The night brought Isaiah no peace. Another unwelcome memory wandered into his dreams.

He found himself in a blind alley on a grim, overcast afternoon. Behind him, a police line made it clear to civilians that they should stay away. To his left and right, his fellow officers from the capital’s spiritual division formed a circle. In the middle of this circle, something was going on. The air crackled with a tense, oppressive energy that seemed to seep into Isaiah’s body through every pore in his skin. It felt like he was actually there, reliving every moment.

“He’s tethered!” one of the officers shouted hoarsely, as if his throat was on fire. Even in the dream, Isaiah could pick out every detail of his face, every inch of which seemed to be sweating bullets. In his hand he held a small metal box which was now shaking like crazy. He threw it onto the cobblestone, where it continued to shudder as if it was a living being caught in some uncontrollable spasm.

Isaiah and the rest of the team knew that this was the only opportunity they would get. With every fiber of their being, they concentrated on binding the malevolent presence they had surrounded to the metal box. Unfortunately, it was still putting up a fight, struggling and attempting to break loose whenever it sensed an opening.

Time seemed to warp inside the memory, Isaiah feeling every second like an eternity. After what felt like forever, night fell, and the dream came to the fateful moment when the team of twelve had passed the halfway mark of the sealing procedure, and the spirit’s resistance began to grow weaker.

In a split second, hindsight flooded into Isaiah’s mind. Maybe it was experience telling him and his teammates that the chance of failure drops to 0.01% once this point is reached. Maybe it was the intense physical toll the whole ordeal took on their bodies. Or maybe their target was just a one-in-a-million freak occurrence. Nevertheless, whatever the cause, at one point when it seemed that the end was in sight, the spirit suddenly broke away completely, causing a shockwave that knocked the whole team to the ground.

The memory grew eerily quiet, the only sound made by the slithering of the intangible presence that Isaiah could pick up. The crushing weight of realization hung above everyone’s heads: too exhausted to even move, they were potential vessels ripe for the taking.

“You,” Isaiah suddenly heard a voice speaking directly to him. It was sweet and polite and could be easily misconstrued as well-meaning were it not for the unspeakable malice packed into that one simple word.

“You’re stronger than the others, aren’t you?” the voice spoke, as one of the team shouted for backup. “You’ll do.”

Isaiah’s vision went blank, and suddenly he was watching himself from the outside. He could see his own body begin to move against its will, as if it was a marionette controlled by a hidden puppeteer. He started making jerky, wobbly motions, his physical form twisting into deeply unsettling shapes, his muscles tearing, ligaments snapping, bones breaking.

Then, without a warning, the dream transported him back into his body. He felt as if he was disappearing, his thoughts, memories and beliefs slowly dissolving in a dark, corrosive liquid. He held on desperately to the remaining pieces of himself, refusing to surrender. He knew exactly who he was, what he cared for and what he wanted to do with his life, and he wasn’t about to throw it all away because a spirit wanted to use him for its own vile purposes.

Just as he was gathering all his strength to mount one last defense against his foe, everything suddenly went black.

That shock finally jolted Isaiah into wakefulness. He literally sat up in his bed, eyes wide open, a cold sweat running down his forehead. Nigel was sitting next to him, his expression silently conveying deep concern.

“It’s alright, darling,” he said gently, taking his husband into his arms. “I’m here.”

Isaiah sank into Nigel’s embrace, shaking like a leaf.

“It was a bad one,” he barely mustered.

“I know,” Nigel replied. “Your squirming woke me up. All I could do…” he said and then paused, obviously holding back tears.

“All I could do was watch,” he continued, managing to stay collected. “Because I know the doctor said it could get even worse if I try to wake you up.”

“I’m so sorry,” Isaiah mumbled.

“What are you talking about?” Nigel said, kissing his forehead. “It’s not like you can control it.”

After the shock wore off, Isaiah suddenly became aware of the sharp pain in his left shoulder blade. It was making him so uncomfortable he had to shift his position.

“It hurts?” Nigel said hurriedly. Isaiah just nodded.

“Alright,” Nigel sighed, and carefully put his husband in a lying position again. “You just stay still, I’ll bring the ointment and make you some tea. Tomorrow you’re going to see the doctor, so it’ll be better.”

“Thank you,” Isaiah said, and as Nigel left the bedroom, he looked up at the ceiling, staring at it blankly.

This was his life now. He was sharing his body with an intruder, a foul spirit that could not be fully removed even with all the expertise of the capital’s exorcists. His physical body suffered for it: though the phenomenon is still poorly understood, individuals who manage to recover from possession suffer intense, unpredictable pain in random parts of their body. It’s as if the spirit integrates itself with the brain’s network of nerves and shoots impulses into muscles and organs just to disrupt the daily life of its victim. Worse still, while only a small part of the specter remained in Isaiah’s subconscious, as far as possession is concerned one small part is all it takes. Yes, this tiny spiritual fragment would have a difficult time forcing itself back into Isaiah’s awareness. But if it managed to do so, it would have another shot at taking over the body of its host. To make the situation worse, the probability of it rising to the surface was greatest in situations when Isaiah was highly emotional or stressed, and these are the exact situations where he would be least capable of resisting possession.

Isaiah cursed that day in the alley ever since. While months of rest and rehabilitation allowed his body to recover, it was clear that he was unable to continue doing his job. The risk was simply too great: anything that would stir his emotions could potentially bring the spirit out, and the outcome would likely be disastrous. The police force discharged him with honors, as if that was any consolation. The event took away the one thing that brought purpose to his life and gave him nothing but grief in return.

It also forced him to leave his home in the capital. Considering his circumstances, he would need a lifetime of professional help to lead a comfortable life – physical therapy, counselling on demand, periodic check-ups and the like. And it was common knowledge that the best facilities and the most capable experts dealing with spiritual afflictions were located in Strona, the city being something of a sanctuary for people like Isaiah due to its well-developed support network and serene scenery.

Isaiah and Nigel didn’t want to trade their familiar, friendly environment for a new, at times staunchly conventional one – they had to. For better or worse, 37 Muriel Greenwood Street was now their home.