Dispossessions
by Vaidhy Mahalingam
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
By the time summer gave way to the rainy depths of winter, Sunita and Patricia’s evening meetups had become routine. So, the silence that greeted Prakash when he came home that day was different. But given the novel task Sunita had assigned him, something unexpected had to be expected.
He walked in, awkwardly carrying a twenty-pound bag of chicken-and-rice blend of dog food.
“Sunita, where do you want me to keep this?” he called out.
Sunita rushed in from the kitchen, dish towel in hand, and said, “Leave it in the garage for now.”
Prakash set down the bag and caught his breath. He whined, “Never figured I would buy this dog food nonsense in my life! Do you realize how much this stuff costs? I can’t believe these American people. Back home, dogs lived like dogs; they were happy to get leftover rice. Anyway, why did you ask me to pick this up on the way? Is Mrs. Kelleher sick?”
“Oh, she’s fine. She had to fly to Boston in a hurry. Her ex-husband is in surgery. He is ninety, I think. I promised to watch Aisling while she’s away. She’ll be back in a week.”
“You have to manage that animal? Why did you agree? I don’t think we can handle the brute. Hope she doesn’t poop all over the place.”
“Don’t be silly, Prakash,” Sunita chuckled. “You know Pat and I have been taking her for walks pretty much every day for the last few months. Aisling and I get along great. She is a very well-behaved dog.”
Prakash stared at his wife. She had definitely become a different person since her friendship with Patricia had blossomed. A lot more relaxed, less high-strung. She hadn’t been so personable since the kids had flown the nest. Perhaps it was a dog that she needed all along. He picked up the bag to move it to the garage. Something occurred to him at that point.
“Traveling alone at her age,” Sunita was talking in the background, interrupting his thoughts. “Such a brave woman! When I get to her age, I’ll fear even driving down our own driveway. It is too steep for me, even now.”
“Yeah, I hope she is fine. In some ways, so kind and loving, like my mother, but also strong and independent. We are both fighters; I like her,” Prakash mused, staring at the bag of dog food.
* * *
Returning from the lab a few weeks later, Prakash saw Mrs. Kelleher’s old olive-green Subaru wagon parked in front of his house. Aisling was curled up in the rear, looking forlornly out of the hatchback windshield. Prakash smiled, nodding knowingly.
When he walked inside, the ladies were at the table, but the mood was somber.
“Why is Aisling in the car?” Prakash called out from the foyer, hanging his jacket in the entryway closet. Aisling’s howls reverberated over the whirr of the closing garage door.
“Come, come, Prakash,” Sunita said, “I want to ask you something.”
Prakash was famished, but he went straight to the table and pulled up a chair.
“Something’s weird, Prakash,” Sunita said. “It’s about Aisling.”
Patricia nodded her head in agreement and Prakash leaned forward.
“She’s not been herself lately,” his wife continued. “She is getting more and more frisky and uncontrollable. We can’t even go for walks anymore. She runs every which way.”
“You could get a leash,” Prakash suggested.
“She is too strong for that, Prakash,” Sunita said in an exasperated voice. “Anyway, here is the issue. She has even learned how to open doorknobs. If Patricia is not careful, she lets herself out at night and tears around the garden and all over the block. Aisling has destroyed the sprinkler system in Pat’s garden and other neighbors have been complaining, too. Do you know how a dog could suddenly change like that?”
Prakash arched his eyebrows. “I am a human neurologist, Suni, not a veterinarian! I know nothing about pets. Did I get the wrong dog food?”
“No, no, nothing like that, Dr. Trivedi,” Patricia said. “You got her favorite kind. Something else is wrong with her. I took her to the vet. He says she is fine and all, but this is too much for me to handle. First, Declan goes to meet his maker, God rest his soul. When I come back, Aisling goes pure mad.”
“Listen, that could be it!” Sunita exclaimed, startling Patricia. “She started acting up only after your ex-husband’s death. I think his soul hasn’t found peace yet. Maybe he is trying to communicate with you. Sometimes the departed have unfulfilled wishes, you know, that block them from transiting from this plane to the next. Yes, I am sure that’s it. Did Declan ever regret the annulment? Did he ever want to reunite with you?”
Prakash rolled his eyes. He used to rebuke her for spending a small fortune on psychics and mediums every month, but she shut him up by saying it was her hard-earned money and she would spend it any way she pleased, thank you! And then he would get scolded for being close-minded and clueless about all the stuff happening around him.
Patricia didn’t seem too pleased, either. “The Church doesn’t go in for all that, love. Best leave it be, especially Declan, the poor devil. I am worried about Aisling; I should try a different vet.”
“Okay, you do that,” Sunita said. “But please check with the priest at your church, too.”
* * *
A couple of weeks after that conversation, Prakash was in his study, reviewing a paper submitted to a medical journal for which he was an editor. Sunita rushed inside and said, “Hey, can you DoorDash yourself some dinner tonight? I have to head over to Pat’s house. I want to be there when the priest arrives.”
“Priest? Are you getting baptized?”
“Ha! No, a priest is coming to exorcise Aisling.”
Prakash snapped out of his chair. “Exorcise? Wow, I am coming, too. I want to see the spinning heads and stuff.”
Sunita, who was not much into Hollywood movies, responded with a blank stare.
“You know Aisling has gone from bad to worse, right?”
Prakash nodded. He had heard the stories. Aisling had caused a bunch of property damage, snarled at people, chased other people’s dogs, and terrorized the mailman. And she refused to stay indoors.
“So, Pat finally talked to her bishop, as I suggested.” Sunita continued. “He thinks perhaps she is possessed. So he is sending a priest over. I don’t know how Christians do these things.”
“Neither do I. Let’s go!”
* * *
Patricia’s living room was old and tired. Furniture from who knows which decade. Low-wattage incandescent lamps. Shelves and tabletops covered with dust-laden religious figurines. Aging, threadbare wall-to-wall shag carpeting. And in the middle of the carpet, on a spread-out beach towel, Aisling lay by the feet of Patricia, calm and watchful.
The priest was settled comfortably in the chair opposite her. On the end table next to him, was an open leather bag.
“Ah, Sunita and Prakash!” welcomed Patricia. “Please take a seat. Father Cahill has come here to see if he can help poor Aisling.”
“I must say this is a bit unusual,” the priest confessed, when the neighbors were seated. “I’ve only dealt with human cases before. But the diocese insisted that I come over and say a few prayers, Mrs. Kelleher.”
“Thank you so much, Father.”
“Anyway, for humans, we first ask to see a doctor’s report to rule out non-demonic causes. But since what we have here is ...”
“Well, we have Dr. Trivedi here,” Patricia interrupted him. “He is a famous neurologist.”
Prakash chuckled. “You carry on, Father. I can’t pretend to have any particular knowledge about this case.”
In a flash, Aisling was up on her legs and facing Prakash. The dog’s blue eyes, turning crimson, were scintillating with rage. She released a low, menacing growl, so soft it seemed to slide across the space between them. He froze, his hands clutching the sofa cushions.
“Down, girl,” Patricia said gently and Aisling lay down again. Droplets of sweat beaded on Prakash’s brow, like condensation on a slab of meat pulled out of a freezer. He quietly exhaled and looked around, but no one appeared to have noticed anything ominous.
“So tell me, what makes you think your dog is possessed?” the priest asked Patricia. “The church recognizes certain specific traits for possession. Unexpected knowledge of events, speaking in tongues, superhuman abilities or strength, adverse reactions to religious symbols. Such things.”
Sunita jumped in: “She’s figured out how to open doorknobs. And she has become so much stronger; we can’t manage her anymore. It all happened suddenly.”
“And she used to sit with me when I prayed at the altar,” Pat added, pointing to a home shrine at the far end of the living room. ”Now she won’t come anywhere near the place.”
“I suppose we can rule out speaking in tongues in this case,” Prakash chuckled.
“Shut up.”
The words were not barked. They were spoken — in the coarse dialect of his childhood village, followed by an insult involving his mother’s alleged ‘profession.’ Expressions he hadn’t heard in decades. He was a child, standing next to his father, facing the landlord’s wrath.
Prakash’s hand flew to his chest. “Did you hear that?” he whispered to Sunita.
“Hear what?” she asked.
“Never mind,” he said quickly, resolving not to let his imagination run wild.
”I am just going to say a few prayers,” the priest announced. “This is sufficient in most cases, but we might need a few sessions. That’s all I can do.”
“I understand, Father. Thank you. Please proceed,” Pat said.
Father Cahill started off with a few prayers in Latin. No theater, no drama, no supplication or command. They were simple, calm, measured words of instruction from one spirit to another.
Aisling stood up, looking at the priest quizzically.
The priest brought his open satchel to his lap and pulled out a vial of holy water.
The dog inched forward. Sunita gripped Prakash’s hand.
With a few solemn words, Father Cahill sprinkled the water on Aisling.
As if caught by surprise, Aisling crouched backwards. She sneezed.
Sunita screamed.
“It’s nothing dear; she just sneezed,” Pat said. The priest smiled and sprinkled a little more water on the dog.
Aisling sneezed again, so violently that it startled all of them, especially Father Cahill. He almost jumped out of his chair, which made his satchel fall to the ground, spilling its contents.
A crucifix landed right near Prakash’s feet. He got down, picked it up, and held it out for the priest.
And he saw Aisling staring at him. Not with dog eyes, not with the human eyes he had seen before. Eyes that froze his heartbeat and curdled the blood in his veins.
While he sat there transfixed, two things happened at once. Father Cahill reached out his hand to grab the crucifix and Aisling, with a loud bark, lunged at Prakash’s wrist.
As Prakash retracted in fear, he pulled the priest forward and Aisling’s fangs crunched into the priest’s hand, which was now located where Prakash’s wrist was a fraction of a second before.
Father Cahill screamed. A high, animal sound of pure pain.
“Oh dear,” Pat shouted, picking up her phone.
Aisling walked back to her beach towel and lay down like nothing happened, a small stream of blood dribbling from her muzzle.
* * *
Around half an hour later, the wail of the ambulance siren had just about faded away as it worked its way down the hill with Father Cahill.
“Oh, Aisling! Why did you do that?” Patricia sobbed, stroking her dog’s fur gently. Sunita sat next to her, holding her hand, while Prakash watched from a distance, his heart still throbbing furiously.
Patricia’s caressing slowly brought Aisling’s energy down and she went to sleep. Seeing this as a good opportunity to take precautionary measures, Prakash quietly grabbed the crucifix from the floor and tiptoed to the patio door which opened to the back yard. He gently slid the door open.
A heavy gust of freezing wind slammed into his face. The screen door rattled.
Which woke Aisling up. With a loud bark, she raced towards Prakash.
Prakash, in full panic mode, flung the crucifix into the darkness of the backyard with as much force as he could muster, and stepped away from the door.
Aisling ignored him completely and rushed out through the open door, and ran into the woods, her incessant barking getting more distant. He sighed in relief.
But the relief was short-lived. Before he could even assess the situation, he realized Patricia was also running out of the same door, in her slippers, calling for Aisling.
“What is she doing?” screamed Sunita. “She’s crazy!”
Prakash stood at his spot, dumbfounded, alternately looking at the hysterical Sunita and darkness outside.
“It’s not safe, Prakash. Don’t just stand there. Do something! Go, bring her back!”
Slowly, Prakash composed himself. He pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight and stepped outside.
Somewhere deep in the woods, Aisling’s muffled barks were reverberating.
A bit closer, at the edge of the woods, he could see Patricia’s hazy figure rushing into the fog, still calling for Aisling.
Focusing the flashlight on the undergrowth at his feet, Prakash took deliberate steps toward Patricia. And then he heard the thud.
When he looked up, the blob of Patricia’s silhouette was no more. He quickened his pace.
In the disk of light, a single slipper appeared.
A few feet beyond lay Patricia’s prone body, face-down, her foot hooked on a metal crucifix, embedded in the dirt like a grave marker.
“Patricia!” he whispered, and gently turned her over.
She was out cold, but she had a pulse; a weak one.
He could try CPR. He put his hand on her frail chest; it gave way under his palm. He snatched his hand back in horror. Definitely a flail chest or bilateral rib fracture. He shone his flashlight around. It was clear that when she had tripped, her chest had taken full impact on a jagged tree stump.
He could hear Sunita’s plaintive querying from afar.
He was about to call 911.
“Well, isn’t this something?” he said softly, reconsidering. “Five minutes wouldn’t make a difference either way, would it? And if it did...” He started the timer app on his phone and set it to ring in five minutes.
“I’m still looking for Pat, hold on,” he yelled to his wife. He stomped around, forcefully crunching the undergrowth, as he flashed his phone aimlessly between the trees. He recalled a long-forgotten prayer his mother used to murmur during village calamities and chanted it quietly under his breath, even as he told himself such things did not work.
The timer beeped, he checked again. The pulse was thready. Fading.
Aisling’s howls floated up from the far end of her lot — an eerie, victorious wail.
Prakash shuddered and called 911.
* * *
Copyright © 2026 by Vaidhy Mahalingam
