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John...what took you so long?
It looks so beautiful somehow, within her. She's the same, but different. It hasn't been that long, has it, since he's seen her last? Sure, her hair's unbrushed, and she might have slept in that shirt, but she doesn't look like them. She doesn't look like--
She doesn't look like Amy.
She doesn't turn to face him, but his first instinct is still to help. It was her letter that brought him here, even if he did take too long. He's here now. Isn't that enough?
It is a split second when he has a decision to make. When she turns and her eyes aren't there anymore. When she explains in three simple words that she is NOT LISA and whatever is inside her wants him. Holding up the crucifix is automatic by this point: he doesn't even have to think of the words. The rush he used to feel when calling upon the Almighty is barely a flicker, and is quickly overwhelmed by his desperation to back away from this thing that used to be his sister.
Take her, take her instead, don't leave me here!
His faith is not strong enough for this.
Lisa's own body is fighting her, her arms a crazy flail, and her approach is like a wild dervish dance instead of a pursuit. He can keep his distance, just about, but the contortions of her body and the agony on her face nearly makes him look away.
The thing that projects out of her body is actually quite tame in comparison to the others. It has a head, for one. He finds it easier to look at that thing, rather than at the shaking, moaning body it once inhabited. Shadows fill the room, the thing screeches and flies away, and is hidden within one of the five forms that make a border around the room.
Dear God. He hadn't noticed those when he entered. Did she make these? Did Gary? Who--
She would have known. Lisa wouldn't have let them make these, if she'd seen them, right? Even just looking at them now makes his gorge rise. He hadn't expected that. He thought he was better, he thought he'd gotten better. Last time it was just the four of them. Their charred skin twisted over the sticks, arms raised as if in worship.
He and Lisa had stared at them. They could still see the faces of the children, the birthmark on Ethan's neck, the old scar on Posy's elbow. They had watched their four friends, day after day, as their bodies kept watch on the church.
Who were these, then? Lisa's neighbors? Lisa didn't even seem to notice, panting for breath in the middle of the room, and John whirled between them in rising panic.
The impact of the demon was like a physical blow. He could feel it in his limbs, the way it filled him, and the panic was briefly replaced with a moment of clarity.
So this is why she was fighting. It wants to pull his arms, it wants to slip into his body like he'd slip into a coat, and there is a strong, strong call to just let it. It would be easier, wouldn't it? But he resists, and with the agony of this new fight, there is a thread of hope.
FIGHT IT, JOHN.
The demons don't get to use his name. So this is someone else. He can't see, can't feel, but he knows that Lisa is still there. She can't run away in time, still moaning in place, but he's tearing at his own face and spasming to keep the thing from lurching any closer to her. He has to fight. How long? How long can I even hold out, what if I can't--
To doubt would be to lose this fight. He can't afford to doubt himself. He hisses, his entire body aching and contorting, and just as he starts to take a step towards Lisa, the thing leaves him.
Thank God. The relief is more satisfying than even a sexual release, but he does not have the time to luxuriate. The creature immediately enters Lisa again, and now with the knowledge of how it feels, he has to save her quickly. The cross is in his hands, the prayers upon his lips, and he clings to this smallest thread of clarity as he stares at the crucifix. Lisa's body is visible behind it, but for now he has to focus on only one thing. The dulled bronze is hard to see in the low light, but he focuses on just that. Lisa's contortions are a wild, senseless dance out of focus behind it. He wants to help her, wants to save her, he has to, he has to.
She's not screaming this time.
He remembers her screaming.
She'd just been a child, but she'd screamed louder than anyone he'd ever heard. Sister Bell seemed deaf to it, watching as the girl writhed and spat, as something else used her voice to curse and hurl abuses at John.
He hadn't done anything then. He had been crying, curled up in the corner, trying to hide from his own sister even though there was no place to run. Lisa screamed and spat at him, her nails like claws, but Sister Bell hadn't stopped her.
He'd known, by that point. He knew what the Sister wanted. He had learned from the songs and watched as she started her work. It had been so fun at first, this special time with someone who actually cared about them. Someone who looked at six orphans and did not just see them as random children, but as a new family. She'd said she understood what it meant to be alone. She also had lost her parents. So they could be new siblings, with a new mother, and they would make everything right. He and Lisa were so good at the songs, they could follow instructions exactly, and Sister Bell delighted in them. She said they were special. She said they were hers.
So when she claimed them, when it was just the three of them now in the basement, he wondered if there was still part of this that was good. Perhaps, after some of the pain, they would be a family again. Even if Lisa was howling at him, her eyes a mass of red, something ripping into her spine and making her crawl on all fours.
He couldn't fight Lisa. He couldn't hurt her. He'd only cried, trying to dig into the wall, still trying to call out to Sister Bell only to receive her stony silence.
He hadn't helped her that time.
He has to help her this time.
It does not matter how long it takes. It does not matter how many times the demon flies from her and into him. At least he can help her in this, too, take the pain from her for a few moments. He sees the possibilities. If he allows it to control him fully, it will finish what they had started. It will take his most precious sibling from him, and force him to do it by his own hands.
But she hadn't killed him in the basement. She'd screamed and cursed and snarled at him, but she hadn't killed him.
It's the least he could do.
++
She smokes now. The first thing she'd run to was her cigarettes, out in the kitchen. He didn't say anything, because there were a lot more dangerous things in this building than the risk of lung cancer, but even so, it's odd to see her with a cigarette between her fingers. Does she...actually like them?
She tells him to go. That she'll be fine. And he wants to protest, wants to argue with her, because as her brother isn't it his duty to see her away safely? He should be looking out for her more. Screw the rest of them, he only came here for Lisa, and now that she's safe, they should go!
But somehow, her dry insistence is more emboldening than any desperate plea. She doesn't need him. Not as badly as the others need him. She'll be fine.
Lisa will be fine.
Even when they were kids, she was going to be fine. She'd gotten things back under control. She'd given him the strength to carry on, even if she didn't realize it.
He smiles, just the faintest, softest thing. He doesn't care if she sees, or if she doesn't see. She's still Lisa. After possession and demons and a nun from hell she is still Lisa.
He'll find her again later. She'll be just fine.
He grips the crucifix with renewed determination. He has a building to cleanse.
He'll see her later.