The Devil Made Me Do It Read Online Free

Briggs’s waist, and they swayed in a harmonized pendulum motion like the grandfather clock in her great-grandma’s living room. They were mesmerized, whispering in each other’s ears.
    Deborah’s advance never faltered as she reared back her head and gave a Detroit, hood-piercing scream. “Esther!”
    The entire room turned as the sound screeched through the air. Esther jumped away from Briggs in alarm. Her eyes glued to her grief stricken friend.
    Deborah, with tears streaming down her face and plaster dust still covering her cheeks, poured out her anguish. “It’s bad, real bad. Sheri tried to kill herself.” She wiped at her tears, gasping for air. “Ms. Renee . . . then . . . the men came . . . in the ambulance.” Deborah’s hands chopped the air in an agitated manner. “Oh, help . . . me . . . come, come. We have to . . . go.” Deborah pulled on Esther’s arm, spun around, and ran with Esther right on her heels.
    Esther, heart racing, yelled back at Briggs, “I’ll call you.”
    Briggs’s face was crestfallen as he stopped abruptly from running to accompany them. His body stooped as he watched them move away. Esther and Deborah only looked forward.
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    Ears that were supernaturally attuned could hear the sound of a symphony of hissing. Eyes adjusted to the spirit realm could pick up the faint shadows of several long, slithering bodies writhing together in a dance of pernicious victory. The lead one circled the group and shook his head at this emotional display. The young ones always celebrated victory much too early, he thought. As he slithered away from his minions’ celebration, he began to orchestrate his next steps, knowing his mission was not half done.

Chapter Three
    â€œDid you pack everything?” Deborah turned in an erratic circle. “Take her posters off the wall. Especially the one that says, ‘ This place would die without me. ’” Distress painted her face with strokes of cold blue pain and red streaks of anger. Her head hung low, she squeezed and pulled on her hair until spots laid bare.
    Esther pressed to focus through her haze of heartache. It tore her down this front-row view of Deborah’s metamorphosis from warrior woman to manic basket case. Her uncombed hair, last presentable at Sheri’s funeral two weeks ago, had tuffs of coarse hair scattered around the carpet. Deborah’s beautiful crown of glory, matted and knotted with random spots, lay bare. She cringed at her friend’s self-mutilation.
    â€œHoney, you’re pulling your hair out again.”
    â€œDon’t need it, stop talking.... Go away.” Dry, ashy hands pulled her hair even harder, and mumbling, she circled the room, and then disappeared down the hall.
    Esther wanted to scream and run away. She was out of answers; nothing worked. The night Sheri died only Esther came home from the hospital. Her Deborah remained in Sheri’s room, clutching their friend, demanding she rise. The Deborah who walked next to her out of the hospital, got in the car, and came into their room was a stranger. She was once the tough girl, the take-no-prisoners one of the trio. But, every day, she unraveled a little more, alternating between coherent and incoherent speech. It was like watching a horror show and knowing that the boogeyman was around the corner, but nobody could hear you scream; go back. This Deborah scared her.
    She wouldn’t get help, wouldn’t let anyone in their room, wouldn’t talk to anyone on the phone. Esther called Deborah’s mother, but she was in denial and only said to give her more time. She even pulled out her textbooks looking for answers, but she hadn’t really paid attention in class. Her real courses were to take place her junior and senior year.
    Esther turned and tripped over a milk crate. Their room was a mess. Mrs. Fields asked them to pack all of Sheri’s belongings and