Love & Exorcisms | 18+ | COMPLETE |

- Chapter 26 -

Protect yourself first, always.

Alex lead him toward a stairway nestled into the transept. The darkness below was impenetrable, as if it were a living mass itself. Alex took out a flashlight from his coat and gave it a quick shake to charge it up before the bulb within it crackled it life. The beam illuminated old, crumbling stairs leading to a dirt floor below. Faintly, Damian could hear the clinking of metal chain.

"Could you have chosen a more horrifying place to do this?" Damian muttered.

Alex shook his head, chuckling. "Ye' know I have a taste for the dramatic, lad. Besides: there's power in these old churches. A hundred years of voices raised in praise to the Lord will do something for a place."

Damian had no response, but was left wondering at how Alex could feel power there when all he felt was death. The stairs creaked beneath their boots and he expected one to give at any second. The lower they went, the rustling of the chains became more restless. Something was breathing heavily in the dark.

With their boots in the dirt of the cellar, Alex shone the flashlight to the far end of the little room. There, standing uncertainly with chained hands and blinking rapidly in the sudden bright light, was a hulking man with a beard and long hair. His large boots and stained overalls made Damian guess he was a shipyard worker. His chains were fastened to a pole secured deep into the ground. He held up his hands nervously at the sight of them.

"Hello?" he called, voice shaking. "Who are you? Where am I?"

"It shouldn't have been like this, Alex," Damian chastised.

"It's a trick, lad," Alex said grimly. "You'll see." He cleared his throat and called out to the man: "Evening, friend! Apologies for the dark, I'm sure you're rather confused. What's your name?"

"Jenson," the man said, his voice cracking slightly. "I ain't got no money, gentlemen. I ain't got nothing for you! I'm just a simple man, all I've got is my dear wife, my dear little girl." His voice choked up, the big man beginning to blubber and sniffle. "Why have you done this? I ain't done nobody no harm."

"We're here to help you, Jenson," Damian said, giving Alex a hard elbow. Alexander saw exorcism as a game for him to play, a challenge to prove devotion to his higher power. The victim mattered little in his grand scheme of bringing glory to god. But Damian had no god to glorify. He left Alexander's side to approach the man, hoping he could explain.

"What do you remember, Jenson?" he said gently. "Where were you before this?"

The big man frowned, lines creasing his sun-worn face. "Well I'd gone into Old Pete's Tavern for a drink. I know Old Pete, Pete Warner! He was there, he..." His frown deepened, confusion taking hold.

"Old Pete is dead, Jenson," Alex said matter-of-factly, making Damian wince. "You killed him, brother. Bashed his head in with your own pint glass-"

"Alexander!" Damian hissed, holding up his hand for the man's silence. But poor Jenson was already teary-eyed, shaking his head.

"No," he blubbered. "That ain't true. I wouldn't of...can't of killed...nobody..."

The man sunk to the ground, crouched with his head in his hands, weeping loudly. "We're going to help you, Jenson," Damian said, internally cursing Alex for his utter lack of empathy. "I'll need you to trust us, and fight as hard as you can-"

The man's weeping abruptly stopped. In the cool underground of the cellar, Damian felt tell-tale goosebumps skitter up his spine. The man raised his reddened face, eyes glazed. "How can I trust you," he said softly. "If I don't know your names?"

So it had begun. The first trick. Every name held power. Damian stepped back, widening the distance between himself and the man. The man watched him with narrowing eyes. Then, with the tears still drying on his cheeks, his mouth spread into a wide grin.

"Oh, what's wrong?" he mocked, slowly rising to his full height. He was so tall that his head nearly brushed the cellar's low ceiling. "Not polite enough to introduce yourselves, eh, gents?"

"Prayer to St. Michael the Archangel," Alexander began. "In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."

Damian's pistol felt heavy where it was holstered to his belt. It was a reassurance even as he opened his Black Book and drew out his knife from its sheath. He closed his eyes and began to mutter the ancient words of The Rites, words he had studied since he was a small boy barely able to read. The pistol had been average, once, too. It was an old thing, wielded by a soldier in the last World War. But the runes Damian had carved along it made it so much more. Each bullet it held was silver, the powder within mixed with sage. It would kill the host body, yes: there would be no return for the possessed. But so too would it kill the demon within. It was one of the few methods whereby such an entity could be destroyed.

It was a last resort, always. But as of late, Damian had been forced to use it far too often. As their words became louder and the tiny cellar room grew thick with power, the big tender man that was Jenson was suddenly gone. In his place, a beast roared with vicious, insatiable fury.