Cell 13

The children were safe and secure in their cells. John Bagley studied the security monitor, scanning the camera feeds, careful not to linger on any individual for too long - he didn’t want to risk them noticing.

"You're early."

John Bagley spun in his desk chair, turning to face the man. "You say that as if it's a bad thing."

"God no, the sooner I get this handover done, the sooner I can go home," the man said. His white shirt clung to his gut, tattoos crawled out from his sleeves. He licked his lips, eyes shifting briefly to the monitors. "It's been a long shift."

"As long as every other shift." John leaned back, chair creaking. He'd met the man a handful of times, though never bothered learning his name.

"Right." The man braced a hand on the desk, keeping his back to the monitors. "All twelve are secure. The new one came about an hour ago. The priest is with her now."

John leaned forward. A new one. "Do we have her file?"

"Not yet. But she-" He stopped, rubbing the back of his neck. "She’s different. Almost… nice?"

"Looks can be deceiving."

"Yeah, I know." He gave a half-nod. "It's just, sometimes I wonder if there's anything left in there."

John had wondered this himself when he was new to the job, but after seventeen years, experience had taught him everything he needed to know.

"There is nothing. Everything they say. Everything they do. It's all an act." John paused. The words hung in the air. Then he added: "Best not to think about it."

"You're right." The man stood. "You don't mind if I head off early, do you? Should make it in time for kick-off."

"Not at all. Who's playing?" John asked. He'd learned that showing a vague interest in others helped make him more likable. At least that's what ConfidenceJoe on YouTube had told him.

"Rangers, at home. Big one!"

"Oh." It meant nothing to John. "Enjoy."

The man smiled, loosening his tie as he left.

He would quit, John was certain. Most people did.

John turned back to the desk. He pulled a cloth from the drawer and wiped away the coffee ring that had been left, straightened the clipboard, then adjusted the twin monitors until they were in perfect alignment.

Tomorrow morning, Dr. Helena Voss would arrive at the facility for an inspection. The same Helena Voss who'd written to John personally last year, praising him for his suggestions to the safety protocols. His facility had the lowest recorded incidents worldwide. The lowest. He'd read the letter so many times the creases in the paper had gone soft.

Now she was coming, and everything needed to be perfect. Maybe then, she would approve of his transfer request to Paris. A fresh start. No more eating dinner alone, no more cycling through Scottish rain with only the midges for company. In Paris, he could ride along the Seine, practice his French at cafés, maybe even make some friends.

He straightened the clipboard one more time.

The monitor flickered.

John reached behind it, jiggling the HDMI cable. It must have come loose when he'd adjusted the screen.

At 1:15 AM, Father Graham appeared in the doorway. He carried the particular weariness of a man who'd seen too many terrible things. Despite his age, he showed no signs of retiring.

"John. Thought I'd check in before I left."

"Father." He nodded and stood to offer the priest his chair.

"Thank you." Father Graham sat slowly, his vestments rustling.

"How was she?"

"Responsive, articulate, curious." He paused. "If I didn't know better, I'd say she was a very bright and very frightened young girl."

"But you do know better."

"I do." Father Graham's expression darkened. "Demons are patient."

John nodded.

"How's your French coming along?"

"Bonjour, je m'appelle John. Tu vas bien?"

"You're getting better. I'll pray you get your transfer. Though I must admit, your presence will be missed. You've done good work here." He glanced at the clock. "Is that the time? I hadn't realized I'd been in there that long."

He stood, but paused at the door. "Oh, before I forget - I noticed the Bible was missing from her room."

"Destroyed already?"

Father Graham pursed his lips. "I'm not sure. I believe the room was prepared in haste. It could have been forgotten."

"I'll see to it. Good night, Father."

After the priest left, John pulled out his flask of coffee, removing the lid to let it cool, then watched the monitors.

Twelve cells, all occupied with children. They didn’t age. Didn’t eat or drink. Didn’t feel the cold. Didn’t need to sleep - though some chose to.

The new arrival was much older than the others, she paced the small room, arms folded.

John pulled up the intake details.

Name: Amelie Kanté.

Age: 16.

Origin: France, moved to England five years ago, currently residing in Birmingham.

Referrer: Father Michaels following a failed exorcism. Full report currently unavailable.

His teeth ground together. Michaels. Barely ordained three years, constantly cutting corners. No wonder the exorcism had failed. Had he been too keen to put the girl here?

He could be waiting all night for Michaels to publish his full report. Perhaps he could get some answers himself.

John stood, picking up his jacket. The facility ran cold despite the new heating system. Two additional heaters made the office bearable, but in the corridors, John wore his coat.

He pushed through the first set of security doors, the lock buzzing as it released. Then the second. The heavy doors thudded shut behind him, sealing him into the cell block.

The corridor stretched 116 paces - he counted them every time - fluorescent lights humming overhead. His footsteps echoed, and for a brief moment it sounded as if someone walked behind him. John ignored this, not giving whichever demon was playing tricks the satisfaction of acknowledgment.

A high-pitched wail rose from cell two. It shifted into a laugh, deep and guttural. That was Ellie. She was three. She still looked the same as she had in John’s first week.

Cell thirteen sat at the end of the corridor. The door was solid steel with a reinforced window at eye level and an intercom fitted beside it. John approached, breath fogging in the cold. He fixed himself in front of the window and looked in.

Amelie Kanté sat on the edge of a narrow bed, shoulders curled inward, arms wrapped tight around herself. She wore a grey tracksuit - standard issue - and her right foot tapped against the floor.

John pressed the intercom button.

"Good evening."

She looked up, startled. Her dark cornrows had started to fray at her temple, a small sore under her eye. "Who are you?"

"You can call me Mr. Bagley. What may I call you?"

"Amelie."

"Amelie," John repeated. "But you're not Amelie, are you? Who am I really speaking to?"

Her jaw tightened. "Why do you people keep-" She cut herself off, folding her legs in close, exhaustion stark around her eyes. "I'm not a monster."

John felt an instinct to comfort her. He pushed it away. "I know you spoke with Father Graham earlier. But if you have any other questions, now is your opportunity."

"When can I see my parents?"

"That's not going to happen. You know that."

She pressed her lips, but didn't argue. "Can I have a blanket? It's freezing."

They didn't feel the cold.

"I'm afraid I can't bring you anything."

"Why not?"

"That's the rules. I can't enter on my own."

"Why? Because I'm dangerous?" There was something raw in her voice. Fear, maybe.

"Are you dangerous?"

She didn't answer. Her gaze dropped to her hands. The silence stretched between them.

John found himself wanting to fill it. "What happened to your Bible? I don't see it on the shelf."

She turned to look, scanning the sparse room. Shrugged.

Maybe she didn't get one after all.

"I'll make sure one is brought to you in the morning."

"And a blanket."

John sighed. "And a blanket."

John made to leave, but then remembered something from her file notes.

"You grew up in France?" He asked.

She looked up, surprised by the question. "Yes." A flicker of something- hope, maybe? - crossed her face. "What else do you know about me?"

"Not much. Can you still speak French?"

"Le pape est catholique?"

John's brow furrowed. Le pape. The pope… Est Catholique - is Catholic? He bristled at the blasphemy.

"Bien sûr, le pape l’est!" John said, the words came to him with surprising ease. Something inside him lit up; he’d never practiced with another person before. Even if she wasn’t technically a person.

"Not bad. Have you ever been to France?"

Careful. He wasn't supposed to answer personal questions. He hesitated, then said: "I haven't been, though I hope to visit Paris one day."

"Paris is beautiful. I miss it.”

The sadness in her eyes appeared genuine. He had to remind himself that it wasn’t real.

An idea struck him. A test.

"Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?" he said, keeping his tone casual. He’d hoped to trick the demon into replying in Latin. The phrase was something he’d picked up from Father Graham. It’s translation: Who will guard the guards themselves?

She blinked at him, puzzled. "What was that?"

"Never mind. I jumbled my words," John said. It was worth a go.

"You're a bit weird, aren't you?"

Something in John's chest tightened.

"My friends thought I was weird too,” she said. "I had three real friends. Émilie, Thomas, and Connie. We'd meet at this café every Saturday and just... talk. For hours." Her eyes glistened. "Do you think they know I'm here? Do they think I'm a monster?"

John found himself leaning closer to the intercom. For a moment - just a moment - he saw a sixteen-year-old girl who'd lost everything.

But she wasn't a girl.

She was a demon.

"I've got to go now. I'm sorry. I have to check on the other children."

Her eyes widened. She looked afraid.

John turned and walked away. Behind him, through the reinforced glass, he thought he heard her say something else. But he was already walking back down the corridor, counting his paces. 116. Always 116.

When John returned to the office, he pulled up the inventory records on the computer. As he read through them, his mind drifted back to cell thirteen and the sadness in her eyes when she'd mentioned her friends.

What if she's been put there by mistake?

Stop it.

He forced himself to focus. The Bible. Father Graham had said it was missing. He hadn't seen it in her room.

He scanned the delivery list. Bedding, delivered. Clothing, delivered. Cup, delivered. Bible-

Missing.

The tattooed man must have forgotten to include it. Careless. Sacred objects were required in every cell. Their presence constrained the entities, or so the theory went.

John made a note on his computer. He would retrieve a Bible from supply in the morning. At least then it would be ready to issue with the day shift.

But what if Dr. Voss arrived before the day shift? What if she discovered the Bible was missing? He imagined her walking the corridor, checking each cell, finding cell thirteen incomplete. The disappointment in her eyes. The chance of a transfer to Paris evaporating.

Nothing could be out of place.

He checked his watch. 2:47 AM. He could retrieve it now. Quick trip to supply. Five minutes, maybe ten.

No. That would be against protocol. His protocol. His protocol which worked.

Behind him, orange light flickered at the edge of his vision.

John turned. His coat, draped over the back of his chair, was smoking where it touched the heater. He didn't remember leaving it there. He always put it on the hook, where it belonged. He grabbed it, yanked it away, and threw it on the floor. He stamped on it, once, twice. Smoke curled up between his feet. He dumped his cold coffee on the smouldering patch. It hissed.

John unplugged the heater. He hung his coat on the proper hook, then returned to his desk.

The Bible. He should get the Bible. That's what he'd decided.

The supply closet was on the ground floor, past the cell block, through two more security doors. The corridor here was older, the paint yellowed and cracked. They'd renovated the cell block five years ago, but this section remained untouched. Budget constraints.

John unlocked the door and stepped inside. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with linens, cleaning supplies, toiletries. And in the back corner, a box of Bibles. Standard issue, leather-bound, King James - the good book. He pulled one from the box, marking it off on the inventory clipboard.

Something creaked behind him.

John stilled, listening. The door? He called out of the storeroom, his voice sounded strange in the enclosed space. Muffled.

No response.

Of course no response. He was alone in a supply closet at 3:17 AM, jumping at shadows like a child afraid of the dark. John tucked the Bible under his arm and left, pulling the door firmly shut. The lock engaged with a solid click.

He walked back toward the stairwell. Refusing to hurry. Refusing to look back. But in his peripheral vision, he could swear he saw something move.

At 3:47 AM, John found himself outside cell thirteen, Bible in hand. He couldn't remember walking here. He'd left the storeroom, reached the stairwell, and-

And now he was here.

Just exhaustion, he told himself. The caffeine withdrawal wasn't helping after he’d used his coffee to douse his jacket.

Through the window, he could see Amelie in the same position, sitting on the steel framed bed.

John's hand moved to the door lock.

He stopped, remembering his own words from his protocol:

Never enter a cell alone.

Under any circumstances.

For any reason.

But he wasn't entering. Was he? Just opening the door. Delivering required materials. Then leaving. The Bible was required. Dr. Voss was coming tomorrow. Everything had to be perfect.

His hand completed the motion. The lock disengaged with a heavy clunk. He opened the door, just wide enough to slide the Bible through. One foot crossed the threshold - technically inside, but he kept his weight on his back leg, ready to retreat.

"Here," he said, sliding the Bible across the floor toward her. Forgive me, he thought, as the book kicked up dust from the concrete, the cover likely scratched.

It stopped dead center.

Amelie swung her legs off the bed, touching the ground tentatively with her toes. Her eyes locked on John’s - deep brown eyes - no longer full of sadness but something else. Something predatory.

He should leave. John knew this, somewhere deep down his conscience was screaming but something was keeping him from hearing. Keeping him still where he stood.

Without breaking her gaze from John, Amelie moved towards the book, crouching beside it, her left hand hovering over the leather.

She couldn’t touch the book. None of them could. Sacred objects repelled them.

Yet here she was, hand within an inch of it.

Impossible.

"Yes."

The word came from John's mouth, but he hadn't meant to speak. Why had he said that?

Pain seared in his temple, terrible pain, and he slammed his eyes shut. A moment passed, the pain subsided. When he opened his eyes again, Amelie was holding the book, fingers curled around the leather spine, looking thoughtfully at the cover.

John stood, frozen.

Amelie looked up, noticing John as if for the first time. She gasped, eyes widened. She jerked back, the Bible falling from her hands.

John pulled the door closed. The lock engaged. Solid. Final.

John walked back down the corridor, whistling Frères Jacques as he went. By the time he had made it back to the office, it was 6:37 AM. Dormez-vous, dormez-vous.

At his desk, he stared at the computer screen. His inbox showed one new message. He opened it.

Subject: Amelie Kanté - Case File - URGENT

Body: Sorry it's late, John. This one got complicated fast. Full report attached. This isn't like the others. -Fr. Michaels

He clicked.

The file loaded slowly. Text appeared line by line.

Subject: Amelie Kanté

Entity Classification: Class IV

Events: Blended bleach and vinegar in chemistry class, poisoning 17 children and the teacher. Subsequently levitated, clinging to the corner of the classroom ceiling waiting for the next class to begin.

John sat back. The leather creaked.

The monitors showed Amelie on her bed, the Bible on the floor where she'd dropped it. She was curled in the corner, shaking.

He watched her for a long time.

At 7:31 AM, Derek arrived, his ginger hair brushing the door frame as he entered.

"Morning, John."

John didn't reply immediately. He looked at the screens, then slowly turned his head to face Derek.

He smiled.

"Everything alright?" Derek asked. Something in John's expression made him step back.

"Everything is dandy."

Derek glanced at the monitors, then back at John. "New arrival?" He asked, pointing to cell thirteen.

"Yes. A dangerous one. I would recommend we leave her a few weeks to settle in. Best not to approach, no matter how much she shouts."

"Yeah, no problem." Derek shifted his weight.

John began gathering his things, his movements stiff. He pulled on his jacket.

"What happened to your coat?" Derek asked, noticing the burn mark.

“Oh, it’s nothing.” John walked toward the door.

"Hey, aren't you supposed to stay? That inspector's coming. Dr. Voss?"

John paused in the doorway. Tilted his head, considering.

"She'll understand," he said.

The morning air was cold, crisp. Scottish autumn settling in.

John got in his car, started the engine. The dashboard clock read 7:49 AM.

He checked the rearview mirror.

His reflection smiled back.