The Victims of Malevolent Possession Support Group
A year after his possession, Val joined a support group with shitty coffee and stale
donuts.
He eyed the circle of chairs, the odd-looking people. Yellow ceiling tiles sagged above them. Otherwise, the space was too small and empty—more of a forgotten storage room than anything else.
A man with a stern face cleared his throat. White patches of skin covered his arms like spilled milk.
“Most of you already know this, but we have some newcomers tonight. So, let’s give the usual spiel: This is a support group for people who have been possessed by other entities. Sometimes, they did bad things. But…”
The man paused, waiting until a few people said: “… That doesn’t make them bad
people.”
“Right,” he said with a nod. “Newcomers, you can call me Omero. Who would like to share with the group today?”
#
Some people in the group believed it was demon possession. Others thought alternate versions of themselves would visit by “phasing” into their bodies. One woman said they were trapped in a time loop, forever touched by echoes from the past and future.
They all experienced blackouts and lost time. It was like a movie, they said, a movie they watched but had no control over.
Disease and allergies and paralysis disappeared overnight. Hobbies did a complete 180. Personalities changed on a dime. Regular patterns were a thing of the past, and memories? Well, they were faulty.
When Omero asked Val to share, he shook his head.
#
The first night of his possession, the thing-that-would-be-Mal had said it liked Val more than the others.
“I didn’t enjoy what it made me do,” Val admitted at his sixth meeting. “But it was nice. Not to be alone.”
Val kept his eyes on the floor as he spoke. He knew what they must think of him.
That night, Val brushed his teeth and took off his clothes. He stared at the ceiling and his phone until the sun rose.
At work, he missed the bliss of submersion. The warmth of Mal and the way it kept him buried deep. The lighter tread to their step, the easier smile.
The undisturbed sleep.
#
“Did you really mean it? What you shared the other day,” Omero said.
They sat at a bar with peanuts on the floor and ash on the counter. Beside him, Omero lit another cigarette. The damaged skin on his arms had grown slick with sweat.
Val thumbed the condensation from his beer.
“I’ve never told anyone this. Mostly because it sounds crazy,” Val said. “When I was possessed, I retreated so far into myself that I saw something. It was this diner—it looked just like one I went to as a kid.”
Val paused to sip his beer. He kept his eyes on the counter.
“Other people were there, too. A baker and a grocer and a lawyer. They told me the same thing: run.”
“Jesus. What were they?” Omero asked.
Val shrugged, but he knew the answer; pieces of them had become a part of Mal.
#
It took a while for Val to notice, but there was something familiar about Omero. The swagger to his gait. The smoothness of his smile, the slight rasp to his voice.
The others in the support group were the same.
During one session, they all wore the same clothes without a thought. They shared an awkward laugh once they realized, but a few of them glanced at Val with an expression he hadn’t seen in over a year.
Val didn’t leave his apartment for the next week.
Had he lost any time? Had he slept through the night? No and no.
Had his eyes always been that shade of blue? Val didn’t think so.
#
“Hey, are you okay? You called me last night. You sounded kind of manic.”
Beside Val, Omero tapped his leg. Val knew he itched for a cigarette.
“I’m fine,” Val said. “Just groggy.”
“Alright. Well, I’m glad to see you back at the meetings.”
#
In October, Val dreamed of the diner. It seemed more spectral in his sleep, and there were new people. As he got closer, he saw Omero reaching for a lighter, and the others tasting slices of cherry pie.
Someone squeezed his shoulder.
Run, they said.
When the support group staged an intervention, they swore it wasn’t just for Val—they had also experienced recent blackouts and strange dreams.
Each of them had seen a diner on the horizon.
Val ran.
#
For most of the day, he walked along the streets, stopping only to watch the sunrise. His mouth tasted like curry that he didn’t remember eating, and his face prickled with stubble. Val went home. He shaved and hummed a tune under his breath.
In the mirror, his eyes were bright enough to cut.
Val felt like he was gliding over the ground. In no time, there was the handwritten sign, the open doorway.
Donuts sprayed with blood.
Blood everywhere. The floor. The walls. The chairs. The bodies. Crumpled and bloated, eyes unseeing but so very blue.
A voice whispered in his ear.
“Now, you won’t be alone.”
Alyssa Jordan is a writer living in the United States. She likes to make surprise balls and drink coffee. In 2020, she won The Molotov Cocktail's Flash Monster contest. You can find her on Twitter @ajordan901 or Instagram @ajordanwriter.