Desdemona Sewall
Chapter 7: Aftermath
The Halloween Ball at the Sewall Mansion turned out to be a hell of a lot more than I bargained for. I showed up expecting to smile for some photos, make nice with her relatives and a few family friends, maybe nurse a cup of punch for an hour or two. And for the most part, that’s exactly how it went. Her family was great—welcoming, warm, nothing out of the ordinary.
Except for Dexter.
He was the only one who didn’t belong. A twisted creep with a sick obsession—and not just with anyone. With Deszi. His own cousin. That night, he finally decided to act on it. But I found them first.
He wasn’t just a vile excuse for a man. Hell no—he was possessed. A straight-up demon. And yeah, I sent that bastard packing. Back down whatever black, smoking hole it crawled out of.
I think a few people were impressed. Hard not to be when the Midwestern freak show comes with fireworks. They’d shown up to gawk at me, after all. And maybe I gave them something to talk about on the ride home. I just hoped I hadn’t let them down.
We left Deszi’s parents home late in the afternoon, aiming to make it back before dark. Finals were breathing down our necks, and both of us had agreed it was time to start studying in earnest. The drive from Salem to New Bedford started fine, but the closer we got to Boston, the more it felt like we were trapped in some kind of automotive bloodsport. Say what you want about the supernatural—nothing gets your pulse going like a near-miss with a BMW doing 90 in the breakdown lane.
More than once, I thought about ditching the Mercedes and grabbing a bus. It’d take longer, sure—but at least I wouldn’t die screaming behind the wheel.
Several times on the long ride back from Salem to New Bedford, I caught Deszi smiling to herself—one of those faraway smiles that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Then she’d shiver, almost like she’d been kissed on the back of the neck by something cold, and hug herself tight. A few seconds later, she’d murmur something under her breath—just loud enough for me to hear, but not quite enough to understand.
The third time it happened, I finally asked.
“What are you doing?”
“Just practicing,” she said, still looking out the window.
I glanced at her. “Practicing what?”
She was quiet for a moment. Then: “Trying to decide something.”
“What are you trying to decide?” I asked, momentarily distracted—and nearly plowed into the back of a stopped Corolla. Boston traffic. Like riding a bumper car with real consequences. I tightened my grip on the wheel. If I wanted to keep the Mercedes in one piece, I needed to quit gawking and start paying attention.
She turned to me then, calm as could be.
“I’m trying to decide which sounds better,” she said. “I want it to sound ... old New England. But also proud. Like something that means something.”
That got my attention.
“Which what?” I asked.