"YOU FUCK!" she let out a guttural yell and arched her pointer finger at her grandmother, who was covering her mouth and nose with her flat hands and watching her with bulgy eyes.

She thrashed around on the splintered wooden planks - the house was derelict, it was her grandmother's house - squirming around and clutching her throat with crooked, veiny fingers. The grandfather clock chimed, marking midnight. The little Christmas men behind the glass danced around and were then consumed by the little trapdoors they had come out of.

"Please, make her stop!" the grandmother wailed, holding onto my leather uniform. With the abundance of old photos and withered lilies, it was poignantly clear that her late husband had recently passed.

I immediately scribbled down 'DIP-A' on the notepad I had with me, for 'Deceased Individual Possession (Ancestral)'. This kind of thing happened quite often, maybe thrice a month.

"DIRTY BITCH! GET OUT!" she barked at me this time. The dangling glass shards from the mini-chandelier above rattled a bit.

"Alright, time to go." I said dismissively, unbothered. This was protocol, usually this would weaken the ancestor's hold and make it more prone to leave the host as it was not getting the attention it needed, sort of like a child throwing a temper tantrum. Spirits are a lot less stubborn than fiction depicts them to be.

She rose to her knees, looking at me through her eyebrows, and her autumn hair wafted upwards like a threatened cobra. She was wild, feral. Irrepressible, as we called it. This was not an ancestor of hers. I broke the cardinal rule of working for PISA, never let your guard down. But I felt perfectly fine for two reasons; one being that this was my last shift before being promoted to the call centre - a much less intimidating job with a much higher paycheck - and that there was no way that this being could hurt me. It hadn't displayed any signs of being capable of harm, usually those ones could tamper with electricity or something - we got them about once every three months. But it could definitely have harmed the host. Likely disfigure.

I scribbled down 'IBP-T' on my notepad. This time for 'Intelligent Being Possession (Targeted)'.

"Is it okay if you step outside for a second?" I asked the grandmother coolly, to which she heeded with relief. I think she felt obligated to be there or something. Nonetheless, she shouldn't have to see this.

​

Nobody involved in the predicament, primarily the grandmother, knew that I was a part of the Paranormal Investigation and Specialist Agency (PISA), nor did she know it existed. She thought I was a paramedic. PISA existed secretly, very closely watched by the big guys, like the FBI or the CIA or whatnot. But they were an independent agency. PISA was in charge of controlling unstable entities and keeping them secret from the general population. The 'scouts' monitored the reports from the police force. When the details of the situation became 'anomalies', which were really just situations that had the criteria to be deemed paranormal, they brought it to our - the troopers and call centre agents - attention and we'd override the interaction. For example, the grandmother in that situation actually dialled the ambulance, but I came instead.

When situations got really bad, like if an anomaly was caused by higher beings like demons or cult work, it would be forwarded to the agency higher in the ranks. We called them 'The Guns'. We never learned of their acronym or anything, only that we had to press a big red button in case of emergencies and the information would be processed to them. It was 1995 at the time so we mainly operated by these specially-made box computers and by telephone.

The cases we got seldom ended up being transferred to The Guns because the important ones would be sent straight to them anyways.

Except for this one.

​

On the subsequent July morning, I strolled into the agency, past the stiff guards with the swirly cords behind their ears, and into reception. I ticked off my name and dropped my duffel bag on the vacant desk in the call centre. There was a computer on the desk, a potplant, a black telephone, a fax machine, and a grid with many little buttons.

"Welcome, Chester!" my boss Richard boomed, spinning around on his wheeled chair to face me.

"Hey, big guy." I moaned tediously.

I scanned the room, and the call centre was not as populous as I had anticipated. There were maybe 20 people at the time, but when I was terminated later that year, there were 8 left.

"First day on the job, aren't you excited? You can relax because we don't get many calls so-"

"I know. I've been a trooper for, what, two years now?"

"Right," he said with a sudden drop of enthusiasm. "Well if you know what to do already, you should get to it."

He tramped back to his desk on the other side of the gargantuan room and the ambient chatter of the surrounding calls really kicked in. There were only around three calls active at the time, and each of them were very similar.

"Caller said accomplice is squirming around on the floor, send a trooper to check for DIP or MSP." said a female voice, probably fulfilling an order. MSP stands for 'Meaningless Spirit Possession'.

"Sir, all will be okay. If you can, please get her off of the floor and to a seated position." said a robotic male voice.

We didn't usually get the majority of calls about possessions or unusual human behaviour, a lot of the time it's 'Accidents Caused by Unidentified Beings' or 'Spontaneous Acts of Terrorism'.

In my prolonged period of idly browsing past records, I sent a fax to the Investigations Department about my findings as a trooper on my previous shift. This was compulsory as I identified a targeted possession, meaning that somebody orchestrated it. Usually, this ended up being someone who was seeking revenge for something.

I went back to my desk and waited. The flow of calls dwindled and eventually there were no calls for a minute at a time. But I got a message back from the Investigations Department.

"Regarding Call Centre Agent 105 (Chester Nurcombe)'s findings,

Hello Mr Nurcombe. We regret to inform you that we were unable to find whoever orchestrated the IBP-T that you made us aware of, but do not fret. We will find out who is responsible. In the meantime, please fill out the appropriate forms as included.

Thanks,

The Investigations Department"

Great. That's helpful.

The fax machine spewed the relevant paperwork and incident reports out onto my desk, and just as I touched my ballpoint pen to the first sheet, I got another message.

A blank piece of paper with a short message in the font that the typewriters use. Courier.

"WRITHE LIKE THE WORM THAT YOU ARE"

I bewilderedly sent the message back to the Investigations Department with a little question mark on it.

They responded immediately, equally confused. They didn't send that message.

I asked around the call centre and nobody else received the same message. I eventually concluded that it must have been some sort of practical joke, likely from a newbie who didn't know better. In a matter of minutes it was shunted to the back of my mind, a faraway place in my memory.

I got my first call of the day an hour later.

"Hello? Why did you go quiet, this is an emergency!" the caller exclaimed.

"It's okay, you're in good hands," I responded, "your call was just forwarded to me. You're getting the help you need soon."

My computer lit up in bright text from the interface. That's where we got the caller details from. Fax was too slow for situations such as these, but we used it most of the time as it was easier to remain anonymous with it.

"Call received from Manhattan police at 3:25 PM EST, caller reporting an erratic individual with symptoms consistent with a DIP or MSP."

"Okay, ma'am, could you describe how this individual is acting right now?" I asked assertedly.

"She's on the floor, wriggling really weirdly. I think she's having a seizure of some sort!" the caller sobbed.

"Help is on its way. How was she acting beforehand?" I jammed my thumb into the little green button to dispatch a trooper.

"She was just swearing at everyone, screaming and pointing at people."

A lot like the case I had yesterday. I typed 'likely IBP-T' into the database.

"Okay, thanks for telling me that. Just stay calm for the time being, and stay with the affected individual."

For the next five minutes, I consoled the distressed caller until the trooper arrived.

"Okay, the paramedic's here. Should I hang up now?" the caller said.

"If you think it's appropriate, you may."

The dial tone blared through the speaker. I rest the phone on the cradle and continued on with whatever I was doing. I noticed a sudden surge in calls, at that moment about two-thirds of the agents were engaged.

Another call, about ten minutes later.

The database read, "Call received from Herkimer County at 3:37 PM EST, caller reporting a mentally unstable individual suddenly unable to stand up."

This is bad. Something is very wrong.

"Hello, is anyone there?" the caller yelped into the phone.

"Yes, I'm here, sir. Your call got forwarded to me. Help is on the way." I said and fingered the little green button.

"Please be quick, he's acting really weird. He's like, writhing around on the floor. I think it's something to do with his brain, do you think it's brain damage?" the caller asked me, panicked.

Writhing. Writhing around on the floor.

"Hey, is anyone else getting these calls about the people screaming profanities and having a seizure-like reaction? I think it's a mass possession!" One of the call centre agents called out into the great room we were all operating in.

The fax machine.

"Regarding Call Centre Agent 105 (Chester Nurcombe)'s findings,

Hello, Mr Nurcombe. This is an unusual case indeed. We have detected the presence of a malevolent being; extremely powerful. It appears to be charging, or growing in power rapidly. If anything out of the ordinary occurs, please do not be afraid to call for an emergency.

Thanks,

The Investigations Department"

I re-read the entire message as the caller shouted in my ear, upset when I took more than three seconds to respond to him.

Another message. It was the typewriter font again.

"WRITHE LIKE THE WORM THAT YOU ARE

WRITHE LIKE THE WORM THAT YOU ARE

WRITHE LIKE THE WORM THAT YOU ARE

WRITHE LIKE THE WORM THAT YOU ARE"

I looked at my computer in horror as the database told me that I had twelve callers on various other lines, all queued up for me. I looked around the room at the other agents, and they all had the same alert, glassy look. This is my first day, I thought to myself, repeating the words like a mantra.

I looked back at the monitor.

24 queued calls.

I blinked.

72 queued calls.

Oh shit.

The monitor went dark, and I could tell everyone else's did as well when the light that illuminated their faces disappeared.

Lucid green words on the screen read - as if my computer turned monochrome - "WRITHE LIKE THE WORM THAT YOU ARE"

I don't know who ended up making the emergency call, but we all pressed it at the same time.

​

One thing about anomalies that are transferred to The Guns, is that because PISA was involved, we got legal documents summarising the entire situation. A rare glimpse into the life of the people who work for The Guns.

I'll spare you the details, but I'll just say that there were a lot of people who called that day. The Guns ended up tracking the malevolent being in question and found that a man from the country was responsible; ended up stumbling across the being during an occult practice and was used as a vessel for the being to take control of many people across the state of New York. It was all okay in the end, but it was horrifying at the time*.*

They ended up covering it up as a big medical incident, something in the water triggered an epileptic response for various people and it ended up turning into that clusterfuck.

I'm telling this story now as my thirty-year contract of confidentiality ended on the 15th of January, 2023. I am now allowed to tell the stories of my past job, but they will come after me. They will silence me, or make me out to be some sort of crazy person or something. But what I'm telling you is the complete truth.

In the short amount of time left, I am happy to answer your questions and detail more stories from my role in the Paranormal Investigations and Specialists Agency. But for now, let that soak in, and really know that there's a lot that you don't know.

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