Free Possession by Kat Richardson

started to shove the door closed but I wedged my right leg and shoulder in between the frame and the door. I’m still pretty skinny even though I haven’t danced in ten years or more and I didn’t want my too-prominent collarbones or less-than-perfect knees to take the worst of the impact, so I used the hard toe of my boot as a stopper. The door banged into the leather and rubber and bounced back a little, smacking the girl’s palm.
    “Ow!”
    “Sorry,” I said, easing through the doorway and putting up one of my hands in a placating gesture. “I’m not with the insurance company or the hospital or any of those people. I don’t believe your dad is faking anything and I’m not here to get him in trouble. My client’s sister is the same way. We’re just trying to figure out what’s happening.”
    “You mean, like, why she’s a veggie, like my dad?”
    “No—we know why that happened. What we don’t know is why she’s doing weird things.”
    The girl narrowed her eyes at me. “What kind of weird things?”
    “She paints and she babbles and sometimes she throws things, but she’s not awake when she does it; she’s still in a coma. Does your dad do that kind of thing?”
    She closed her eyes as if a burden had been removed. “Oh, man. We thought it was just him.”
    Another woman called out from farther back in the house. “Olivia!”
    The girl rolled her eyes. “I’m coming, Mom!” She looked at me again, biting her lip and frowning. “I’m not supposed to let you in.”
    “I understand. But I want to help my client and if I can help her, that may help your dad. The more I know, the better the chances.”
    Olivia sucked a breath in through her teeth, looking conflicted, her energy corona flashing and fluttering red and orange and pink by turns. She made up her mind. “Mom’s going to kill me, but come on. I’ll show you Dad.”
    She led me through the foyer and into a half-finished hallway that went down the side of the house toward the back. “It’s kind of messy here. Dad was working on the new garage and stuff when he had his accident and no one’s ever finished it. Probably never will.”
    “That sounds rough.”
    “It kind of sucks.”
    “Sounds it. What’s your dad do?”
    “He’s a tunneling engineer—he was working on the waterfront project to replace the viaduct and part of the shaft collapsed and he got buried in the mud.”
    “Why was he working on your house if he’s a tunnel guy?”
    “He’s Mr. Fix-It. He’s always, like, ‘I can do that better.’ And usually, y’know, yeah. But this time . . .” She shook her head. “Fucking tunnel got him.”
    “What are the weird things your dad’s been doing since his accident?”
    Her voice got quieter as we walked and the colors around her became increasingly anxious shades of orange. “A while ago, he started writing stuff and then he started saying stuff. It really freaks my mom out. Well, it freaks me out, too, but I figure even though it’s kind of creepy, at least he’s trying. Y’know, somewhere in there he’s still . . . there, y’know?”
    “So it makes sense. He’s writing to you and your mom?”
    “No. That’s the creepy part. It doesn’t make sense. He’s not talking to us.” She stopped just before an open door and turned around to put a finger to her lips. She turned back and walked through the door, leaving me in the unfinished hall. I could hear the mutter and ping of life-support machines and monitors in the room beyond and see the dark green misery that rolled out of the room like smog.
    My intrusive Grey vision left me with a strangely overlaid view of the room beyond the wall. Olivia’s fluttering colors of anxiety and anger buzzed through the cloud-filled space toward a storm front that boiled with ghosts and was pierced by a tight coil of green despair and fear.
    “Hey, Mom,” Olivia said.
    “What took you so long? Where have you been?” The words came forth strung on spiky