She tried to exorcise herself—cleansing rituals from the internet, sage from the farmers' market, a therapist who called it "anxiety." But the bedevilment wasn't in her head. It was in the calendar. Every date felt possessed. Every anniversary, a trap.
She first noticed it in the way mirrors held her gaze a second too long. Then in the flicker of streetlights that followed her home. Her phone autocorrected "hope" to "hopeless." Her dog growled at empty corners. Friends canceled plans with excuses that sounded rehearsed. By summer, she stopped sleeping. The ceiling above her bed seemed to breathe. bedevilled 2016
She went inside. Boiled water for tea. Left the lights on. She tried to exorcise herself—cleansing rituals from the
2016 became the year the devil didn't need horns or hooves. He wore earbuds, scrolled through Twitter, and whispered, "You're the only one who sees it." Every anniversary, a trap