Preface

The kitchen smelled of thyme and worry. Rosemary Bookman stood at the sink, her knuckles white around a coffee mug that had gone cold. Twenty years old and still her boy---a fact that tightened her chest whenever she heard the front door creak open past midnight.

“He’s drifting,” she murmured to the empty room.

Dr. Alisa Morris found her there, still clutching the mug, when she arrived with a Tupperware of lemon bars and a sympathetic tilt to her smile. “You’re wearing the worry lines again,” she said, setting the sweets on the counter. Her voice was a balm, low and sure. “I told you, there’s no shame in guiding him. Gently.”

Rosemary traced the rim of her cup. “I’ve tried prayers, Alisa. I’ve tried grounding him. The boy won’t even come to church unless I---”

“---unless you help him see,” Alisa finished. She reached into her purse, producing a small amber vial. The liquid inside caught the light like a sliver of stained glass. “This isn’t about control. It’s about... clarity. For him.”

The words hung between them, sweet and dangerous. Rosemary’s gaze flicked to the vial, then to the hallway where Marion’s bedroom door stood ajar. A faded poster of some rock band clung to the wall, edges curling.

“It’s tasteless,” Alisa continued, pressing the vial into Rosemary’s palm. “In his oatmeal. Just enough to open the door. Then I’ll talk to him. You know I’ve always had a way with the lost ones.”

Later, when Marion came home---hair tousled, eyes distant---Rosemary served the oatmeal without a word. She watched him eat, her throat tight, as Alisa waited in the parlor, flipping through a dog-eared Bible.

The house settled into silence after dinner. Rosemary lingered at the top of the stairs, listening. Alisa’s voice drifted from Marion’s room---low, rhythmic, a prayerful cadence. Once, she thought she heard her son laugh, a sound so rare it startled her.

When Alisa emerged, her smile was serene. She touched Rosemary’s arm. “He’s ready to be a god-fearing person. Even more than you are. Tomorrow, you’ll see.”

That night, Rosemary lay awake, the house quieter than usual. No slamming doors. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant hoot of an owl. She wondered if she’d done right by her boy, or if she’d handed his will to the wind.

Chapter 1

Marion Bookman woke with a start, his eyes fluttering open to the faint hum of a world that felt inexplicably wrong. The familiar scent of lavender potpourri, which he meticulously placed on his nightstand each week, was gone, replaced by a musky blend of leather and something faintly chemical, like spray paint. He blinked, his vision adjusting to the dim glow of multicolored LED strip lights snaking along the ceiling, casting a kaleidoscope of reds, blues, and greens across the room. His heart stuttered. This was not his bedroom.

Marion, a 54-year-old woman of unwavering faith, prided himself on his moral rectitude. He attended church twice weekly, led the women’s prayer group, and never hesitated to remind others of the virtues of a God-fearing life. To him, goodness was a badge he wore proudly, though his neighbors might whisper that his piety bordered on condescension. Marion’s kindness often came with a sermon, his smiles laced with a subtle air of superiority. He was quick to judge those who strayed from his rigid path, his compassion faltering when faced with perspectives that didn’t align with his own. Yet, in his mind, he was a beacon of righteousness, a servant of the Lord who could do no wrong.

As he sat up in bed, his breath caught in his throat. The walls, once a serene cream adorned with framed Bible verses and a single cross above his headboard, were now a chaotic collage of rebellion. Posters of bands---Nirvana, Metallica, Green Day---screamed from every surface, their jagged fonts and brooding faces clashing with his sensibilities. Interspersed among them were glossy images of pin-up models, their provocative poses making Marion’s cheeks burn with indignation. Magazine cutouts of skateboards, electric guitars, and tattooed arms were tacked haphazardly, creating a shrine to a world he’d spent his life condemning. The room pulsed with a bold, defiant energy, as if it belonged to someone who thrived on chaos and youth.

Her gaze darted to the furniture, and a flicker of recognition steadied his racing pulse. The oak dresser, the one his late husband had carved, stood in its usual corner, though its surface was buried under a mess of gaming controllers, tangled headphone cords, and stubs from concert tickets. A skateboard leaned against the wall, its wheels scuffed and gritty, as if it had just rolled in from a night of reckless adventure. The bed beneath him, though unmistakably his own antique frame, was draped in a comforter emblazoned with a snarling skull and the words “Rage Against the Machine.” Marion’s hands clutched the fabric, his knuckles whitening. This was his room, but it had been defiled---transformed into the lair of a young man, no older than twenty, who reveled in everything he stood against.

A chill ran through him as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, only to freeze in horror. His nightgown, the modest cotton shift he wore each night, was gone. Instead, he was clad in a pair of men’s briefs---white, snug, and utterly foreign---and a loose white T-shirt that smelled faintly of sweat and energy drinks. His hands flew to his chest, as if to shield himself from the blasphemy of his own attire. “Lord, have mercy,” he whispered, his voice trembling with righteous fury. This was no mere prank. This was the work of the Devil himself.

Marion stumbled to his dresser, his bare feet recoiling from the cool hardwood floor, now littered with stray guitar picks and crumpled band flyers. He yanked open the top drawer, expecting to find his neatly folded cardigans and sensible blouses. Instead, he was met with a jumble of graphic tees emblazoned with skulls, flames, and cryptic band logos. Another drawer revealed ripped jeans, cargo shorts, and a single leather jacket that reeked of cigarette smoke. His heart pounded as he rifled through the contents, searching for a shred of his own wardrobe, but there was nothing. Not a single skirt, not a trace of his pastel scarves or pearl-embroidered sweaters. It was as if his identity had been erased, replaced with that of a stranger---a young, reckless man who lived for rebellion.

He sank to his knees, his hands clasped in fervent prayer. “Oh, Heavenly Father,” he intoned, his voice rising with the cadence of a sermon, “deliver me from this wickedness! Satan has invaded my sanctuary, defiled my home with his vile temptations!” His eyes darted to a poster of Kurt Cobain, his anguished expression seeming to mock him. “This is a test,” he declared, rising to his feet with renewed conviction. “A trial of my faith, meant to shake me from Your path. But I will not falter!”

Marion paced the room, his mind racing for an explanation. Had he been transported to another’s home? No, the furniture was his, down to the nick on the dresser from when he’d dropped a hymnal years ago. Had someone broken in during the night, redecorating his space as a cruel jest? Impossible---he locked his doors religiously, a habit born of his belief that the world was full of sinners waiting to prey on the righteous. The only conclusion, then, was supernatural. The Devil, in his cunning, had woven this illusion to test his resolve. He would not succumb.

Determined to reclaim his space, Marion tore at the posters, ripping a Metallica flyer from the wall. It came away in strips, revealing the cream paint beneath, but the act felt futile---the room’s energy seemed to pulse stronger with each tear. He grabbed the skateboard, intending to cast it out, but its weight felt strangely familiar in his hands, as if he’d held it before. A memory, unbidden and impossible, flashed through his mind: the rush of wind, the clatter of wheels on pavement, the thrill of a jump he’d never taken. He dropped the board as if it burned, his breath hitching. “No,” he whispered. “This is not me.”

He turned to the mirror above the dresser, dreading what he might see. His reflection was unchanged---her graying hair pulled into a tight bun, his face etched with lines of steadfast devotion. Yet, the clothes, the room, the very air around him felt like an assault on his identity. He whispered a prayer for strength. “I am Marion Bookman,” he declared, his voice rising. “I am a child of God, and I will not be swayed by this abomination!”

But as he spoke, a doubt crept in, small but insidious. Why had the Devil chosen him? Was it punishment for some unseen sin? He dismissed the thought, straightening his shoulders. He was blameless, his life a testament to piety. He surveyed the room---the gaming gear, the concert tickets, the vibrant chaos.

Marion shook his head. He would fight this. He would march to the church, rally the ladies of his prayer group, and cleanse his home with scripture and sage. The Devil might have transformed his room, but he would not transform his soul. With a final glance at the room, he strode toward the door, his bare legs prickling in the unfamiliar briefs. “This is my home,” he declared, his voice echoing in the rebellious space. “And I will take it back.”

Chapter 2

Marion stood in the center of his defiled bedroom, the garish LED lights casting an unholy glow over the chaos of posters and clutter. He couldn’t possibly leave the house in nothing but men’s briefs and a thin white T-shirt that clung to him in a way that felt like a mockery of his modesty. The very thought of stepping outside in such scandalous attire sent a shiver of righteous indignation through him. “No,” he muttered, his voice firm despite the tremor in his hands. “I am Marion Bookman, a woman of God, and I will not be reduced to this... this depravity.”

He turned back to the dresser, his resolve steeled. If the Devil had stripped him of his wardrobe, he would make do with whatever was least offensive. He yanked open the drawers again, sifting through the alien contents with a grimace. The graphic tees with their skulls and flames were out of the question---too garish, too rebellious. The cargo shorts and ripped jeans were no better; their baggy, masculine cuts would only amplify his humiliation. He hadn’t worn pants in years, not since his youth when he’d forsaken such casual attire for the modest skirts and blouses that befitted a person of his station. Pants, even feminine ones, felt like a compromise of his principles, but today, he had no choice.

After rummaging through the drawers, he settled on the least objectionable items he could find: a plain black T-shirt, slightly less worn than the others, and a pair of dark jeans that, while distressingly snug, were free of rips or garish designs. He held them up, his lips pursed in disapproval. “This will have to do,” he muttered, “until I can restore order.” Dressing was an ordeal; the jeans clung to his legs in a way that felt foreign and immodest, and the T-shirt, though loose, lacked the familiar comfort of his tailored blouses. He avoided the mirror, unwilling to confront the stranger he’d become.

His next task was to find his essentials. His purse, a sensible leather satchel that always sat by the door, was nowhere to be found. Panic flared briefly until he spotted a battered leather wallet on the cluttered desk, nestled between a gaming controller and a half-empty energy drink can. He opened it with trembling fingers, half-expecting it to be empty, but there they were: his driver’s license, car registration, and a small wad of cash, all tucked into the unfamiliar folds. The license bore his name and photo, a small mercy, but the wallet itself was alien---black, scuffed, and adorned with a faded skull sticker. He shuddered, slipping it into the back pocket of the jeans, a gesture that felt unnaturally casual.

His keys were another matter. Instead of the simple silver keyring with a cross charm he’d used for years, he found a jangling mess of keys attached to a carabiner clip, festooned with bottle openers and a miniature skateboard charm. “Utterly ridiculous,” he huffed, but he grabbed them anyway, the weight foreign in his hand. With a final glance at the room---its Nirvana posters and skateboard taunting him---he steeled himself and headed for the door. He had to escape this nightmare, to find proper clothing that would restore his dignity and allow him to face the world as the pious woman he knew himself to be.

The hallway was mercifully unchanged, its beige walls and framed family photos a small comfort as he hurried to the front door. Stepping outside, he braced himself against the morning chill, the unfamiliar jeans chafing against his skin.

Marion stepped out of his house, the unfamiliar weight of the carabiner keyring jangling in his hand, his heart still reeling from the desecration of his bedroom. The morning air was crisp, but it did little to soothe the fire of indignation burning within him. Clad in the ill-fitting black T-shirt and snug jeans he’d scavenged from the alien wardrobe, he felt like a stranger in his own skin. He muttered a prayer under his breath as he approached his driveway, seeking the familiar sight of his sedan---a beige Toyota Camry, meticulously maintained, its interior adorned with a small cross pendant hanging from the rearview mirror and a floral seat cover that spoke of his refined, feminine taste. But as his eyes settled on the car, his breath caught in his throat.

It was his Camry, unmistakably so. The make and model were the same, down to the faint scratch on the driver’s side door from a careless shopping cart three years ago. Yet, like his bedroom, it had been transformed into something foreign, something that screamed of the same rebellious spirit that had invaded his home. The once-pristine beige exterior was now marred with bold, black racing stripes that slashed across the hood and sides, giving it an aggressive, youthful edge. A pair of flame decals curled around the rear bumper, and the windows were tinted so dark he could barely see inside. The hubcaps, once simple and unadorned, had been replaced with shiny chrome rims that glinted in the morning light, as if mocking his modesty.

Marion’s hand tightened around the keys, his knuckles whitening. “Satan’s handiwork,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and fury. He circled the car, his eyes scanning for any sign of his own touch. The cross pendant was gone, as was the floral seat cover he’d chosen for its understated elegance. In their place, he glimpsed through the tinted windows a chaotic interior that matched the room he’d just fled. The dashboard was cluttered with empty energy drink cans, a half-crumpled pack of cigarettes, and a tangle of phone chargers. A pair of fuzzy dice hung from the rearview mirror, swaying slightly in the breeze, and the seats were covered in black leather with red stitching, reeking of a masculine bravado he found abhorrent.

He closed his eyes. “Heavenly Father,” he prayed aloud, his voice rising with the cadence of a sermon, “this is my chariot, given to me by Your grace. I rebuke the evil that has tainted it, and I claim it back in Your holy name!” His words echoed in the quiet driveway, a defiant stand against the unseen force that had upended his world. He circled the car once more, his fingers brushing the hood as he continued his prayer, sprinkling the vehicle with the authority of his faith, as if his words alone could peel away the racing stripes and restore its sanctity.

With a deep breath, Marion unlocked the driver’s door and slid inside, wincing at the unfamiliar scent of leather and stale smoke that replaced the lavender air freshener he’d always kept. The mess was even worse up close. A pile of fast-food wrappers littered the passenger seat, and a skateboard magazine lay open on the floor, its pages dog-eared and stained. A pair of worn sneakers, laces frayed, sat in the back seat alongside a gym bag that bulged with who-knows-what. His neatly organized glove compartment, once home to his registration, a small Bible, and a pack of tissues, now held a jumble of loose change, a lighter, and a crumpled concert ticket stub for a band called “Slipknot.” Marion’s lip curled in disgust. This was not his car, not his life.

Yet, the key in his hand fit the ignition perfectly, and when he turned it, the engine roared to life with a throaty growl that was louder, more aggressive than he remembered. The car was his, but it had been possessed, just like his room, his clothes, his very identity. He gripped the steering wheel, his fingers brushing against a leather wrap that hadn’t been there before, and whispered one final prayer: “Lord, guide me through this trial. Let me reclaim what is mine.”

With a resolute nod, Marion shifted the car into gear, ignoring the jarring bass of a subwoofer that thrummed from somewhere beneath the seats. He pulled out of the driveway, his jaw set, determined to reach the department store where he could buy the proper attire---skirts, blouses, anything to restore his dignity. The car’s new personality seemed to resist his, the engine revving louder than necessary, the fuzzy dice swaying as if mocking his every turn. But Marion drove on, his eyes fixed on the road, his heart anchored by the cross at his throat. The Devil might have transformed his car, his room, his clothes, but he would not transform his soul. He would fight this battle, one prayer at a time, until his world was his again.

Chapter 3

Marion parked his Camry in the far corner of the department store lot, where it was quieter, the spaces less jostled. He sat behind the wheel for a moment, hands still on the steering wheel, taking a breath that was more like a prayer. Then he opened the door and stepped out, his black T-shirt clinging to him, black jeans hanging just a bit awkwardly from his slight frame. He shut the door softly, as if not to disturb anything---anyone---and headed for the entrance.

He walked with short, measured steps, hips tight, shoulders pulled back. It wasn’t the stride of a typical 20-year-old man. It wasn’t even the anxious shuffle of a nervous young shopper. No, it was deliberate, cautious, familiar in a different rhythm---like someone who’d walked these tiles countless times in a different life. To the rare onlooker who cared enough to notice, his gait and posture called to mind a middle-aged church woman, a quiet matriarch used to putting order into chaotic places. One who had weathered storms. One who had prayed through most of them.

Marion looked around like he expected someone to stop him, to question his right to be there. He kept his eyes low, brushing past mannequins and perfume counters until he reached the jewelry department. The glass gleamed under the lights, offering a kaleidoscope of gems, silver, and gold. But Marion wasn’t there for sparkle. He was there for something else.

A saleslady in a navy blazer and warm expression approached. “Can I help you find something?” she asked.

“I need a cross,” Marion said, a bit too quickly. His voice was soft, breathy, and a little tremulous. “A necklace. A gold one. Just... simple. Please. As soon as possible.”

The urgency in his voice was impossible to miss.

She blinked but smiled professionally. “Of course.”

He followed her to the display. She showed him several options, but his eyes settled immediately on a thin gold chain with a small, elegant cross dangling from it---nothing flashy, just enough to catch the light with reverence. He nodded, almost shaking. “That one. Please.”