into him and never left him for even a moment. It smelled nasty and acrid. I was relieved when James showered, dressed, and stumbled out the front door, his ghastly companion slithering behind him. That day my heart pumped wildly as I vacuumed, dusted, and washed laundry.

I grew accustomed to seeing the little girl play on the front lawn and run in and out of all the rooms of the house except the basement. But Grandma Teresa unnerved me completely. Throughout the day she remained in the basement. After sunset she emerged through the basement door, hobbled over to the dinner table and continued nibbling the remains of demon number four (which I hadn't dared touch — I steered clear of the dinner table in all my housework). I crept upstairs and locked myself in the bedroom, as I habitually did when James was drunk and unpleasant. But Grandma Teresa followed me. I had been sitting on my bed, leaning against the headboard with my legs drawn up, my arms wrapped around my calves, and my chin resting on my knees, when I heard the lock pop open and saw the door knob turn and the door swing open, and there in the darkened hallway, Grandma Teresa with her butcher knife and the severed arm.

She entered and locked the door again behind her, and turned to smile before she sat down on one of the bed room chairs, ignoring the dirty laundry. She watched at me cheerily for a moment with bright, intense eyes. "Do you mind if I finish my evening meal?" she nodded.

I nodded back.

"What do you do in the basement?" I asked her.

"I rest," she sighed. "There are other spirits, under the basement," she continued, "Most of them find it too bright up here, and the really old ones are hard to communicate with. But perhaps you can meet some of them someday."

We sat in silence, while I watched, at first with disgust and horror but gradually with some fascination, as she worked at the hand, tearing the skin away with her teeth, chewing on the flesh, and eventually crunching the bone. Nothing went to waste. Neither of us said a word, until the slamming of the front door downstairs, announcing James' arrival.

Grandma Teresa glanced at the hallway door. "Don't worry. It won't harm you, especially with me here," she said, "Though it's not really you it's interested in. It's James."

"How?" I paused. "How will you get rid of the demon?"

Grandma Teresa hemmed and sighed. "I wouldn't call it a demon. Just a spirit. Just a spirit. James is protecting that last one. It'll be difficult. If we don't do something soon, it will bring more in, more stronger ones, and I won't be able to do anything then."

I dozed off, only to start awake again. The clock said only nine-thirty, but I was exhausted.

"You sleep," said Grandma Teresa, "Let me worry about it for the time being."

I lay on top of the covers with my clothes on and the lights shining. I'll just rest, I thought. Grandma Teresa leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, and started to hum a little melody. It sounded like a bit of something from eastern Europe, a folk song.

I woke in the middle of the night, in complete darkness. I heard several voices singing. A cool hand stroked my forehead. Someone brushed my arm and said, "Sleep, sister, sleep." Another voice, "You need your sleep." And the singing continued, voices weaving in and out of the melody.

When I woke the next morning, the sun glared through the bedroom windows. Grandma Teresa was gone and the voices gone, and I wondered if I had dreamed the last twenty-four hours. Then I heard the little girl clomping up and down the stairs, and when I left my room and found the bloody heart sitting on the dinner table, all that was left of Grandma's meal. James had already left for the day.

I debated with myself. Then I called Sister Mary.

"Things have been strange," I tried to control the shaking in my voice.

She sighed. "You've been seeing things."

"How did you know?"

"I could tell you had a gift the day we blessed James," she replied. "Do you need me to come over?"

"It's been horrible."

"There's nothing to do about the horror of it," she said, "‘This kind can come forth by nothing, but by prayer and fasting.' But sometimes it helps to have someone close by."

"It helps just to hear your voice on the phone, knowing you don't think I'm crazy. But if you would come by . . ."

So Sister Mary arrived and we sat together at the dinner table next to the bloody heart, sipping warm herb tea and while the little girl raced noisily up and down the stairs.

"You will see things, that will disturb you," she said.

"I have already seen things that disturb me."

She shook her head. "You will see a side of things that you never expected," she continued, "You will find it necessary to accept certain realities."

I smiled at her, took a sip of my tea, and we both just sat, listening to the ticking of the clock. Eventually I stood up and said, "It would be awkward if you were still here when James arrived." She nodded and stood up, and we walked to the front door and embraced. And I was alone again.

I retreated to my room. Shortly after sunset, Grandma Teresa arrived with the heart in her apron. She and sat down in her chair, on top of the laundry.

"We will have to kill James," she said, "There's no other way. It will be much worse for us if we don't."

"We can't kill James," I said.

"No choice," said Grandma Teresa, "No choice."

She looked away from me, down at the heart, and began tearing strips of it away with her finger nails and devouring it like she would an orange. "If he brings more in it will be too late," she huffed, "I need your help. It will be impossible for me to kill him by myself. The two of them are too strong."

I told myself I wouldn't sleep that night. Grandma Teresa closed her eyes and leaned forward in her chair, sitting uncannily still. I sat on my bed with my back to the wall, watching her in the dim yellow glow of the bedside lamp and listening to the click, click of the alarm clock. We didn't saying a word, though I thought I heard the faint sound of women singing. It stopped each time I turned my head to listen where it came from, but after a time it reverberated in my ears again.

I woke up and Grandma Teresa was gone. The bedroom was bluish gray in the light of the early morning, except for the dingy circle of yellow light around the bedside lamp. I leaped out of bed, unlocked the bedroom door, and ran downstairs.

James was up, cleaning off the dinner table. "Good morning," he said cheerily, turning on the water in the sink to wash some dishes. I smelled freshly brewed coffee, fried eggs and toast. The man in white was hovering over him, weaving in and out of him. "I think I want to go back to church," James said. "I think it's time I set my house in order."

Grandma Teresa sat at the dinner table gripping her steel butcher knife with the bronze and wood handle, grimly eyeing James. "If he leaves the house," she muttered, "we'll never save him. He'll destroy us all."

"I can't do it," I said, "It's too much. I just can't do it."

"What do you mean, it's too much?" said James cheerily, "Church will make you feel better. It always does."

The man in white was vibrating now, blending in and out of James, merging with him.

"Let's go to church," I said.

Grandma Teresa stood up and stomped toward the basement door, vanished through it.

James and I arrived at church late. The service had already started. I heard organ music, muffled through the meeting house doors. James reached forward for the door handle and suddenly stopped. He took a deep breath and turned to look at me. He blanched, a drop of sweat trickling down the side of his face.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yes," I nodded.

He pulled the doors open and we stepped in. We were surrounded by singing. The meeting house was a sea of white: white coats, white ties, white crocodile leather. Brother John stood at the podium, his eyes full of white fire and seven men sprouting out of him, writhing about him like flames leaping out of a burning house.