No one warned me about Malachi.

  Well, I guess they sort of did with the whole “he’s a religious fanatic” bit. But, there’s fanatics, then there’s Malachi. I’m talkin’ movie fanatic. Like, holy-shit levels of odd.

  How to describe Malachi. First off, he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He looked old too—despite Orson assuring me the man wasn’t a day over thirty-five. If that was true, then they must have been a very rough thirty-five years.

  He was short and pale, with long, black, greasy hair. Dark bags sagged under his eyes, which were so bloodshot I couldn’t tell their actual color because I was too distracted by the bloodshottiness (that’s a word, right?)[1] That, and his nose. It was like it had been growing straight for a while, off to a good start, then BAM! At some point, it took a sharp left. Then it straightened out a bit, realized it had taken a wrong turn, and attempted to correct itself.

  He answered the door with a scowl. He was shirtless and holding a leather belt in one hand. Luckily, he was also wearing a belt—and the pants that went with it. Judging by the blood dripping from it, I’d guess he was beating himself with the damned thing. Flogging or beating? Or is it flagellating? Is there a difference?[2] Never mind, it doesn’t matter. You get the point.

  “What do you want?” He grumbled.

  “Hey, I’m Amir,” I said. “Just moved in and was told you like Pepsi.”

  I held out the case. Malachi looked me up and down. The silence was uncomfortable at best. The kind that makes you aware of your own obnoxious breathing.

  Orson took the opportunity to float to the side of Malachi’s head and start humping while looking at me and shouting, “You like that?”

  I tried to ignore him. I really did. Still, a little chuckle escaped.

  Malachi didn’t laugh. If anything, my laugh made him scowl even harder, if that’s possible. Then his eyes lit up.

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  “You feel that?” he asked, turning his head slightly. “It’s cold.”

  Before I could respond, Orson floated straight into Malachi’s trailer—or more of a rusted shed that was mobile at one point—and turned on the TV.

  Family Feud burst to life, tearing Malachi’s attention away. He ran inside and shut it off, looked around, and slowly put the remote down.

  “That was odd,” I said.

  Malachi hurried back, getting way too close to my face. “You saw it too?”

  “How could I not?”

  “Yes!” he said, wide eyed—or wider eyed, really. “Dante says he doesn’t see it or feel it, but there’s something strange going on around here.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Don’t worry though,” he whispered. His breath was haunting. It sent a disgusting ripple through my gut, “I can see it, and so can you. I’ll pray for you. Evil can’t hide from me.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” I said, lifting the Pepsi between us to create some desperately needed space. “Anyway, do you want this? I bought it by mistake.”

  He smiled. I hated it immediately. He took the case from me.

  “I won’t forget this,” he said. “If you need anything, just let me know.”

  “Actually, there is a bat in my fridge,” I said. “Think you could take care of that?”

  “Of course,” he said, narrowing his eyes like we’d just sealed a blood pact. “I’ll be by next week.”

  “That seems like a long time to live with a bat in my fridge.”

  “You aren’t the only one who lives in this infernal place,” he replied.

  “Right,” I said, trying to ease the tension. “Totally reasonable.”

  “Oh,” he said pointing a finger at me, “and if you see anything odd, let me know.”

  “Oh, for sure.”

  “Evil is always watching,” he said as he backed into his place, “The only way to stop it is to always be watching it back!”

  “Smart,” I said. “You’ll definitely be hearing from me.”

  “Praise the Lord,” he said, nodding.

  “Praise be,” I replied.

  “See you next week.”

  He slammed the door shut.

  I thought that was rude, considering it felt like we were bonding. Later, I came to understand that Malachi was just a dramatic guy.

  When Orson and I got back, I put the goods away, grabbed a snack, and dropped onto the couch.

  A cloud of dust puffed up around me.

  It was gross.

  It tasted grosser.

  “Been awhile since anyone’s sat there,” Orson said, floating beside me.

  “I figured,” I said. Then, “Hey, so about the whole exorcism gig. We should probably figure that out sooner rather than later, right?”

  “Probably,” Orson replied. “Any ideas, smart guy?”

  I didn’t love the tone.

  But I had a few rough ideas.

  [1] No, it’s not.

  [2] Yes, for those curious. Flogging usually involves whips and is a form of beating. Beating is the broader term for physical punishment.