After choosing the Winchester Model 1897, Father Anderson inspected the shotgun one final time.
The pump moved smoothly, the exposed hammer functioned properly, and the barrel was clean.
Satisfied that the weapon was in excellent condition, he carried it toward the shelves filled with ammunition.
His underground armory held an absurd number of shells.
After years of experimentation, manufacturing, and stockpiling, even Anderson had forgotten the exact quantity he had produced.
Wooden crates and reinforced ammunition boxes occupied several entire shelves.
He began selecting what he needed for the Harrisville investigation.
Ten boxes of conventional shells.
Ten boxes of silver-plated ammunition.
Ten boxes of custom rock-salt rounds.
Ten boxes of heavy slugs.
That gave him roughly two hundred shells of each type—more than enough for ordinary threats, demons, incorporeal spirits, and large physical creatures.
At least, it should have been enough.
Anderson stared at the ammunition for several seconds.
Then he picked up a second shotgun.
There was no guarantee that the case involved only one entity.
If something unexpected happened or the Winchester became damaged, he refused to find himself without a backup weapon.
Preparation was never excessive when dealing with the supernatural.
After several trips, Anderson had carried the firearms, ammunition, medical supplies, and exorcism equipment out of the basement.
Before leaving, he hung a heavy crucifix behind the front door.
The cross had been submerged in holy water for ten days and repeatedly strengthened through prayer and magic.
It would serve as a final layer of protection around the house while he was away.
Only then did Anderson enter the attached garage.
Like any priest responsible for several neighborhoods, he owned a vehicle.
His was a black Ford F-150 Raptor.
The enormous pickup looked more like an armored animal than an ordinary truck.
Its wide body, elevated suspension, heavy tires, and aggressive grille perfectly matched Anderson’s preferences.
Powerful, practical, and difficult to intimidate.
He loaded the firearms and supplies into locked cases secured behind the seats and inside the truck bed.
Once everything was properly stored, he climbed into the driver’s seat.
Anderson entered the address into the navigation system, shifted into gear, and pressed the accelerator.
The Raptor’s engine roared.
A moment later, the black pickup surged out of the garage.
His destination was the Perron farmhouse in Harrisville, Rhode Island.
Behind him, the garage door slowly descended.
Harrisville was a small community in northern Rhode Island, not far from the Massachusetts state line.
The drive from Boston wasn’t exceptionally long, but the farmhouse stood well beyond the more populated roads.
Every minute mattered.
According to the evidence Ed had collected, the haunting was dangerously close to advancing into full possession.
Anderson drove quickly.
Several police officers noticed the speeding black truck along the way.
A few pulled him over, only to discover an ordained priest carrying valid identification, firearm permits, medical credentials, and documents connected to officially recognized paranormal investigations.
The collection of licenses confused more than one officer.
One patrolman stared at Anderson’s Roman collar before glancing toward the locked weapons cases behind him.
“Are you responding to some kind of emergency, Father?”
“A family may be in danger.”
The officer studied him for a moment before returning the documents.
“Drive carefully.”
He made the sign of the cross.
“God be with you.”
Anderson nodded.
“And with you.”
The officer returned to his cruiser without issuing a ticket.
After that, Anderson continued toward Rhode Island, though he made a minimal effort to keep his speed within a range that wouldn’t attract constant attention.
By the time he entered Harrisville, the paved roads had given way to narrow rural lanes surrounded by thick woods and open fields.
The navigation system eventually directed him onto a long dirt road.
At the far end stood an isolated farmhouse.
Several adults were waiting outside.
Roger and Carolyn Perron stood near the front door.
Roger kept one arm around his wife, whose exhaustion was obvious even from a distance.
Ed and Lorraine Warren leaned against the side of the farmhouse.
Despite the tension surrounding the property, the couple appeared calm and composed. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
Two other men sat on the front steps beside several equipment cases.
One was Drew Thomas, the Warrens’ technical assistant, who handled much of their recording and surveillance equipment.
The other was Officer Brad Hamilton, a local police officer who had agreed to help after witnessing enough impossible events to take the investigation seriously.
Roger looked toward Ed.
Deep lines crossed his face, created by years of physical labor and several nights without proper sleep.
“Mr.
Warren, may I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“You said an exorcism is an ancient ritual,” Roger said.
“That it requires years of training.”
Ed nodded.
Roger hesitated before continuing.
“Is the priest you called truly qualified to perform one?”
Ed exchanged a brief glance with Lorraine.
“Yes,” he answered seriously.
“Father Anderson has more experience with dangerous cases than almost anyone I know.”
Roger’s eyes moved toward the silent farmhouse.
“You trust him?”
“With my life.”
Lorraine gently took Ed’s hand.
“And mine,” she added.
Roger released a slow breath.
“That’s reassuring.”
The farmhouse had been purchased with nearly everything the Perrons owned.
They didn’t have enough money to abandon it and begin again somewhere else.
Leaving might not have saved them anyway.
Once a malevolent entity attached itself to a family, moving to another home rarely solved the problem.
The spirit could follow, especially if it had already selected one of them as its primary target.
Ed understood the pressure Roger carried.
He wasn’t only afraid of the supernatural activity.
He was also terrified of failing his wife and daughters.
“At least the priest is coming personally,” Roger said.
“That’s a very good sign,” Ed assured him.
Lorraine felt the tension in her husband’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
Ed looked at her, warmth briefly replacing the concern in his eyes.
Then the distant roar of an engine interrupted them.
Everyone turned toward the road.
A black pickup appeared through the trees.
Its large tires tore across the dirt, sending a cloud of dust rolling behind it.
Ed’s expression immediately brightened.
“Father Anderson is here.”
Before the others could respond, he stepped away from the farmhouse and walked toward the open area in front of it.
Lorraine joined him.
Roger took Carolyn’s hand and followed.
He watched the massive truck approaching and frowned uncertainly.
“Mr.
Warren,” he said, “is that truly the priest you were talking about?”
Ed smiled.
“Yes.
That’s his truck.”
Roger stared at the Raptor.
The priests he had known were usually quiet older men who drove modest sedans or parish-owned station wagons.
Nothing about the approaching vehicle seemed modest.
Drew and Brad rose from the steps.
“Is that a Raptor?” Brad asked, clearly impressed.
Drew nodded while watching the truck approach.
“That priest has excellent taste.”
Brad glanced toward the Warrens.
“You’re certain he’s a Catholic priest?”
“He is,” Ed said.
Drew studied the dark pickup, the cloud of dust behind it, and the imposing driver visible through the windshield.
“That’s because he isn’t,” Lorraine replied softly.
Inside the truck, Anderson had already spotted the group.
He saw Ed and Lorraine standing close together and felt the corner of his mouth twitch.
They were excellent people—kind, loyal, courageous, and unusually understanding.
Unfortunately, they also seemed incapable of spending more than a few minutes together without reminding everyone nearby how deeply they loved each other.
Anderson had endured enough of their public affection to find it mildly exhausting.
He guided the Raptor to a smooth stop in front of the farmhouse.
Dust drifted past the windows.
Anderson lowered the driver’s-side window and looked toward Ed.
“Can you give me a hand?”
“Of course, Father.”
Ed walked toward the rear passenger door with the familiarity of someone who already knew that Anderson never traveled lightly.
“Was the farmhouse difficult to find?” he asked.
Anderson switched off the engine and removed the keys.
“The final road was rough, but nothing serious.”
Ed opened the rear door.
His expression changed when he saw the cases of ammunition and equipment packed inside.
“You brought quite a lot.”
“I brought enough.”
Ed glanced at the second shotgun.
“Hopefully.”
Anderson climbed out of the truck.
Lorraine approached with Roger, Carolyn, Drew, and Brad following behind her.
“Father.”
Anderson’s gaze passed over the group before settling on Lorraine.
He gave her a brief, gentle hug.
“How have things been?”
“Relatively quiet today,” Lorraine answered.
“Your crucifix helped.”
Her hand moved instinctively toward the cross beneath her blouse.
The oppressive presence inside the farmhouse hadn’t disappeared, but the crucifix had prevented it from pressing against her senses as aggressively as before.
Lorraine stepped aside.
“Father Anderson, this is Roger Perron and his wife, Carolyn.
They own the farmhouse.”
Roger studied the priest standing before him.
Anderson’s clerical clothing and Roman collar identified him clearly, but his powerful build and composed presence made him seem more like a soldier than a parish priest.
For the first time that day, Roger felt genuinely reassured.
“Father, thank you for coming.”
He extended his hand.
Anderson glanced briefly at Carolyn before looking toward the farmhouse.
Something about the property immediately made him uneasy.
The building looked ordinary, but the spiritual pressure surrounding it was not.
A faint sense of decay clung to the walls and stretched into the soil beneath the house.
He shook Roger’s hand.
“Helping families in danger is part of my duty.”
Carolyn stepped forward.
“Thank you, Father.”
She offered him a thin, unsteady hand.
Dark marks covered portions of her skin.
Some resembled old bruises, while others appeared far more recent.
The patterns weren’t consistent with ordinary accidents, and their placement suggested that something had been gripping her.
Anderson noticed every one of them.
He gave no outward reaction.
Not yet.
He gently shook Carolyn’s hand and offered a reassuring smile.
“You’re welcome, Mrs.
Perron.”
Behind his calm expression, his attention had already shifted toward the entity inside the farmhouse.
The haunting had progressed much further than Ed’s evidence suggested.
End of Chapter 7
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