 
THE CURSE IN THE CHEST

By Artie Margrave

The Curse In The Chest

By Artie Margrave

Copyright © 2012 Artie Margrave

Published by Artie Margrave at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition

Front Design by Artie Margrave.

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. Any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All Rights Reserved

No part of this eBook may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the express written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Warning, Adult Content: This eBook contains explicit use of sex and language and is not intended or suitable for individuals below the age of 18.
Dedicated to Mum and Dad,

Whose Wills have taken me to levels I find very hard to imagine

I love you both

To Falowo Damilare,

I owe you my pen

To Joshua Scribner,

He's my best author yet
Chapter One

THE darkness was more than paper-thick, gripping and heavy. It however wasn't as heavy as the metallic box Roy carried towards the chipped desk resting beside the wall at the corner. It was with the utmost difficulty he performed this task, taking in long sighs of deep breaths after every few steps he managed to take comfortably.

The chest rested on his chest and he staggered under its weight, using both of his hands as support from beneath it and licked at the rivulets of salty sweat rolling down his face and past the edge of his lips. He hobbled a few extra steps before gently dropping the chest atop the table with utmost relief. He sighed and used the side of his left index finger to wipe clean his forehead of the salty moisture that stained it.

Satisfied it was properly placed, he hurried to the barn door to place the steel bolt in lock. He didn't want to risk anyone, even from the house, happening upon his find; at least not yet. Not until he knew the contents being held secret by the metal box. He turned to face it and smiled. The warm notion was quickly dampened by the reflexes of chills that romped with the darkness around him.

"I guess it is a little dark in here after all," Roy muttered to himself as he removed a matchbox from the inside of his shorts' right pocket and lighted a match. He used its dull light to find the lantern before it extinguished and lighted another, using it to guide his way towards the lantern. He lifted the lantern off a rusty pole stuck into the wall for that purpose and walked to the table before the light given by the match extinguished. He lighted another match and a few seconds later, the lantern's oily flame glowed bright enough to send the darkness creeping off into the far confines of the barn for safety.

And for the first time that night, he truly saw the chest. It had the near-perfect shaping of real pirate treasure chests, sporting a very comely design that splashed golden lights across the barn, even farther than the lantern's. It had a semi-spherical cover lined around the mouth with what Roy believed to be some sort of special stones, pressed uniquely together.

"I haven't opened you and already I feel blessed," Roy smiled, rubbing his palms over the stones.

You really think so, do you?

All of the edges were coated with burnished metal, different from the chest's body. He hoisted the lantern above the chest and took a keen survey of all the sides of the box, taking in its marvelous designs. He directly came to the conclusion that it was no ordinary box. He'd seen nothing close to this in his life. He had to open it. He simply had to open it. He looked around the chest's bespangled metal lips, searching for the lock.

After checking it round five times, he found it impossible to believe it was without lock. There wasn't a bolt wrought on it, no keyhole, not even a makeshift lever. He even remembered it had no handles to begin with, just clean, bare, stone-designed lip edges. He also studied the stones carefully to observe if they made into any sort of special combination(s). So far there was none he could tell of.

He furrowed his brows tightly. "Intelligent pirates," he mocked and he laid his hand on the cover of the chest. Instantly, he felt a chill rush down his spine and settle in his belly. He withdrew his hand and looked at the chest again, slightly releasing his brows.

For the first time since he'd found the chest that afternoon, he felt a stab of fear afflict him, the fear of learning what the chest contained. He wondered if it was a coincidence he'd found it, nestled away among the reeds, in that part of the stream being regularly fished by as inexperienced as toddlers, the part of the stream that was frequented by his fellows, cleverly kept away from prying, wandering eyes. He began to have doubts if the chest was meant to be opened, probably kept where it was kept to stay kept. He wondered if the contents within were...

The lantern light's glow swept over the chest which reflected a richer glow - using its stones as medium - that flickered across Roy's face. The flicker anti-dosed his thoughts, made him shake them off. He glared at the glinting stones and shook his head softly.

Besides, I'm here now.

A pirate's curse can't kill me, he thought, tugging at the lid a last time in an effort to get it to open.

The night's chills shuffled around him as he popped out of the barn. Scrumptious smells slithered out of the kitchen windows. Lucy was preparing supper. Roy always loved it when Lucy was preparing dinner. His daughter was going to make the perfect mother, unlike her mother. He let his mind slink back to the chest briefly. He was going to need all the tools he could get.

ROY plucked the crowbar from the large polythene sack and inspected it. It seemed to be in good shape.

And you're sure it will work?

Satisfied, he dropped it on the table. The dry musky smell of hay filled the shed. It was late afternoon, a very hot and humid one too. The humid air made Roy's skin feel clammy. The metallic chest had lost a little of its gleam to the darkness of the shed, a darkness the beams of the sun had released from the confines of the shed. It stayed there on the chipped desk, still.

He had found the treasure the day before amongst the stream's overgrown weeds. The stuff was kept hidden, very well hidden he kept wondering how he'd managed to see it, and why. He'd picked it off the reeds and brought it to his home, keen on finding out what it contained, with a good mind it was something that would never make him want again in his life.

He was pretty sure his finding was only to his knowledge as he briefly inspected the packs of hay he'd piled around the legs of the desk. They looked untouched, exactly the way he'd left them. He'd set them there as a safeguard, to know if anyone had come into the shed when he wasn't in, probably noticed the chest. There was also the wheelbarrow stopped across the shed's door. An inch forward or backward was more than enough to make him tilt his eyebrows. But it was okay. There had been no intruder whatsoever.

He pushed his hand into the polythene sack, rummaged through it for a while and withdrew it holding a claw hammer, followed by a thin-lipped chisel, a sharply-bladed try square and some nails. He also plucked a screwdriver from the sack, looked at it, looked at the box and decided he wouldn't need it and sent it playfully across the shed. Picking the chisel, he set himself to work.

Roy pushed the chisel unto the very thin line where the lips of the chest met. He searched for any gap he hoped he could make use of, from its left end down to the right and back again to the left. The chisel found nothing. Somehow he counted on that. It sent a twinge of perplexity into him however.

Don't make this any hard on me, he moaned. He picked the claw hammer. Holding the chisel's blade to a selected spot on the tightened lid, he hammered away. First slowly, and as time began to wear on, he spurred the tempo... until it failed him.

He flung the chisel angrily at the arched cover of the chest and it retaliated. The chisel bounced off the chest, spun and hit him on his face... and stayed there.

Fuck!!! He cursed, briskly brushing the blade of the chisel off the wound it bored just beneath his left eye. It fell forthwith.

Serves you right.

He held his face to hold back the blood, slamming the wooden desk heavily.

Fuck you!! He slammed. He lifted the hammer, dying to strike.

I wouldn't do that.

He thought otherwise and let it drop noisily on the desk. His shirt was heavily soaked with sweat. The afternoon had warped into early evening. Dull light seeped in through holes in the shut window. His breathing was coming in quick gasps. The wound wasn't helping. He released the pressure and glared at his bloody hands. He looked back at the chest. It glinted brighter than before. He peeled his fingers across the spot he'd tried to hammer the chisel in. It looked the same as before he'd started, if not tighter.

"Is everything alright in there?" a voice called from beyond the door. It was that stuck up bitch that tagged herself his wife. He wasn't interested in seeing her, now more than ever.

"Fuck off!" He spat. "Go away."

She didn't, straightaway. She cursed, struggled helplessly with the handle for some minutes, and banged it several times before pulling herself away from it.

"Whatever you're doing in there, it's your problem. Just came to tell you that lunch has gone frozen. If you don't want it that's fine..."

"Just go eat your friggin' food. Who cares?" he hollered. "Or feed it to that lousy cat of yours."

He heard her mutter something before stomping off. He took a sharp breath. He was tired of everything, his wife, his home, her lousy cooking... this lousy chest.

Tired of me... I haven't even started.

He stared at it with as much hate as he'd accumulated on account of his wife.

Darcy.

That woman had made life unbearable for him for the past three years, a feeling that had evolved him into a mistrusting, apathetic bastard, with as little care for life as he had. He'd thought many times of getting away from her – setting himself free but he was always drawn to the fact that they shared a daughter, a bond he'd never forgo for anything earth wanted to offer. She loved her mama very much just like she loved her papa. He knew she'd never want to move away with him, away from her mother.

She was a church fanatical, that woman, and she'd passed that trait down to his daughter. It was probably one of the things about her he really hated. Spending an estimated half of the week at the church didn't bring half a head of corn to the table. She wasted her time with those people who called themselves saints while he was off doing 'real' work.

He'd never told her to her face about how much he detested her but they'd argued countless times, he believed she'd figured it out. And she'd made no effort to sit him down and resolve their differences, whatever they were. And he never cared that she didn't. All he cared about, all he ever cared about, was giving Lucy a nice life, a daughter-worth life and he had the feeling the box had the solution.

And you really, really think so?

He mopped his face of the freshly exuded blood through the wound and shot an angry look at the chest.

Temper, temper.

The box he believed to hold all the answers was certainly holding the answers to how to get mad easily. It looked back at him grimly, giving an imagined sense of dissatisfaction at his efforts.

He looked at the nails and quickly disqualified them. He'd spent hours with a thinner-bladed chisel and it didn't leave a crack for another thin blade to exploit. He was tired anyway. The failed effort had taken much off him. He was also severely hungry. That cold food might just do. He hoped Darcy had not taken him seriously and fed the food to that cat. He looked at the chisel in the midst of a pack of fodder and decided it was enough for the day. He would try with the try square tomorrow and the others too.
Chapter Two

THE next day began with as much luck as the previous – none. Try as he could, he couldn't find a way to jimmy a hole littler than the tip of a pen through any part of the chest. The try square had done little... hell, it had done nothing. The hammer did its best. He even retrieved the screwdriver but it didn't fit and he flung it back. He was losing his mind by the hour. This 'thing' had given him one restless night. He was trying to repay the favour but realized he was just hurting himself.

It's a simple technique, really.

He gave up on it for the day, mulling over possible things he could try the following couple of days.

How about giving up? You certainly are not man enough to achieve this feat.

As he walked out of the shed, he was greeted by a dark night amidst the soundtracks of grumbling thunders and slow moving black clouds. It hit him as a big surprise that he'd completely, really completely, lost track of time. What had seemed like an hour or two had deceptively transformed into almost more than half a day. All because of that accursed chest. The clouds grumbled gloomily. He strode into the kitchen and was greeted by delicious smelling supper, and Lucy.

"I got worried," Lucy started. "It looked like you were going to be in there forever."

"I'm sorry," Roy replied softly. "Serious work I was doing in there."

"How's the wound holding?"

"It's... nothing you need to worry yourself about, I told you," he replied.

She seemed unimpressed as she dropped a glass of water on the table. "Here Scamps."

A Persian cat emerged from beneath the dinner table and followed behind Lucy as she strode out of the kitchen. Roy surveyed her silently as she walked out. She really had that nice shape, his daughter. Her cute round butt settled properly above beautiful thin legs. At least that waste of a woman was able to bring out something...

"Good night dad," Lucy said, looking back at him, half of her already through the door. "Love you."

"Love you too, sweetie," he replied.

Love you too, sweetie.

A warm aura of passion engulfed him. As he faced dinner, he determined. He was going to undo that lock. He had to open that chest. And it wasn't going to stay another day more.

HE pounded at the chisel harder than he'd before done. Sweat poured down his face in driblets. His wet shirt stayed on the floor, jumbled with the fodder. He paused for a moment, resting the arm holding the chisel on the lid of the chest and bowed his head. A soft chill consumed him. He despaired, hardly knowing why. Was this chest that worth it? He was killing himself over what he wasn't sure of. It had become so much of an obsession that he'd found it difficult, even disturbing, focusing on other things. He wanted to really believe mighty good could come off the chest, but what if he was tricking himself. Was it a coincidence his finding the chest at that section of the lake? Did it even contain anything?

All you need do is believe.

Very slowly he gave into his reasoning self. Figuring he just might not get the contents within, if there were any to start with, he considered the precious stones carved into the chest itself and believed they were worth a mighty much. Too, they wouldn't be so hard to remove. He resolved and pulled his hand off the chest. Only, his hands pulled free, free of both chest and chisel. He stared at the chisel and couldn't believe his eyes. The chisel held fast, suspended in mid-air with a little bit of its blade stuck through the lids of the chest. A feat he'd executed himself to for the past few days. He had pried a hole in! At last!

"Ha-ha," he leapt exultantly, kicking a pack of fodder out of the way onto a wall. "Yes!"

No!

His reasoning self faded behind his victorious feeling. He returned to the box, ever determined to finish off the job. He tried pulling the blade for good measure. It stayed stuck.

Satisfied, he pressed his hands, one first then the both of them down on the chisel in an attempt to lift the lid of the chest. The chisel remained rigid. Try as he could, which was a well vigorous attempt too, he found it another stiff task to pry the lids apart. After struggling for a most difficult twenty minutes, he halted. His reasoning self quickly took form in his mind. He shook his head. Why was everything so hard? He wanted to give up. He had to give up. There wasn't any way to sweet talk this thing into spilling.

Or is there?

He threw a look at the other tools scattered on the table and his look fell on the crowbar. He looked at the handle of the chisel and back to the crowbar and smiled.

He picked the crowbar. Its wedge was going to come good. He placed the wedge beneath the chisel's handle, pushing it upwards so the tool would gain a good grip. When he was okay that it did, he pulled the handle of the crowbar downwards, trying to bring the chisel with it. He failed at first as the crowbar fell off its target and went over the sequence. He pulled harder the second time, exerting a tremendous degree of force to it. It held, it held, it held and then caved in.

He fell. The crowbar spun with a dizzying velocity several times in the air and fell on Roy's face, right on his chisel wound, opening it up once more. He cursed in pain, picked the crowbar and flung it away from him. Something forced itself out of the wooden walls of the shed almost simultaneously.

He rose up and found himself in darkness, a darkness he didn't understand. Something scratched the walls from outside. He couldn't see a thing. He groped around hoping his eyes would adjust. They didn't and fear slapped into his consciousness. What had he gotten himself to?

A piercing cry rang out through the heavy darkness. It rocked the very foundations of the shed, sending the darkest chill into him. It sounded bird-ish. It melted almost as suddenly as it had started, into the shadows.

The darkness weighted down on him pulling into his mind a flurry of creeps, nightmarish things and filth. He shivered in fear. He had to get out of the dark. He needed to see the noon. He stumbled forward, at least where he thought was forward. Something soft brushed past his foot, something cold and hairy. It had many shapes, the dark, and it did not keep a state. Constantly it moved, constantly it instilled a new form. He dropped to his knees. Hopelessness bit at him. He crawled a few steps frontwards. Something tugged at his shorts. It made an effort to pull him back.

"Leave me alone!" he despaired.

Leave you alone? You started this. Wasn't this what you wanted? Wasn't this what you always wanted? Yet the job isn't even finished.

He was forced down on his belly, his face welted in the scattered hay. His hands shot up in the air seeking redemption. They met claws instead, claws that burned, claws that pulled him and laid him on his back, claws that clamped his throat tightly.

Look upon me now! Look upon your persecutor!

He struggled weakly against the force hovering him. As he gazed into the dark, he sensed a presence. It was filled with hate. A feeling he knew well enough. It looked down on him, into the crevices of his soul, searching, filling, taking. It engulfed him, slithered in. His soul flailed. He slept.

ROY woke in a start. He pulled himself out of the rubble. Something swam within him, something like the backwash of catharsis. He felt different, capsulized by freedom. The darkness had dispersed, leaving a still, silent shed. Everything he laid his eyes upon looked new, and yet not too new. On the desk, the chest rested, an abstract of its former shiny self. It remained shut too. The chisel wasn't anywhere around it. His wound throbbed wildly. The throbbing only gave rise to anger, madness, hatred...

Yes! You're getting there!

For a few minutes, he tried recalling what had happened. The most he could make of his memory was falling. Something scratched the walls. It was familiar. It moved to the door. It knocked.

"Dad?" Lucy cooed. "Is everything okay in there?"

Dad? Roy fought with himself. His hate began to submerge. Lucy. Briskly, he walked to the door and opened it less than halfway. The evening air slapped him and more of it rushed past him. He reveled in it. He'd never been freer in such a long time.

"Oh God," Lucy croaked, "are you okay, dad?"

He was drawn to the lithe thing that called him dad. Her voice was beatific. She looked up at him through blue, squeezed eyes, the colour of her skin and shape of her body as that of the temptress. She touched his left cheek, just below his wound. Her touch injected thrills into him. Thrills that seemed alien. He fought with himself again. He struggled until his darkest despairs were forced down. He emerged. He felt her fingers again – soft this time, reassuring.

"Lucy," he looked at her. Her face contorted.

"What happened in there," she asked. "I heard noises and here..." she lifted her hand. It held the chisel. Its blade was misshapen, as a contorted leaf. "It popped out of the walls with force. It got me scared."

"Nothing's wrong, dear," he replied, assuming control over his inhibitions.

"You've bruised yourself again, dad," she informed, "and this..." she lifted the chisel. "Something's not right in there."

He sighed. He didn't want to keep secrets away from his little girl but that box... it was something else. His mind flashed back as he tried to remember what he saw in the darkness when he fell, what he thought he saw. As hard as he tried to think, his memory remained blank, the presence of nonexistence. It nagged at his mind for a few seconds before he shut it off. Things were calmer now and it had to stay that way.

Lucy was trying her very best to peep through the half-opened doorway. The shed was however still dark enough to hide his 'toy'. He closed the door completely.

"The only thing not right in here is my belly," he smiled at her.

She looked back at him and smiled. "Fortunately for you, there are cupcakes that need eating. Unfortunately, they will be done in another twenty minutes."

"Aw... shucks," he muttered and laid his arm around her. "It'll be worth the wait I believe."

HE sauntered into the kitchen with his daughter at his side. His nose caught the familiar delicious curranty scent of nearly cooked cupcakes. He basked in the smell the cupcakes aromatized the kitchen with, utterly oblivious of the other presence inside.

A dark shadow crossed from the cooker to a set of spoons hanging on the wall just beside the window. He turned to face the figure. She firmed her hands on a large slotted spoon and hunched her shoulders as he walked in. Her hair spread across her face in a ruffled mass and she looked at him through unhealthy eyes, considering him for some brief seconds. She held no expression, just looked at him with a plain, ashen face that seemed to hold extra parking spaces for more roaming thoughts.

Roy regarded her with disdain. Disdain he'd naturally cultivated over the years. Lucy immediately got wind of the anti-affections being shared and moved off her father like he was the bomb she didn't want to be near, that and none of them would use her as leverage.

"So the ol' shed coughed out something finally," Darcy started, breaking the tensed silence in the room. She added a silent sneer.

Her voice rang through his heart the way a cracked cassette would run through interest, except worse. Somehow it got painful listening to her build those words. Something began to boil from the inside, something hot, something fiery. He kept his mouth shut though.

She walked over to the cooker and spied on the cakes.

"At least lunch won't go cold this time," she continued.

That tore the lids.

"Oh," he started with a choleric tone, "so that's all you care about, right?"

She looked back at him disapprovingly.

"If it isn't about food, it's about the state of food. And have you ever questioned yourself how the food gets there in the first place, huh?" he continued.

She kept her disapproving look. "What are you saying?"

"That you're a lazy, unthinking bitch is what I'm saying?" he bickered.

"Dad, chilax," Lucy chipped in, worried of the imminent.

He calmed. His pressure was already rising past boiling point. It was trying. It was testing. But Darcy posted no help.

"I will not have profanities issued in this house before me," she bickered back.

"Or what? Feed me to death?"

"I very well might," she sneered.

The rage boiled over. Hate spilled forth.

Yes! You brought me back!

His eyes glinted with scorn. He built malevolent thoughts of things he could do to this woman. Then he felt her hand again. Lucy was standing beside him. Her hands cupped around his neck. The burning rage inside transformed instantly into passion. Passion that he didn't understand. She looked at him through tear laden eyes.

"Stop this, dad," she sobbed.

Her voice was aphrodisiacal. Her touch was scintillating. He could feel himself giving up. Something fought with him inside, something that easily overpowered him and dragged him down into the darkest void of his mind.

He looked down at her. His passion became lust. He had longed for her since forever. Now she was very close to him. He could feel her breath damping his face. Her eyes stared searchingly into his. He felt his member beginning to rise and harden. It was a long time this body ever felt this excited. She was special.

She is chosen.

With a startling suave, he pulled her into him, brought his face up to hers and dug his mouth onto her lips. He kissed her deeply for as long as she let him. With a cry, Lucy pushed and pulled herself away from him. She fell subsequently but hurriedly picked and pressed herself against the wall. She stared into her father's eyes and he stared back at her. He hungered for another kiss, even more.

Much, much more.

Her eyes looked at him in disbelief.

Rrooww! Scamps emerged from beneath the table, inadvertently joining the fray. Its yellow eyes scanned the room stealthily before he leaped to the table. Rrooww! The cat's presence traversed the hostility building within the room. For a split moment, everyone stopped to look at the cat. It settled on its hind legs, looking at them guiltily, probably embarrassed at its interruption.

"What... just happened?" Darcy croaked, her voice issuing signals of disbelief. She brought their attention back. Roy turned back to her. His face was plastered with sweat. It felt oddish, given that the atmosphere within the room, even outside, was quite chill. He looked back at her drawn back, repulsed face. His hate was beginning to build once more.

"I'm asking you again?" she muttered, a certain level of confidence beginning to well up within her. "What in God's name did you just do?"

He looked at her without blinking. His hate had risen to the point it pushed his passion aside. He hated that name. He never cared much about hearing it before but right now the name sparked fire in his substance. His breathing grew heavy, out of spite. He wanted to see her on her knees, see her suffer, forever. He took a step in her direction. The cat raised up its head mindfully. He took very little notice.

"I said what in God's..." she started to say.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!" He roared. She shut her mouth immediately. Her face was taut with fear.

Good! He wanted the fear to remain there.

The cat steadied its eyes on Roy in alertness. Something shook behind Roy. He neglected it. The very little confidence Darcy had built for herself had dissipated and she now registered paleness on her face. He took another step forward.

"I FUCKING HATE THAT NAME!" He roared again, clenching his fists tightly. Darcy blenched. The smell of burning cakes was beginning to fill the kitchen.

"Dad?" Lucy called from behind him. Her voice seemed distant. It was distant to him.

"What is wrong with you?" Darcy stammered.

"You are wrong with me," he shot back. "It's a big wonder that I've remained in this house since forever. You... you...' He stretched a leg and kicked a chair out of its place beside the table. It swayed then toppled over in a crunching sound. Darcy shook but still stayed her feet. The smell of burnt cakes filled their nostrils. Nobody cared.

Rrooww! Scamps stood on its four legs now.

"Well," she muttered very quietly almost in a way her mouth simply moved, "if you are a Christian, you probably won't..."

Odium filled him, so much that he lost control of himself. He, in fact, lost himself. All he felt was heat. Heat and hate.

He swiped at the table in a split second, grabbing a large knife nobody had seen on the table beforehand. It had sort of appeared there. Scamps stepped backwards nimbly in attentiveness. The knife's blade glinted wickedly. Darcy and Lucy stared at the knife like they'd never seen it before. They were right to stare at it that way.

"Dad!!" Lucy cried.

He didn't hear her. He kept staring at Darcy. She shook, pulled herself out of harm's way and took refuge behind a chair across the table from Roy.

"You don't want to learn to keep your mouth shut..." Roy said in a grim, dark voice that almost didn't belong to him, letting the glint of the thick blade traverse the kitchen once more.

"This isn't you, daddy," Lucy whimpered. He turned to face her. Her back remained against the wall and she made no effort from moving away from it. Her face was wet with tears. She posed very little danger to him. He turned once more to Darcy.

"I'd have you know that very soon, I'll be leaving you... and I'll be taking Lucy along!"

That broke the freeze in Darcy's mind.

"You are never giving my daughter your filthy life," she murmured weakly.

"And just how will you stop me?"

"I don't care! But you are not taking my daughter from me!"

Mmeooww!

Roy stopped for what seemed like fractions of a second. He looked at her as if he was considering where to start on her. A dark stillness filled the kitchen. His eyes blazed. His fingers twitched. Without warning, his hand flashed, knife slashed. Cold iron steel met furry flesh. Blood spurted from the gut of Scamps as its head dropped to the table, rolled, turned upside-down and flared surprised green eyes at the bloody blade.

"Oh my..." Lucy said and quickly used her hands to cover her mouth. Her eyes pained in fright. Her skin turned white.

The rest of the cat's body shook feverishly before crumbling on its side. Scamps was beheaded, faster than any of them had blinked. It was impossible to simply take in. The limp, furry thing kicked at nothing weakly. Its hairs stood.

"What are you?" Darcy stuttered, horror-stricken. She was shaking all over. Her eyes followed the trail of blood that was the large knife Roy held viciously. He pointed it at her threateningly. She gripped the chair in front of her tightly.

"Someone that doesn't want you alive!" he croaked and pitched.

"Get out of here, Lucy," Darcy cried, brandishing the chair, "get help!"

"No one can help you."

Lucy immediately ran out of the kitchen. They heard her footsteps speed through an outer room before it silenced.

Roy blazed his eyes at Darcy. She pulled back, using the chair to defend herself. That didn't stop him. His foot failed him however. As he was about to lunge on her, he tripped... fell. She got her chance. She sent the chair crashing on his back. Lifted it. Sent it down three times more and left it there.

Silence!

Roy didn't move. He remained on the floor, back hunched and shirt stained with dirt.

Darcy sighed. She hugged herself tightly as she looked upon his body. His hands still firmly held the knife. Her eyes trailed back to the cat's body and she let a tear run down her cheeks. The poor thing didn't deserve what came to him. Scamp's eyes had lost its glow. Blood tainted the center of the table.

She looked back at the man she called her husband. She'd known Roy for a long time and he'd never been like this. Despite the several quarrels and tantrums they'd had between them, he'd never been close to being... she wasn't sure what to label him. Looking at him now she couldn't help feeling she didn't know him, like he was a stranger... a homicidal badass. The smell of burnt cakes filled her nostrils again. She'd lost the smell before. She figured she had to put the cooker off. She made towards the cooker.

Suddenly something grabbed her by her ankle. She keeled over backwards in shock.

"Are you done already?" Roy's gravelly voice floated off the ground, from beneath him. His knuckles stuck out firmly as his hand wrapped Darcy's leg tightly.

"Oh God!" she shrilled and kicked frantically against his grip.

He released her and bared his face. Lines of dirt and blood stained his skin but beneath that she could see his eyes. The bloodthirstiness was still there, that gory expression left her groggy. She couldn't understand how but as much as she wanted to run away, leave this cursed place, she felt herself pinned down to the ground, unable to move.

He sprang up in an instant sending the chair crumbling backwards. The look on his face said she'd wasted her time and energy. He pursed his lips menacingly. She cringed back. His flaming gaze owned her. He walked forward, blade glinting. She hit her head on the wall. Looked back. She was cornered. She looked back at him. He twisted his lips in a smile. Just where he wanted her to be.

Roy looked at the excuse of a woman crumpled into a corner. Helpless. He wanted to finish this. He had to. Once was enough. Right across her neck. He took a step forward. He loomed over her. Raised the blade for the kill. And felt a sharp pain... at the back of his head. The pain rang through his body. His head bobbed forward, even dragged his body along. He turned to face Lucy. Her hairs slicked across her tearful face. Her hands were raised across her left shoulder, clutching a club. Her face held remorse.

"What are you doing, sweetheart?" he said, rubbing his neck. She knew how to hit, so well that it surprised him.

"Keeping you from making a mistake, dad," she said weakly and silently added, "if you're really my dad."

"Why would you even say that?"

She stopped. Her guard was beginning to lower.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

"For us," he simply said.

"You'd kill mum."

"I'd kill anyone that stands in our way," Roy said. He took a cautious step forward. Cautious enough to put Lucy back on her guard. Her hands stretched back further.

"In what way?" she asked.

"Why all these questions?" he asked.

"I don't believe you're my dad." Her grip started to lax.

"But of course I am," he assured in a not-very-assuring, dark tone. "I want to protect you."

"From what?"

He stopped. He was confused by that question. All of a sudden, he felt he was trying very hard, almost impossibly, to be himself. Something was tearing him apart inside. It all seemed very strange. He took up the knife, glared at it like it was an instrument foreign to him. Something caught the corner of his eye. The cat's mess looked all new to his eyes, irritatingly new.

"I told you to get out of here," Darcy said from behind him.

He turned to stare at her. He didn't get to do that for long. A sharp pain rocked his body. The knife slid from his grip, landed with a heavy clank on the concrete. Whatever restrained him within the dark depths released him in defeat. He swam through a dark atmosphere, searching for a foothold. His body meanwhile fell.
Chapter Three

HIS foot gave and he was submerged forcefully into the ice-cold pool.

Pool!

He drew himself out, drenched, standing knee-deep in the water, shivering. It was still pitch-dark. The water sent slick waves of reflection up and about. Either it wasn't as dark as he'd first experienced or he'd grown accustomed to it, whichever way it didn't totally surprise him but still sent chills through.

He espied ripples rushing from the distance. There was something in the water and it was coming fast. He looked around. Didn't see anything. Couldn't see anything. The water stretched for miles, miles he couldn't fathom. Ripples floated past him again. He knew he had to get out of the water.

Something cackled in the distance. The cackle echoed incessantly till it faded into the wispy atmosphere. It started up again as soon as it'd fallen silent and continued. The sound gained magnitude to the point that Roy felt it directly above him. He felt himself being mocked. He looked up. Emptiness. Emptiness above, fullness below. Watery fullness. Ripples passed once more. Something stood out just above the surface tension of the water. It looked scaly. It drifted forward for a few seconds and stopped, keeping a negotiating distance.

"Lucy... Darcy!!" he croaked. No answer. The figure stayed submersed, the scaly portion the only part he could see. He felt he was being watched, by whatever was in there. The cackle started up, shockingly this time, and extremely earsplitting.

"What do you want with me?" he cried at the mocker.

You... you... you...you... came the replying whispers.

"I want no part in this," he said, getting bits of his voice together.

You chose that path yourself, Royston. It's too late to back out now.

"How did you... who are you... what are you?"

You! And laughter.

"Look, I don't know whatever I did," he said, feverishly. "Just let me go."

Silence. The mocking voice fell quiet. He looked around once more. The horrible feeling of being trapped still stayed with him. He saw the scaly form again in the distance. He didn't get to see too much of it as it immediately completely submerged in the foggy water. Ripples came and went, leaving an oily surface.

He was still staring at the water, to be sure if the form was there or if it had truly gone, when he heard another sound in the distance, a rushing one. He waddled back. The rushing noise drew closer, forcing him to wade a few steps back. He couldn't see anything, save the still blackness. Whatever it was was certainly very close now. He turned and began to wade through the ink-black pool as fast as the pool would let him.

In seconds, the rushing sound blanketed him. He felt it as it stung his skin. It was chilly, a very cold vapor. He stopped moving and listened. He felt tension beneath his legs. The water began to bubble. He was forcefully jerked into the emptiness. Shadows pulled him up, steadied him in the vapor and sent him crashing into the cold pool.

ROY jerked out of his sleep. He was drenched in sweat, heavily drenched. He felt himself suspended from the ground and was about to call for help till he felt the foam beneath him and the smothering sheets of blankets.

The room was aglow as a result of a lantern placed very near his bed. The glow and the blankets gave him the warmth he needed so much.

His fuzzy vision became rapidly brightened by the second till he was able to identify the pieces of furniture that rested in his room, because it was his room - he was sure of it. His memory however didn't do him good. Voices rang in his mind. Grim whispers flooded his thoughts. He released one of the blankets from himself and used it to wipe the sweat from his face and neck. As the greasy whispers coiled through his thoughts, he tried remembering how he got to the bed.

He remembered talking with Lucy outside the shed, going in for cupcakes, had even smelt them, seen Darcy and... blank! Every other thought seemed lost in the whispers. The whispers bothered him. They seemed to scorn him and they coursed him painfully. He tried blocking the thoughts out. It seemed impossible because he kept thinking it was impossible but he at last succeeded. Only the chirring of crickets, and the clicking of several other insects. The breeze hit gently the windowsills from outside. It sounded peaceful.

He drew himself fully out of bed and laid his feet on the floor. At first he didn't feel it but quickly, it twitched. He dispatched the rest of the blankets to the bed, revealing his soft, wetted pajamas. He looked at himself from chest to toe and wondered how he'd gotten into the pajamas.

Voices! They came from outside the room. He walked to the door and looked out. Something smelled; a strange smell of metal rust and in a nauseating way too. He pushed himself out of the room. He could hear their voices quite clearly now. Of course one was his Lucy, the other her mother. He meant to go there but he instead decided to play safe and stay in the dark, very close to the front of the room door. Their voices came from the dining.

"...know what you were doing back there, sweetheart," Darcy said. "You weren't supposed to be back here."

"I just couldn't do nothing, mum," Lucy replied.

Silence for a few seconds.

"You've buried Scamps already, haven't you?. The poor, poor thing," Darcy said softly. "The way your father took its head off."

"'cept he wasn't dad," Lucy muttered. "Since I looked in his eyes from the shed, he just wasn't the dad I knew. Hell, I was even wondering why I thought that."

What were they talking about? When did Scamps die? And what was that about him slashing the cat's head? The thoughts throbbed him.

There was silence again.

"Mum," Lucy started again. "You really think it's the box in the shed?"

The chest. So they'd known about it. His secret was out.

"Pretty sure whatever's wrong with your dad's connected to that box," Darcy replied. "I'm not a good interpreter but I couldn't mistake the Latin engraving. And you say you have not seen it before?"

"No mum. He didn't give me the opportunity to go in there when he was around and it was always locked when he wasn't."

"He didn't want anyone to know about it then," Darcy continued. "Wonder where he found it anyway."

Another silence. It lasted so long he was almost convinced they'd finished.

"Still freaked out at the way he held that knife," Darcy said. "I'm actually happy you came back. He most certainly would've killed me. You're the best thing that happened to this family."

"He says that too," Lucy said.

"First, that box needs to leave... and you're the only one that can get close to your dad and talk to him without getting hurt."

There was another pause in which he imagined her thinking.

"I just hope it's still my dad in there," his daughter said.

"He is," Darcy finalized. "Clear the scraps."

He heard movements coming from the dining and silently slunk back into his room, drowned in thoughts. He still had no recall of whatever incident they'd conversed about. Just like he couldn't remember what had happened back then in the shed. Something shinnied past his face. Frustration. He'd killed Scamps, not that it would all matter but he'd also tried to kill his wife. Hopelessness washed him through and through.

They'd mentioned the box. Thinking of it, his life had changed drastically the moment that chest walked into his life. He was responsible for it, responsible for everything. He remembered the hate. He wasn't feeling it now. It was gone. Gone with the dream. The dream! He remembered it finally; the near silent whispers, the ice-cold, oily sea, the scaly figure ninety-eight percent submersed in the water, the darkness and... and... the whispers more.

You...

He shuddered. His thoughts reached the chest once more. It had to leave. Come daybreak. It wasn't going to stay, not a nanosecond more. For the moment he had to rest his mind. He needed composure. He shut his mind, at least he did his best.

Even after Darcy joined him in the bed, he pretended to close his eyes.

He could not sleep.
Chapter Four

THE chest's gain in weight was the first thing Roy noticed as he lurched down his way through the fog-coated shrubs. It weighed him down, tempted him to stop, tempted him to turn back. But back was dangerous, he knew too well. The morning fog was so thick he wished he'd brought a knife along. It didn't seem to help. It probably didn't want to help. It chilled him too, bit at his skin. The cock hadn't made its first crow yet, which was good. Every path he took was as deserted as he needed it to be but as he trudged on, the emptiness got to him. Whispers sang in his head. He shook them off immediately.

He looked down at the box. Good riddance! But he then corrected himself. The chest was still with him. As much as he believed he was going to rid himself of it, he couldn't help feeling it didn't want out. It wanted to stay. The houses around him hovered like giant black ghosts. Every one of them stayed silent.

He tried walking faster but that was as best as he could – only try. The chest became heavier with each step he took. On many occasions he was forced to stop. He took those times to pick the muscles of his leg back together and pushed forward.

The ghostly houses grew fewer and fewer till it dwindled to none. The sun was beginning to rise. He sensed he had very little time left. He quickened his pace as best as he could. He had to get to that stream.

THE copse was thicker now and heavily populated. The bristles stung and pierced his skin. He remembered the last time he passed this way. Just as painful but then he didn't care. He thought it was treasure. It was supposed to make him happy forever. All it gave him was emptiness, one dead cat, add the dread too with the sleepless nights save one sleepy night full of terror, and a long, long walk back to where he'd picked it. They were cold, the weeds. They swayed to and fro, many times blocking his path. He remembered the way just too well. An eerie sound floated through the air.

He left the village behind. That wasn't progress enough. Not until he was there. The sun's rays were beginning to pour out of the horizon. He didn't like that. He didn't like that at all. The cock's first crow he heard at the distance wasn't making matters any better. He trudged forward as quickly as he could manage.

After another couple of minutes' staggering, his foot hit mud and he heard the soft swash of water. Deliverance! He felt adrenaline pumping through him. It gave him more energy than he believed he could muster. The ground became wetter and softer, on till his foot started to get stuck in it and he found difficulty walking.

After another few minutes of difficult trudging, the stream loomed into view. It was an impressively wide stream, roughly coated with masses of seaweeds and numerous other marine grasses. They stuck out of the silky surface of the stream in isolation.

A cluster of trees grew outside the stretch of the water, modeling as boundaries but Roy knew too well the water stretched further than that. He knew because he used to fish regularly beyond the trees. He knew because he'd spent more time there than in the open with his fellows. He knew because he'd fished something else out of it. Something he was only too agitated to give back. The sun cast its early, dull glow upon the water. The stream was a rich playground for planktons, and in turn for fish.

He plopped into the water. He knew he had little time. It was cold, the water. The water plants jutted out of the sea, eager for the first rays of the sun. Save for the soft swish-swash of the water's ethereal wave euphonies and the deep croaking of the frogs somewhere at the far side of the bank, all else remained silent.

He waded through the river ankle-deep first, then gradually knee-deep and finally navel-deep. Something cold brushed past his leg. He looked down to see a school of fishes swimming away. It got even more difficult as he forged deeper into the river: the sludge frequently caught his feet and without a good fight were unwilling to relinquish them, sometimes the weeds too would catch his feet making him almost misstep, plus the currents were totally not on his side.

Despite all of these difficulties, he held the chest aloft. He didn't want to lose it. He didn't want it to come back haunting him. He needed it to return. As he fought deeper into the river, the water plants started to clog the surface more. He turned an arc through a path made by the cloggy surface of that part of the river. It led him towards a brief cluster of trees. It was a silent haven for shade. The trees here bore fleshy barks and narrow, outstretched branches. It was peaceful here, quiet. He remembered here but here wasn't the place.

He pushed forward deeper into the clusters. There were no chances of life for undergrowths in this part of the river. The branches up there took all of the sunlight away from the subsurface. No plants, no plankton. No plankton, no fish. No fish, no people. It was the reason he alone knew about this place. Others would only just view this place from afar, others less simply fantasize another world beyond here. The serious ones would need just a look to tell them this place was barren. Lifeless. Please, fish and food was out in the open. The further he pressed on, the more the cluster began to look like a shrine: dark, silent, heavy, ominous, the beingness of a disembodied presence.

And then he burst out into the light. The water was shallower here and long lines of reeds roughed the surface. He was there where the frogs sang. They fell silent the moment he happened on them. Probably didn't like his entrance. Or was it what he brought with him?

He could see the main bank from where he stood, in the distance. Nobody was there yet. It would only be a matter of time. The water here was rich in fish. He felt slick bodies rubbing his legs and brushing past them. Many times he looked out for what could be snakes, unfriendly sea creepy-crawlies.

At a point he stopped, in an open space, and scanned the area and his eyes fell on a spot, a spot along a thick line of growths. A spot so bushy it could easily conceal. He hurried over. He looked and was assured. The tracks of the chest's underside were clearly visible. It hadn't been washed away. Without delay, he dropped the chest onto the cold, moist muck that supported the growths. Relief! He stretched his arms and felt free. They needed it. For the first time in a while that looked like forever, he felt peaceful, a Halcyon nested on the substance of his soul. Now he needed redemption. The sun rose fully, golden in its splendor. Its rays heated his once cold heart.

He was finished with his duty. He turned to leave. He couldn't. He was pinned back, against his will. Or was it his will? But he had finished. What was the problem? He took a step forward. That was as far as he willed to go.

...couldn't mistake the Latin engravings...

He turned back to the box. It stayed atop the mud, behind the reeds, more inviting than ever. That will of more than three nights ago burned in him again, hotter than the water around him could quench. A sickening urge to know what the chest contained built. His knees quivered in the water.

He'd been there before, could've done that. It turned out bloody. It warned him. But what did it contain? He tried to move away but his feet wouldn't force themselves off the sludge.

He glared at the chest. Closely now. He could make out figures, no, letters around the base. He'd never seen them there before. Latin! They ran round the base of the chest. He didn't know Latin but damn, this stuff was quite easy to read. It looked like English, deeply twisted English. He ran his fingers through the letters and before he could control himself, started to read:

"Teloque ani...mus prae...stantior omni..."

And once he was done, he looked around like he wasn't sure what he had done. He spun his head groggily as if he'd been lifted out of a trance. He felt strange. Strange like he knew something was going to happen, something bad and he wouldn't be there to experience the fullness of it. He looked once more at the box. He remembered he was finished with it and decided it was his time to leave. That was before his eyes fell on the water.

The once steel-blue water, weakly transparent enough to catch sight of the schools jaunting through the water below had turned steel-gray, edging towards black and fast. The air around him had also grown thick, thicker than the harmattan. It tightened around him, made him shaky.

He looked up. He caught the view of a large cloud as it proceeded towards the sun, slowly, with no signs of pulling back. The source of the darkness hovering. He didn't like it. It scared him. The past few days had been very revealing. Darkness had looked him in the very depth of his heart. He suddenly realized how extremely weak he was, how many times it had made him lose his wits.

He wasn't ready to face it again. Not this time. He made to leave where he was. Anywhere was as good a start as any. As he tried to wade, he espied something moving in the blackening water a few yards from him. He felt it was, at first, an illusion created by his troubled mind but whatever it was proved him wrong and continued its furtive motion forward. It looked like a roughly shaped stone's surface bobbing along the surface of the water. It looked like something he'd seen before. In a dream. In his last sleep. He remembered. It floated closer. Stopped. Slowly, it drew more of itself out of the water: yellow eyes, spread apart from each other first, nose that stood further from the eyes, wet, scaly flesh, and its jaws... He could've screamed, could've cried for help. The beast pulled its jaws apart to reveal two rows of large unevenly shaped, needle-sharp teeth. Its long, straight jaws snapped at the ripples of the water as it surveyed him.

The crocodile surveyed him.

He remained where he was, transfixed, motionless. Didn't move. Not even when the stream's color completely changed black, but until he heard movements behind him. He turned weakly and gasped.

The chest was wide open.

"WHAT the...?" he croaked.

He tried bending to get a better look but then decided against that. From his point of view, it looked empty and dark, devoid of anything glittery, simply gaping jaws. And then he noticed the water too. It was as dark as grease, maybe even darker. The atmosphere was thick. The sun was more than half-blocked now. It left a dull grayish light that even failed to pass through the lower sections of the stratosphere. It scared him. Everything scared him. He turned to make a run for it but instead stumbled as he saw the croc still in front of him. It stayed there, keeping its eyes locked on him. It didn't move to strike, didn't look like it wanted to. It simply watched.

The darkness came upon him in a sudden. It was like someone had switched off the only light bulb in a haunted house. It was happening again. It was like déjà-vu, only this time it was real.

A silent whisper started to blow around him, along with the thick breeze. The hairs on his neck stiffened. It said, "Optime factum, bonus factum," repeatedly and in a transitional state. It went on for about a full minute and stopped only to be replaced by a shrill cry, so loud it penetrated his skull. He'd heard the sound before but he was too scared to think. He caught the reflection of something birdlike above and looked up to see black feathers disappear into the mist forming.

He tried to call out but something clogged his voice box and left him mouthing gasps of air. He felt vibrations coming from beneath him. The water started to excite. Bubbles floated out of it and busted. He held his head as if to keep it from breaking. His dream started to play in slow motion. He could hear the rushing sound now. It came from all around him. He had to escape. He surged forward and the crocodile instantly snapped its jaws open once more.

The stream continued to vibrate excitedly and as Roy fearfully studied it, he noticed wisps of black smoke being released. They rose slowly, joined and began to grow. The smoke grew into the size of a misshapen wrecking ball and as he watched it, it came for him. He tried to struggle but failed miserably. It was cold. It caught at his thrashing hands and forced him out of the water, up into mid-air. He was weak. Fear had drained him. He hung in the thick, cold harmattan.

"Optime factum!" the whisper came to him again. Something nudged at his belly. He felt the presence. It was a disembodied spirit. He had run out of choice. He had nothing left to do. He surrendered himself to it.

Silently, the smoke coiled around him. Twisted till it got to his face. It hovered there for a few seconds. Even as he watched it, a little wisp detached from the rest and entered his nose. He was forced to sneeze. The next instant, he felt himself taken. He was floating in somewhere like space, dark space, separated from his body. He wasn't sure where he was anymore. Well, he didn't have the luxury of caring. The black smoke entered and took possession of him. It took form, a hazy form of an old man with dark beards. His dark eyes glinted with hate and a feeling that looked like repulsion. The rest of his body was still formed of smoke. He looked upon Roy for a couple of seconds.

"Optime factum, Royston Moses. Well done. You passed."

He passed? Passed what exactly?

Before he gave himself time to think over the grim whispers, the man himself said,

"Now you have to go. There's nowhere left for you here."

He didn't argue, didn't even ask why. There was nothing left in him.

And with that, the black mist coated figure drew up his misty fingers and gave a snap. And then Roy felt himself being pulled, sucked into the deep recesses of the space he was lost in. He gave another faint attempt at a struggle but it came to naught. He felt himself being sucked in, slowly, till he completely dissipated. Out of existence.

HE opened his eyes. He was greeted by a murky, blurry vision. Something cold nudged him by his side. Slowly, silently, he drew himself out of the water. He felt new, raw, free, in complete control, and... drenched. But he'd never felt better since forever. He looked down at his skin. His skin! The body he now possessed. It felt raw too. Full of energy, and a lot of sexual desires. Roy had done a good job of keeping this body fit. It was a pity he didn't get to keep it. His greed was the thin line that sent him to the other side. Nothingness. He'd been there for such a while. He was out now.

Memory rushed in. Roy's memory merged with his. People he'd met, places he'd been to, dates, likes, dislikes, they all rushed in in reverse order, starting with the most recent to the ones meant to have faded with time. Faces swam across, in bright, dark, bright, intermittent flashes.

Whatever it was that nudged him before nudged him again. He turned to his left. A crocodile floated beside him. It looked at him eagerly, anticipating. Its mass of dark, scaly flesh stuck out above the surface of the water. He recognized it instantly.

"My baby boy," he croaked. "Zaebos, my boy. Have you missed me?" And he patted the large forehead of the big reptile. The reptile, it jiggled in excitement. Turned round about three times. It most certainly had missed its master.

"Well I have missed you," he replied. "Come, we have quite a lot to do."

Zaebos seemed to understand because it turned its massive body around invitingly. He turned away from the reptile and spotted the chest, that reliquary that had kept him locked up for a little over or about a century. He stuck his hand into it and withdrew the only other occupant from within: a gold-hilted blade that resembled a scimitar, only half-sized. It shone with reckless purity, like it had just been fashioned from the jeweled reserves of the chest. He inspected it softly before he slid it into the safety of his belt. Of Roy's belt.

He moved forward and got on the back of the waiting reptile.

"The other side of the bank," he instructed.

Zaebos got the cue and took off slowly.
Chapter Five

THROUGH the watery woods, gliding almost noiselessly through the surface of the river, the large reptile travelled, disappearing from view of the bank, passing the gloomy shade that was poor for organism survival and came once more in view of the bank. The bank wasn't empty as he'd expected it to be. Two young girls washed their feet very close to the bank. Were they going to disturb his plans? Not even slightly. However...

He knocked softly on the thick scales of his pet crocodile. Zaebos stopped and raised its head fully out of the water, expectant for an instruction.

"It'll be okay here, my lad," he said, hoisting himself off its back and into the cold water. "Try keeping a low profile. Don't kill anyone till I return. I don't want as much as a loophole in my plans."

The croc understood and it slunk into the water and swam back in the direction of the gloomy shade. He watched it go. The water remained dark, the atmosphere thick and disturbing, the sun blocked by the large cloud. He turned and began to move towards the riverbank. The water looked empty. As he moved through it, he noted the fishes were missing. The seaweeds and sea plants were rotted, some visibly rotting. He knew instantly what was going on. Big Mother Nature was trying to fight back. She was quick. She noticed instantly. Noticed he had been freed.

She was fighting for these humans, these pathetic, weak beings. Pitiful? No, he didn't think so. Their strength was just as long as the lifespan of the tip of a freshly sharpened pencil. The littlest extra effort past writing force and they break. Give them a gentle nudge and they bend. Very easily. Their souls had no will, just as long as they had flesh. It was very, very strange that The Father loved them so much. Their spirits were remarkable however, he knew. Always fighting, never absorbed. Their souls were highly corruptible, their spirits impeccant. He had had experiences.

He forced his way through the water. The two girls were out of the water now, briefly drying their legs with a cloth made into a ball. Their wet clothes pressed on their skin, curling into their shapes, provocative shapes. He felt a pump of blood there, down there. A warmth. Human flesh was weak, he knew. He had other pressing matters. However he was out now, he was free. He could still have a little bit of fun. Just a little bit.

He forded the water, feeling the belt for the gold-hilted knife. The girls had noticed him already but waited at the bank. It seemed they knew who Roy was. And Roy knew who they were.

He smiled. He forged forward. They glared at him with interest mixed with curiosity.

He studied the both of them. The one further away from him had a silk shawl worn around the sides of her face, almost concealing her ears and draped over her head. She had piety written all over her face. He believed she was the alert kind, the type that would always be on her guard. She had a wary mind, steadfast to her belief. She looked like she was likely to cause much trouble. Marie Hammings.

He looked at the other girl – Martha Shefford – and instantly saw what he was looking for... vulnerability! She was easily corruptible. She had the larger breasts of the two and they protruded towards him invitingly. Her flesh was weak. Like Roy. Exactly like Roy. She wanted something.

He looked into her eyes. The eyes were the mirrors to the soul. That was very true. He saw her corrupted soul. Dark. It was an obedient servant to her flesh. He saw her thoughts, opened her locked-up secrets. One look at her and he knew she'd been defiled over and over. Her sin was as black as death. He'd seen darker ones though. It blocked the connection between her spirit and her soul. He wondered how these two girls could be together, these two sharp contrasts.

Well...

He wove his way into Martha's soul and froze it, kept her from doing anything than stare at him. It was easy. She noticed it. She realized she'd lost her control. She had no will. Her body remained on the bank, dripping, transfixed.

Now to take care of the spare.

He felt for the blade and found it. He released it from his belt, gripped it and flaunted it. It was impossible for them to not have seen it. They flinched at its glint, at least, the likely-to-be-a-troublemaker, Marie, did openly. And she didn't take it lightly. She nudged her mesmerized friend and started to walk away but she stopped when her friend wasn't following her. She looked back. He moved forward.

"Martha," Marie called.

Martha didn't answer. She wanted to return but she kept her distance.

"Martha, are you crazy? He's got a knife."

"I... I can't..." Martha stammered.

He picked pace.

"My god! Martha!"

"Can't move..."

He shot her an evil look.

"Martha... let's get out of..." she started to say.

He flung the blade with a force that was supernatural. The blade soared for infinitesimals of seconds before, with a squelching sound, stabbing its way into the girl's neck. The purity of the blade got tested and it failed against the rivulets of blood that gushed from her neck.

She swayed backwards, eyes open in pain and shock. She moved her hands up to feel the blade in her throat like she didn't... couldn't believe it was there. Her hands fell back. Her mouth quivered. Blood and saliva poured down her lips. Blood rushed down her neck. She fell. Her body shuddered for a few seconds and then stopped. He felt her spirit make a forced exit.

Martha could only look on. She had knowledge of everything. Her body gave a faint vibration. He noticed the shock in her eyes, the disbelief. She was struggling to regain control.

He walked to her. Satisfaction filled his eyes. He stared straight into her eyes, into her soul. She was screaming for release. He smirked. He wanted to add to the fun. He decided to release a bit of her. He unfroze part of her will.

She perceived immediately too. She opened her mouth to speak but released gulps of air. Words struggled to form in her throat. She turned her neck to look at her friend and tears instantly rushed out of her face. She saw the blood that fouled her friend's neck, saw the blade stuck into her throat.

"Oh... Marie..." she whimpered and suddenly the blade wasn't in her throat anymore. She blinked and looked back at Roy, looked at him like she was only just seeing him for the first time and saw the knife in his hand, bloodstained. Her body trembled. She tried to move back but her feet were fastened to the sand. She looked at them and struggled to move them before she returned her eyes to Roy. He moved forward. His body and hers were less than an inch apart now.

"Mr. Moses," she said weakly. "Please."

He grinned.

Yes, beg for your life.

"Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?"

He didn't answer. He pulled the knife forward and pressed it against the upper part of her right hip. She shook again.

"Please."

He believed that was enough. He looked into her soul again and refroze her completely. She tried to talk but couldn't and watched in horror as he pressed the knife into the wet dress.

Instead of slicing into her flesh, he used the knife to cut through the fabric of the dress and sliced through that cut to the left hip, around to the back. He felt her butt stiffen on his hands as he sliced the dress beneath it and brought the cut back to her right hip. The lower part of the dress fell, leaving her thighs, down to her knees, naked and wet.

He pulled himself up to her again. Felt her heavy breath on his face, felt them coming in gasps. In fear? He searched her eyes. No... pleasure.

He felt her crotch for her panties. His hand went beneath the leftovers of her dress. He let his hands fondle her hips before moving to her thighs and finally between her legs. His hand came in contact with moist hairs and soft, tender flesh. Of course, she had no panties on. Typical.

Her body tensed. He looked at her face. Her eyes were closed and her eyebrows were wrung up, like she was looking up through closed eyes. The lines of her face were aglow with pleasure. Her mouth opened a crack. Nothing came out of it.

He located her lips and softly started to rub it. She moved her body in slight rhythm. Her eyes remained closed. He snickered at how weak the flesh was. This being had seen her closest acquaintance slain by him and he was certainly going to kill her too but here she was, deeply enjoying his services. He once more released her voice.

She was very wet, he noticed. She was probably longing for this even before he'd transfixed her.

He rubbed her vagina lips for a few seconds more, feeling her breath change with each rhythm. Then he moved a finger to the center of it and traced a line to her wet orifice. He pushed that finger into her vagina. Her body tensed and swayed towards him. She issued a soft moan. Her hole was really wet, very well lubricated. His finger was coated in her juices.

He felt the throbbing coming from within Roy's shorts. Roy's penis fought with the zipper of the shorts and cried for release. He pulled the zipper down and it instantly sprang out from within and pointed upwards, right-angled from his bosom and rock-hard. She was still lost in pleasure.

He pushed the finger into her again, softly rubbing the moistened walls of her vagina. He stopped and drew his finger out. He waited for her to calm and then with a forceful thrust, he pushed the three fingers after his thumb into her vagina.

With a loud moan, she arched her back. Her eyes fluttered open as if in shock and she fell into Roy. He caught her and allowed her rest on him. She gasped for air. He felt her large breasts kiss his chest, her nipple stiffen. He let his fingers service the hole, moving in and out with a rhythmic speed. After a few seconds, he removed them. They were coated in her juices. He brought them to his mouth and licked them dry.

"Please," she whispered into his ear. Her slick hair covered her face and rested on his shoulder.

He pulled his hand down her back to her butt. He held the mass of soft, round flesh, squeezed it and it tingled to his touch. He fondled it. He searched for her anus between the soft masses and found it. He pushed two fingers into it. It wasn't wet but had a nice sensation. It felt almost as good as her vagina. She enjoyed it too.

"Please," she moaned again.

"Wasn't this what you wanted? Wasn't this what you always wanted?"

"Please, fuck me," she said. Her body shook as he pushed his fingers deeper, feeling her rectum.

He pulled his fingers out and once more licked it. He pulled her wet body off his and looked into her face. Her skin had turned pink. Her breaths came in strong gasps. She returned his look. Her eyes rolled in her head. It was filled with hunger, desire, lust. He'd thought her soul was corrupted. Now he realized how wrong he was. Her soul was dead. He pushed her. She lolled backwards and fell on the sand.

He knelt and crawled to her. Her wet vagina was visible. He caught a glimpse of her moist hole almost covered by the lips. She eyed his erection. In his mind's eye, he saw her hand reaching to hold it. In reality however, she stayed limp on the sand. Clumps of sand clung to her skin and the dress. He held the blade in readiness.

Slowly, he pulled himself forward till he faced her, felt her labored breathing. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Please, fuck me," she muttered again.

Humans were pathetic. They had no will.

He pushed his fingers between her legs and rubbed her vagina lips once more. He pushed two fingers into her, heard her moan and withdrew his fingers. He used her juice to oil the hard penis. He gripped the penis and with a forceful thrust, entered her. She moaned. Her breasts jumped as her back arched.

The blade of the knife flashed and everything else happened quickly.

HE cleaned the blood off the blade with her dress. The dress itself was already heavily drenched with blood, dark-red blood. It had been torn apart from the collar down to the ragged rims. Her breasts stood out, visibly bulbous and firm and her nipples erect. Her head shook spasmodically. A badly drawn gash across her neck emitted blood that slithered down in irregular deltas to come together onto the wet sand. A longer gash extended down to her abdomen in perpendicularity to the one on her neck. It cut across her cleavage with flesh pulled widely apart to allow a streaming exit of blood. Her skin had turned pale-blue, her breathing long stopped.

He smiled. He was satisfied.

The Wages of Sin.

She had no right to die the same way the pure one, Marie, had. He stopped a stare at the two bodies he'd just had fun with. They'd both died of asphyxiation and one had gone with an extra case of light mutilation. The bodies had paled, even in the miserable lights coming from the gloomy skies. He wasn't one to feel remorse.

He looked over the stream. Zaebos was nowhere to be seen. Still, knowing the animal well, he believed it to be lurking nearby, waiting for him to leave so it could have its share of the fun. No problem; there was enough fun for all.

The sky remained dark and it bled even more darkness. The riverside grasses, shrubs, growth were all wilted. Brown leaves dropped. Weakened branches drooped.

He remembered he had a place to go, things to do. He strutted towards town, sheathing the knife within his belt.

ROY'S footsteps disappeared in the mud as he walked over it, imprinting a similar footstep over it, same length, same width, opposite direction. Time seeped but the ambiance remained the same: dark and gloomy, as best as could be described. Clouds gathered above, cumulonimbus paved with more cumulonimbus. Midday took the form of a stormy Seven-thirty p.m. He took in all the details.

The green – now dark-greenish yellow had fallen behind and given in to the appearance of ghostly wooden houses leering at him from both sides. The houses were all alike, in appearance, shape and design. The sandy yards owned by the houses were lightly gardened and whatever green there was had flagged and wilted. Women and small kids scampered about. Many of them carried worried faces, some occasionally shooting a glance at the dark sky. Their minds were openly occupied with other things and none of them took no notice of him as he strode past. None of them till...

"Oy... Moses!"

He turned. A wiry man busted out of the confines of his house and sent a questioned look at him. His hairs were dirty-brown and matted. Roy's memories processed. Sunny Mason. Acquaintance. Roy spent more fishing time with Sunny than with the others.

"You coming from the stream?" Sunny asked.

He wasn't sure he wanted to answer that, not directly anyway.

"You think?" He replied.

That'd keep him guessing.

"Yeah," Sunny said after letting some seconds pass, "this storm isn't it, is it?. Thing spoiled a good fishing morning."

"You think?" he asked again. He studied the Sunny's expression. His eyes flitted around Roy's face in a way he felt were suspecting. He broke that look and started to walk back.

"Hey, catch you around, if the storm disappoints," he muttered, briefly turning his neck back, "hope Darcy's still not being too much of a pain?"

Darcy? Oh. She surfaced in his memory. She brought the hatred. She was a worthy adversary. Something needed to be done concerning her.

"Oh no," he replied. Needed to throw the diversion away. "Recently, it feels we're beginning to gel. Weird, I know. Gotta go."

Sunny humped his shoulders, sent a queer look at Roy and turned. "Catch you later."

He continued on his way, hastening his strides. That little unimportant chitchat had taken just a little of his time. The clouds coiled over the town that was mostly half-alive. The air was devoid of the winged, the earth around of the four-footed. He passed a group of fishers tending a rather rectangular shaped net. If Zaebos wasn't finished with the bodies, and they ended up going, they were sure to get a nasty surprise. It would take them seconds to link him to the murders, probably minutes to accost him. He would be ready for them by then.

Roy's mind compassed him past several thatch-roofed, poor concrete-made houses. He trekked past an open space Roy termed the marketplace. He'd seen plenty of those in his lifetime. In time, he walked past the local parish. It was empty – the doors were closed, the window shutters were pulled down and the curtains draped. He drifted away from it quickly. He hated it. A warm presence emanated from it.

Time passed before the needle of Roy's memory pulled him into very familiar territory. He trudged down a dust-coated lane. Roy's memory led him, drew him past a short picket and into a compound devoid of all green. Dead plants littered what must have been a garden that was now a thick, smelly, humid patch of decayed herbs and flowers.

Roy's small house was just one in a bungaloid district in which all the houses bore identical resemblances to one another. It had a boring look, having no form of paint or additional architectural designs but it made up for that in sturdy foundations and watertight roofing. The shed stayed at the back of the house, he knew. That bastard, Roy, had tried to force him out of the chest moments the other time. He'd succeeded, just barely. A part of him, very minute and insignificant had possessed him then but had been killed.

Roy's memories were mixed, concerning this place. Most of them were hostile, uncongenial. Roy didn't like being here. As hospitable as the place was, a presence had been long born, one that had torn the place almost apart. This was the perfect environment for what he wanted to do.

Someone was bent over a group of wilted sunflowers a few meters from the doorway. She was concentrated on the poor things but the moment he staggered in, she looked up. Parts of her dark hair covered almost half of her face. The other half displayed a red, tear-soaked eye and a wet, beautifully tanned skin. She looked at him and in a moment, he believed he saw shock in her eyes, followed by joy. Human emotions were confusing, useless. It's why they had wills they couldn't keep in check.

"Dad! You're back!"

Even in sadness, Lucy's voice was still melodic. He'd found what he came looking for. She rose and dusted her hands on her pajamas. The pajamas were milkfish-white, blue polka-dotted and made of fine silk. They were wrapped around a beautiful slender body built on magnificent hips that swayed to wowing precision every time she moved. Every graceful step filled him with desire.

Before he could successfully draw himself out of his fascination, she was suddenly beside him, inspecting him.

"Are you okay, dad? Where did you go? I was... we were worried. We weren't sure you were coming back, especially after what happened."

She searched his eyes frantically for an answer. He searched hers. He saw what was inside her. Pureness. Complete pureness. She was nothing like the two he'd slain on the beach. That was why she was chosen.

He pushed Roy's memories aside. He had the littlest need for them now. Her questions echoed in his thought. He believed he could handle them cleverly.

"I had to get rid of something." Something that was the soul of the vessel he now possessed.

"The chest?" She batted another question, almost like she'd prepared it earlier.

He looked at her. He preferred to keep mum.

"Because mum kept talking about it. She said it contained evil... was wondering where you got it from and if you'd opened it." She paused.

All this talk was burning more of his time.

"And she's...?" he asked impatiently.

"Praying," Lucy replied. "She was worried by the weather. It feels weird, I mean," and she drew his attention to the clustered mess of decayed/decaying plants, "none of these look normal. Weird beyond weird." Her face dropped sadly. He knew, Roy knew, she was fond of her gardening.

He walked away from her and entered the house. Darcy was a threat he had to silence first. Roy knew how troublesome she could be.

"What're we going to do?" she said.

"What?" he said, turning and noticing her again. She was turned to the dead masses. He understood.

"Oh that," he said with strongly pretended interest. "Why don't you go in and get into something more comfy and then we'll see what we can do about it."

That cheered her up, a bit. She took hopeful bounds and disappeared into the house. He watched her disappear. Everything was falling in place.

HE entered the house. Roy's living room didn't look the slightest bit of exciting. He had been in throne rooms, castles, temples, even the dungeons were more fascinating. However, the light bulb hanging from the ceiling proved to be interesting. Just as the outside was, the inside walls were also devoid of paint. The house was bounded by thick, dull-gray, concrete walls.

The living room didn't have much furniture to boast of also. Whatever it had consisted of four chairs, a round, wooden table and a rocking chair at a corner eleven o' clock from the doorway. A ball of string was coiled beside its left, front leg. Darcy was a knitter. Roy's memory told him that. About fifteen strides forward, a four-step stairway opened up into the dining and the kitchen and then a back door that led to the backyard, to the shed. The perfect place to arrange everything. Adjacent the entrance to the stairway was another doorway he knew led to the rooms.

Footfalls were coming from the dining, as well as inaudible mutterings. He trudged up the stairs and entered. And almost bumped into Darcy. She pulled back, more in shock than in fear. She looked at him, disbelieved. She tried to say something and failed. He decided to help her out.

"It's just me," he whispered. Yeah, it's me, again.

She simply stared at him, still not wanting to believe it but knew he was there and slowly began to calm. When she came to herself, she drew her eyes away from him, like she was frightened and repulsed at being frightened.

"Yeah," he continued, "I didn't believe I would come back too." He didn't. Luckily, Roy wasn't any bright, didn't learn his lesson and wasn't coming back. But he did.

"You got rid of the box?" she questioned. Her confidence developed but her eyes were still miles away from his. She was staring at the table. At that particular place Scamps lost its head.

He nodded. "It's over now." He followed that with a solemn look. Not like it mattered when she was faced away.

Darcy gave a low humph and without looking at him, turned towards the back door. It was slightly ajar. He seized his chance. He hooked his fists into a taut ball and slammed it forcefully into the back of her head. She fell without as much as a whimper. Her body thudded as it landed.

He glared at her limp body. If she had only but looked at him, he would've put her to easy sleep. The thought of killing her was imprinted strongly on his mind but he instead smiled. He had other plans. One that would make the bitch wish she was never alive. Footsteps echoed from one of the rooms. He bent and grabbed hold of one of Darcy's legs and with it dragged the whole of her out of the house through the back door and into the dull-gray backyard.

Still keeping hold of Darcy's leg, he beheld the wraithlike figure of the shed standing solitarily against a backdrop of what felt like nullity, facing the house. He remembered being forced out by that jerk Roy.

It was a simple technique, really.

A rusty wheelbarrow was turned over at its extreme left and apart from that there was nothing more to be seen, save a jar of blood-red paint and a dripping brush beside the doorframe's right hand. His eyes were instantly drawn to the door of the shed. And there he saw something he didn't see before.

Depicted upon the left and right doorsills were crosses, crosses painted in red, the one on the left a bit lower than the one on the right. He knew instantly why and who had drawn them there. It turned out Darcy was an admirable foe. She had taken precautions to ward his likes off. She thought, unlike Roy. She prepared. He looked at the base of the door. A thick line of salt had been spread across the sandy entrance.

He let go of Darcy's leg and moseyed to the shed's door. He placed a finger on the cross drawn of the left sill and withdrew it alarmingly. The depiction burned him. It was strangely hot. Fiery hot. He watched as coils of smoke slithered from his finger. A black scorch mark appeared on the finger's tip. He took his eyes from the crosses and thought of pulling his hands down to open the door but stopped and figured the metal handle would be burning as well. He had to get rid of the impedimentas if it meant getting inside.

He looked down. The slick hairs of the brush were coated in red. The brush rested atop the half-opened, half-filled, transparent jar of red paint. He bent, picked, dipped and plucked the brush out of the jar. A string of red paint fell back into it.

He connected the brush with the top of the cross and extended the painting upwards. When he was done, it looked like the cross had been painted upside-down. He carefully poked the new image and withdrew his finger. It wasn't hot anymore. In fact, it was the exact opposite of what it had been. He did the same thing to the other cross. Finally, he used the brush to clear the salt from the entrance. Lumps of red salt formed on either sides of the doorway.

He turned the rusty doorknob and pushed the door open. Darkness flitted within the shed. In the midst of the dark he saw the wooden desk that Roy had kept his prison on while trying to force him out. The polythene sack containing the equipments Roy had used, thought of using, stayed beneath the desk. Packs of straw were scattered on the floor. Apart from that, the shed was more than he could've asked for.

He returned outside, picked Darcy's leg once more and hauled her through the sand into the shed, dumping her in one of the dark corners, away from the door. Now Lucy was left. This had turned easier than he'd expected. He walked out of the shed. And saw Lucy standing outside the kitchen, staring at him.
Chapter Six

CRIES rented the air. An old woman was wrapped in the gritty dirt of the bank, splayed on the sand, her face buried in it and her body shivering. Two much younger women with smashed expressions stood beside her. Their heads were hung low, almost touching their cleavages. Tears dropped to the ground. Up front stood a crowd of men. Most of them shook their heads sadly, others just hunched their shoulders, in irritation. One thing was sure though: their attentions were fixed upon a particular spot.

With solemn steps, Matthias Williams ambled past the women and into the midst of the men, briefly casting suspicious glances at the rot that surrounded him.

"Sorry... coming through," he muttered.

They parted to allow him passage, partly because he spoke like a superior and partly because he was dressed in the vestments of the local clergy. With dark-blue (a shade closer to black), white-collared, long-sleeved shirt tucked into black, satin trousers over a pair of sandals, he pushed himself forward to familiarize himself with the sight.

It was gory. One and a half bodies, female and bloody messed up the bank. A man was hugging one of the dead, her head pressed to his chest. His face bled tears that wetted the dead girl's dirty hairs. Her neck was coated with dried blood. A hole gaped at the stinging weather from the neck. The color of her skin had faded. Her mouth hung slightly open like she'd tried to scream and failed halfway. The other body was half drowned in the tide. Two men stood over her body, looking far above the water. This body in particular drew Matthias' attention.

The body lied upon a rough depression in the sand. Her skin was pearly white and wet. Her neck, down to her abdomen had been split open. Blood hung from naked skin and dress in flakes. And there, beneath the hips, were disgusting stumps of thighs. The lower sections of her legs were missing, leaving a bloody mess of rumpled muscles that stuck out from the pale, outer skin. Someone had done a seriously bad job of chopping off her legs. Her eyes stuck out from her face, like she'd been in a shock when she died.

He walked to the body. The two men turned and noticed him. One of them shot him a red eye as he neared. He was unnerved. The man's face was tan and sallow and his hair seemed to be running away from his front of his head. His eyes reflected sorrow, pain. He wore a thin T-Shirt. The other one carried particularly no expression, except a measure of interest directed at everything around him. He was on a dirty undershirt and torn jeans. Matt got to the body and stooped to closely inspect it.

"And who're you s'pposed to be?" the man with the red eye spat. His voice was clogged with air that forced itself out.

He faced him, relaxing his expression from curiosity to innocence.

"Oh, sorry, um, I was directed here," Matthias answered. He returned to the body and after a few seconds looked back. "I'm Father Matthias Williams."

The both of them looked like they were sampling the name, trying to figure if they'd come across it or him before. They also tried to figure if anyone as young looking as him could own such title. Matthias wore a clean shaven face and a full head of smooth black hair. His skin was soft and glossy and rich orange. His voice sounded with a degree of confidence, his eyes twinkled in alertness. All in all, he looked late twentyish.

"Never seen you before," the same man said. "Are you sent from the church?"

"See, here," he muttered, pointing to several deep pinholes around the bases of the crushed thighs, ignoring the man's question altogether, "looks like irregular teeth bites."

They didn't look particularly surprised.

"She was dragged... from yonder," the other man said, beckoning to the spot where the other dead girl was. "Fisher," he added.

Matt smiled a weak smile at Fisher. At least someone had courtesy. Fisher looked like he contained so many details so Matt directed his next question at him.

"When were the bodies found?"

"I think nine," Fisher answered. "But they'd probably died an hour before then."

Matt gave Fisher an 'I-see' look and turned to the other man. He hadn't minded them. He kept looking at the girl's body, face betraying his regrets.

"This is Pa Shefford," Fisher said, nudging his partner, "Martha's father," and he beckoned to the body on the ground.

Matt felt pity for the man.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he muttered.

Shefford responded with a sigh. "I don't know where I failed."

More men joined the fray. Questions silently broke out. Whispers roared.

"She was a wild one, my girl," Shefford continued, "just like her mum. I was afraid she was going to get herself killed." He glanced at the body. "Turned out I was right. I'm very sad I had to push Hammings' daughter into all this too."

Matt went to Shefford and patted him on the shoulder and said, "You shouldn't blame yourself," and turning to Fisher asked, "Has the news been carried to the sheriff?"

Fisher nodded. "They say she's on the way."

Matt turned from the body and Shefford and stopped his eyes over the water. It was calm. Nothing moved around it. It looked dead. Dead and black. He noticed the drying seaweeds floating on the surface of the river. The clouds cut a forlorn figure of the sun. It sent shady streams of light down. He knew his coming here had not been a mistake. The omens had been quite easy to follow. And then there were his dreams too. Something evil had been released on this land. Something terrifying. It left death in its wake.

His eyes roamed the river again, searching for something, carefully. He spotted the trees afar. Something wasn't right. He could sense it. He turned back to Fisher.

"Have there been any reports of, say, crocodiles, maybe more recently?"

Fisher shook his head. "Nothing of the sort," he replied. "This place has been calm since forever, years before I moved here."

Matt turned to the river. A feeling, felt like dread, tugged at his mind. Something was there. He was cognitively certain.

"I'll need a boat or a raft, something to stay above the water with, and a gun."

"Why?" Fisher asked. "I mean, really, we should leave this to the Sheriff."

"I doubt he'll have any idea of what's really going on."

"And what d'you think is really going on?" Fisher whispered, his voice wanting. "I know it's weird the way the girls died but..."

He stopped when he noticed Matt was ignoring him. He sighed.

"Well, I've got a rifle... and I know where we can find a small canoe," Fisher said.

"Good," Matt muttered. "We're going hunting."

"SOMETHING wrong, sweetheart?" he said, carefully shutting the door behind him.

Lucy was dressed in a pink T-shirt and black, knee-long shorts. She eyed him for a few seconds before turning back to the house.

"I can't find mum anywhere," she replied. "You don't happen to know where she is, do you?"

He didn't answer. He walked up to her and laid his arm across her shoulders. She flinched, realizing he was there then relaxed.

"It's okay," he assured. "It's going to be okay."

He studied her face. it was contorted in worry. Thoughts raced through her mind. Finally she spoke.

"It's just that things haven't been the same around here these past few days. If anything, worse," she said gloomily.

He did not respond.

"With you, mum, the quarrels, the fights, and..." she started to sob and pushed her head to rest on his shoulder. She was gracious, tender, soft but those were just her emotional strengths. Somehow she was strong enough, he believed. He knew he had to take her now, before she became difficult.

"What's that?"

She stared over his shoulder at the door of the shed. She'd noticed the distorted image of the cross. She pulled herself from him and took a daunting step toward the shed.

"What do you mean?" he asked pretentiously.

"Someone disfigured my cross," she declared and turned to face him. "I had it drawn there as a precaution." She turned back to the shed. "My salt's gone too."

"And all the while I believed it was that bitch," he said, before he realized he'd spoken too soon.

She glared at him unbelievably, her eyes opened in the shock of a sickening discovery.

"My God," she cried. "Who... what the hell are you? Mum!!"

She turned and made for the shed. In her despair, he knew he'd lingered too long, too incautiously. He acted.

Before she got to the door of the shed, he suddenly appeared beside her. He clasped his hand tightly around her chest and stomach. She struggled, tried to writhe from his grasp but he held.

"Gentle now, sweetheart," he whispered with a pacifying voice. "You don't want to wake mama, do you?"

That was exactly what she wanted, if only she knew where mama was. She tried to resist his voice. It slowly slithered into her head. She relaxed. There were little chances of her breaking free. She turned her head up to look at him.

"Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?"

The latter question brought an excitement of déjà-vu to him. Roy. Martha. And a few hundred souls before them.

He stared into her eyes. The pureness he saw within excited him. It scared him too.

"It's time to sleep, child," he whispered once more. "Drown your fears."

Her eyes began to grow heavy. Questions she meant to ask got stuck in her throat. She had not the strength to ask them, or even the strength to do anything otherwise. She was tired. Her eyes closed. He hoisted her into his arms. Hers sank beneath her, seemingly lifeless. He smiled as he studied her cute face.

Everything was in place now.

"WHAT exactly are we looking for?" Fisher asked as he aimed his rifle at nothing in particular. It was a dull-colored Carbine with a pretty long barrel. He set it back on the floor of the canoe, seemingly satisfied with it.

A man had joined him and Matt Williams aboard the small wooden boat. He sported a I-don't-really-care expression on a long, dark face. He was bare-chested and had dull-brown khaki shorts on. Fisher called him Marcus. He'd obliged to be their canoeist just so he could get away from the wailing lot and the grisly sight on the bank. He stood and paddled with a long oar.

They sailed smoothly over the river, running away from the bank where they'd left the bodies of the girls. More people had joined. A lot of them were in tears, others in shock. There was no sign of the sheriff yet or any other officer for that matter

Matt allowed his eyes to roam the waters.

"I'll know once I see it," he replied.

Fisher drew a frustrated breath. "So we... you don't even know what we... you're looking for?" he said. "Why are we out here then?"

"Follow that way," Matt instructed Marcus. He pointed at a narrow watercourse lined with clumps of dead seaweed floating close together. He ignored Fisher at first.

The water was gloomy, Matt noticed. However, very much everything in this place was covered in gloom. It was only a sign. He could barely see anything beneath the water. He had the feeling something foul had tainted it. He felt it strong. He believed whatever had killed those two girls had emanated from this river. If he could simply find its source, or find it if it was still here.

To be sure, however, he reached into the pockets of his trousers and withdrew a small plastic bottle filled with crystal-clear water. It's color, if anyone were to claim it had, was an absolute opposite of the one they were paddling across.

He placed his hand on the green cover and said a silent prayer. Fisher, even Marcus, watched him silently. Finally, he opened the bottle and tipped a little of the water out of the bottle into the dark water of the river. No sooner had the pure, transparent drops touched the surface than the river billowed up a reaction of white smokes. Like a very minute geyser, the smoke, in a loud hiss, sprang out of the water forcefully, setting ripples that unsettled the water briefly.

It unsettled the occupants of the canoe as well, except for Matt. If anything, he was extremely satisfied. He had not strayed yet. He covered the bottle but did not return it to his pocket.

He noticed Fisher and Marcus staring at him.

"Holy Water," he muttered, turning the liquid contents of the bottle around softly. "It boils when in contact with a spiritual entity. There's something in here," he said to a wide-eyed Fisher, "and I get the strong impression it's demonic."

FISHER didn't ask him any other questions after then. Matt gave the directions to Marcus who followed them promptly. At several intervals, he poured some more of the Holy Water into the river and it achieved the same results. It however rose in vigor as they followed upstream. In time, they disappeared from the view of the bank altogether.

Soon, even Fisher began to feel a presence, though he ascribed the feeling to the thickness of the stale atmosphere. Most of the time, he sent glances around them, praying against the worst but keeping his senses peeled anyway for it. It was an uncanny feeling. It constantly tugged at his seeming intrepidity and tore it down by chunks. Remembering the two dead girls by the bank injected a gush of chills down his spine. He'd followed the priest guy out here onto waters that instead of being very familiar, resembled something he'd never waded across in his life or even give a thought of stepping into. The water's blackness and deadness appalled him. Wasn't this the water he'd angled on for the fun of it a fortnight ago? That water was rich, abundant. This one...

"Hey, did anyone hear that?" Marcus's voice broke through the stillness amongst them. It was the first time he'd spoken and for that reason his voice was something new, not new to be exciting but enough to draw their individual interest. He cocked his head forward, listening for what he claimed he'd heard.

Matt gave a slight nod. Fisher looked confused at first, but soon, he heard it too. A faint whisper, severely dulled by the stillness of the air echoed incessantly. It spoke in a tongue he didn't understand, short, wispy and kept repeating what it said, which they all noticed.

"What's it saying?" Marcus asked. It was clear he didn't understand as well.

"It's Latin," Matt muttered. "Optime factum... That means 'well done'. It keeps repeating that." He looked at their faces and saw puzzlement, of the worst form. They looked at him like he was talking to himself and they were trying to figure out why.

"We're probably getting close." He declared.

After Matt said that, it felt like everything around them was trying to suck them in; the air, the water, even the boat. Marcus reduced the degree of strokes he afforded to the oars which weren't much before. The canoe bobbed through the water at its utmost slowness. Every eerie sound they heard was magnified a hundred times it exploded in their brains.

After some time, the canoe began to have grave difficulty in moving forward. The water here was swampy and coated with grasses. Already, Marcus was expressing sighs of discouragement. His oars were finding liquid ground. Matt however didn't look like he was ready to call off the search. He kept scanning the place with his eyes.

Fisher also noticed the dirty thickness of the stream. He relaxed. It meant no going forward and that was good enough for him. This was as far as he wanted to get with the boat. Matt however showed no signs of informing Marcus to stop. He kept his grim stare, letting his eyes search the heavily algae-blotched river. Marcus stopped rowing, allowing the boat float by itself quite unsteadily over the diseased waters.

Matt took littlest notice. His eyes poured stealthily from one end to another, eagerly, quite anxiously searching for a sign. He was sure something was here, or should be and wasn't ready to be disturbed until Fisher's alarm pulled him from his search.

Fisher had seen something. He was pointing to a distant part of the river that was less coated with the dead plants.

"I swear I saw something in there," he muttered, his gaze more or less splitting apart the waters. Ripples crawled towards them, a sign that something had moved beneath and before them. Nothing was to be seen above the surface however. They stared, half-expectant, half-hoping it was simply a matter of a large, submerged branch of one of the seaweeds already clustered about. After thirty seconds, Matt and Marcus were forced to betray their expectations and studied their immediate surrounds before Fisher shouted once more, this time louder than the last.

"There!"

And he was right this time. A dark mass had appeared. Ripples traversed through it. It stuck out at first like a weightless substance, just as much as the dead plants, until it surged forward with a certain degree of voluminosity that told on them. It was alive. Most of it was submerged. But still they had vague idea of what it was. It looked like a very long and fat strip of drenched driftwood, only with fullness, more thickness.

"What is it?" Marcus asked but noticed the clergyman staring away at a thick patch of drooped, slender stems away to his left.

Fisher kept his eyes locked on the creature, assuming mesmerism by its bizarre appearance. A croak issued from his lips. He returned to himself nonetheless at the sound of Marcus cocking the rifle. And they both noticed the boat became lighter than before. Matt had stumbled out of the boat and was heading towards the patch he'd been looking at, wading forward with a certain degree of excitement and difficulty.

They both didn't believe the man at first.

"What... he crazy?" Fisher asked, looking at Marcus who was himself flummoxed. "Hey, you crazy?" he shouted at Matt's back.

"It's seen him," Marcus announced. They looked to see the heavy mass drift forward. It corrupted the river with thick, slow moving ripples and pushed heavily soaked clumps of weed that stayed in its path below the surface. It had changed its course from towards the boat to towards Matt.

The clergyman purposely decided not to take notice. Whatever he'd seen beyond those patches, he regarded with greater importance than what was coming for him.

"Matt! Hey, Father or..." Fisher shouted.

Matt stopped reluctantly and turned to fully analyze the extent of the situation he was caught in. The dark-brown mass stopped too. The distance between himself and it was considerably safe. He was in no immediate danger and he wasn't ready to forgo his quest on account of the questionable strip. He was suspicious of what it was but Fisher, back on the bank, had told him otherwise. More to the point, about the same time they'd spotted the floating, irregularly shaped mass while on the boat, a glint from the patch that was now his prime target had stung his attention. He'd noticed something hidden behind the wet reeds and had made for it.

Now he forced a halt out of himself and reckoned his level of safety. As he considered the living, locomotive mass, he bore the grim feeling out of nothing extraordinary that it was trying to keep him from pushing forward, or monitoring him closely, the latter reason more than three-quarter percent proven right. He hurriedly discarded the feeling and took a wade to attend to his quest, simply to find that the thing moved too, simultaneously as he. He declared himself right and unsafe. He remembered Fisher's rifle. Now was a good time to put it to use.

He turned his face over his shoulder to see the two of them, Fisher and Marcus, casting nervous glances at him and at the creature. Marcus kept the rifle aimed at the mass.

"Good," he said, quite alertly, "keep it in your crosshairs. If it gets too close you know what to do, don't you?"

Marcus nodded. Fisher still looked agitated.

Assured Marcus was very well on guard, Matt continued to the reeds, slightly ignoring the mass. It however did not ignore him. Silently, stealthily, it crept forward. It took him a few effortful lunges forward to get to the outer boundary of plants. He easily pulled the long branches far apart, almost letting their entire length drown in the water and his eyes fell on the chest.

It was as grim as its surrounding was. It was wide open too and contained emptiness. Its weight was doing a swell job at pushing it below the surface. Had it been noticed far later, it would completely have disappeared, swallowed by the dead water, probably never to be seen again or at most, for a long, long time. Its jewels, the many of them, blinked with dull grace. One of those blinks was what had caught his eyes from the boat. He was glad he hadn't missed it. He with two hands raised it fully out of the water and inspected it. And his fingers ran over the Latin words inscribed on it:

Teloque animus praestantior omni

He read the words in his mind over again and instantly realized what it meant and what the chest was supposed to keep. A powerful sealing spell had been placed on the chest, which meant whatever had been sealed inside was on a high level of evil. The bodies of the girls flashed across his mind surreptitiously. This was what was responsible for the murders.

He glared around. Nothing was in sight that wasn't unexpected. Now he understood why the sun was darkened, why the deadness around him was grave. The demon, because he was now entirely certain that it was, that had been released from this chest was a highly feared demon, one that called for an intervention from the forces of nature. It would've taken a measure of the beast's personal nature to have unlocked and released it and then probably the recital of the spell.

Having the knowledge that it was a demon, he believed whoever had released it had been automatically possessed. That person was now the demon's vessel. It could be anybody. It could've been someone he'd passed on the way to the bank. It wasn't those two on the boat though. They looked lethargic enough.

He plucked the chest out of the water. It was almost weightless, probably as dense as Balsa. It had no handles but that didn't give him a problem lifting it. He knew the only way to keep the monster from further rampaging was to first find its vessel, like that was easy, exorcise whoever it was and trap the demon in the place that had once held it.

As he picked it up, he momentarily flinched as a shadow ran past him over the water. A raucous squawk filled the air. He looked up and caught a brief glimpse of a black bird. It resembled a crow. The instant he saw its outline, it disappeared into the rolling clouds.

He was brought to by a similar high-pitched note, only this time human, followed solidly behind by a gunshot. He turned around sharply. And found the large mass right in front of him, only inches away. He stumbled backwards against the reeds. Now that it was close, it was definitely scary. Staring at thick lines of wet scales, he knew what it was. And the others knew too.

"It's a crocodile!" Fisher shouted. He was right

He meant to turn at Fisher and say "Thanks. That was extremely encouraging" but he flashed a scowl instead. He shifted to the right, freeing himself of the tight corner he'd placed himself in.

The reptile was still half immersed. On its left side, blood oozed, turning the blackened water into a deep shade of red. It stayed still, so still that Matt believed it was dead. He turned and made for the boat and saw Fisher yell.

"Behind you!"

He swirled and saw the animal making for him. Glum, yellow eyes flared. It revealed more of itself. This thing was monstrous. The huge body that was hidden beneath revealed itself. Large, puffy flesh, designated by thick scales pumped out of the river. Another gunshot rang. The water spurted upwards as if in panic. The crocodile swayed backwards. Its yellow eyes disappeared beneath the surface once more. More blood flowed. This time it came from beneath the surface to clog the top.

Matt waded backwards, keeping the crocodile in his line of sight. He knew he had to be mindful now. He clung to the chest tightly like it could conciliate his fear.

"Is it dead already?" He heard Marcus ask, not sure that it was to him or to Fisher.

Fisher fired home an answer first. "Not sure."

Matt stopped when he found himself out of close attacking range. He sighed. For the first time he noticed the goose pimples that had broken out on his skin. He looked up. The bird he'd seen previously did not reappear.

A long piece of cane (he almost thought it was a water-snake) was floating past him. He picked it up, holding the chest under his left arm, to his ribs. The cane was flexible and about a foot long. Just perfect.

He moved forward a bit, towards the near sunken beast, armed only with the cane. The water around the beast was fast becoming bloodied. He still had to be sure that it was dead. The way the thing had come for him before, that moment would go down as the hairiest moment of his life. His skin was still white with the fear, blood drained from his face.

"What the hell are you doing, Matt?" Fisher said, noticing. His voice was on edge.

Matt heard Marcus reloading cartridges into the rifle. Yes, what the hell are you doing, Matt, he wondered.

He stretched the cane in front of him till it was nearly poking the beast. It had not moved yet.

"I simply want to be..."

And without warning, the beast jumped out of the water. With a suddenness for which Matt was unprepared, it snapped the cane out of his hand. It displayed a mouth wide enough it could've swallowed the part of Matt standing above the surface of the water whole, a mouth that was puffy flesh mashed with puffy flesh and had irregular, sharp teeth disorganized in its horrible orifice. Blood was on those teeth and a piece of stained fabric, Matt found.

In his fear he stood watching, waiting for death to come with a quick chomp.

But the crack of a gunshot reverberated instead. He watched as the beast instantly shut its mouth just as fast as it had opened it. It made a pained sound, barely audible and retreated. And Matt made no mistake this time about staying. Pushing as fast as he could through the water, he made for the boat.

Marcus fired at the beast again. He stopped, reloaded, and pulled two rounds more into the crocodile. The sound of gunshots vibrated in the thick misty weather. Then he stopped to help Matt into the boat.

Matt hauled the chest first into the boat, then with Marcus and Fisher on both sides of his arm, helped himself onto as well. And he immediately sank on his back, breathing out heavily, eyes closed, praying silently. Minutes later, during which the two had simply stared at him dumbstruck, he arose and looked over the side and saw the crocodile, floating with the direction of the river, completely motionless. Blood trailed from spots on its body, forming large puddles on the water.

"Is it finally..." Matt muttered.

Marcus nodded weakly.

Fisher spoke. "When it opened its mouth I swear I saw a little bit of cloth dangling from its teeth. Unless I'm wrong, which I was anyway since the beginning, we have found our killer."

Marcus agreed with another weak nod. Matt was thoughtful. When he finally spoke, it was with more composure than was previously present on the boat.

"That was not the killer," he muttered. "It was the 'finisher'."

This news pushed them into a new line of confusion. What was the 'killer?' What was the 'finisher'? What was the priest talking about?

Matt seemed to know their thoughts.

"Remember the girls?" He referenced and in a voice that smelled of logic said, "they had both died long before the 'finisher' came for them."

Fisher clicked his fingers in sudden comprehension. "That could be right!"

Marcus didn't understand. Fisher explained further.

"The girls had deep throat punctures; Martha herself had an even wider gash than Marie. The faint bluish-white skin... they'd died from lack of energy to take in air."

"Precisely," Matt answered. Blood was beginning to return to his face. "A crocodile does not asphyxiate its victim before making its kill. Someone had done that. The crocodile was there to enjoy the spoils."

The question of who surfaced but none of them was in the presence of mind to ask. Presently, Matt told Marcus it was time they returned. Marcus was only too glad to compel. The memory was going to last in his head.

Glaring at the chest, Matt had the distinct feeling he got what he was here for. An answer. And a heading. He checked his pocket and removed a pocket book with the largeness of a miniaturized bible. It bore an imprinted white cross on its cover. He flipped through the first few pages and stopped. He gazed at the chest briefly then back to the book.
Chapter Seven

FISHER was only very glad when he caught the view of the bank again. They arrived faster than they'd left. Already, the bank was heavily depopulated. Very few persons remained and just two of them were regular townsfolk. The others wore brown uniforms that reminded him of the cops. They had finally arrived. There were six of them. All of them were men, save one; a woman, short but sturdy and clearly gimlet-eyed spotted them as they approached. She was standing akimbo just outside the water, with an expression like she'd been waiting for them since last week. A fedora as light-brown as her uniform rested on her head birthing a shadow that covered half her face.

The two bodies, still on the bank, were wrapped in white sheets and were lying side by side, watched by two male cops, one rather on the large side, the other a contrasted lanky. They kept converse with the two townsfolk. Another pair were helping themselves to a nearly finished barricade, a white material that steadied no less than five short and thin poles. The last one was standing away from the scene, outside the barricade, talking over a cellphone.

Marcus let go of the paddle as the boat approached land and got off, followed by Matt. Fisher got off last, drawing the wooden boat behind him till its fore rested on the sand.

"Chief Hawthorn..." Fisher muttered as Marcus was about to walk past her. She held and pulled him back without laying her eyes on him.

"Fisher," she more or less whispered, studying Fisher and then looking suspiciously at Matthias. "I was told you had..." and she nodded towards the direction they'd appeared.

Fisher nodded. Matt could see there was some sort of relationship between them; however, it was purely work-related. Sheriff Sarah Hawthorn was imprinted on a yellowish-brown, oval badge on her breast pocket. She looked at Fisher through creased, excited eyes, like she was expecting a very interesting and helpful piece of information.

"You won't believe what we found," Fisher answered her, his voice rising excitedly. She grabbed his arm and pulled him and herself out of earshot of Marcus and Matt.

Matt watched them go. Obviously she had serious trust issues, which he believed was unnecessary in their case. Marcus grew impatient of waiting around. His eyes darted from one policeman to the other.

Few minutes later, during which Matt noticed that as Fisher was explaining, he and her kept sending sidelong glances at him, they returned. Fisher tagged along, right behind her.

There was a few seconds silence after which she said, "I'm Sarah Hawthorn, Sheriff of this county."

"I'm Matthias Williams, from the cathedral at Wyoming," Matt answered.

"So Fisher here says you instigated it all," she said, sending an eye across the river.

He followed her eye. "Yes..." he wanted to add 'child' but she had the sort of look that he felt she wasn't going to take it nicely. Simple and short was enough.

"Well, in my line of duty, we don't go chasing after ghost stories, UFOs and stuff. Unless you have a serious reason it's what Fisher says you call it, we'll have to take this case my way," she said, with a certain degree of authority.

"I'm very certain," he held the chest to himself. "All we need now is..."

"Hey, chief," one of the officers talking to the townsfolk, the lanky one, called.

"Come with me," she told them. They crossed the border into the barricade and joined them. The officer on the phone had stopped talking into the phone and was also walking towards them.

"What have you found, Jim?" Sarah asked.

Jimmy Brenford wore an auburn hair with center parting atop an oily flesh. He stood taller than everyone else, just not tall enough for them to bend their necks back to look at. His nose stuck out of his long face. The other officer, Kirk Callaghan, also had an identical hat to the one Sarah wore. Why they wore the hats, Matt had no idea. He had fat cheeks and a large mustache over a curved chin. Everything else about him seemed okay, save his sallow skin and his protruding belly. One look from him to the sheriff told Matt he had a certain dislike – was it disapproval – for her.

"This man," Jim answered, "says his name's Sunny Mason... says he saw, even spoke to a partner who he believed was returning from here quite early this morning." He turned to the lean, sinewy man with brown hair. "What did you say his name's again?"

"Roy," Sunny answered. "Royston Moses. I asked him if he was coming from the river. He didn't answer directly, just asked me some lame question right back. He seemed kinda strange."

"That'll be him," Matt muttered. "Can you take us to where he lives?"

Sunny nodded. "Sure."

"Ok, then," Sarah said. "You'll come with me then, Mason, and you Jim and... father. Um... Fisher and..." she turned to Marcus with an expression of thought.

"'Marcus'," Marcus helped.

"Yeah... thanks for your help. I'll leave you now. The rest of you – Kirk, Jones, you two, keep the place in lockdown till I return. And um, search for more evidences if you can."

Kirk snorted.

With that, she led the way out. Matt gave a brief handshake to Fisher and Marcus and for no particular reason, to Kirk.

THE dull glow of the lantern oscillated around the shed, moving in the direction he pointed it to. It filled the shed with motile shadows. From the corner of his eyes, he thought he saw the figure he'd bound, hands and legs by ropes to poles shake. He flashed the lantern in her direction. The dull flames reflected on her. Darcy.

She was stark naked. Several cuts had been inflicted on her. Her head was bowed to meet her chest, her straggled hair rushed down to meet her sagged breasts. Her hands were tied above her head and the short hairs of her armpit stuck out. Her skin was dead white, even in the redness of the lantern's light and the blood that had poured from the cuts. Beneath her abdomen, an incision had been made, which still dripped blood that traced a line down to her pubis.

He'd exercised the incision himself. Through it, he obtained blood from her womb. It was going to make the procedure faster. With the blood he'd drawn on the floor the arcane symbol he was presently inspecting.

The symbol consisted of a large circle and another smaller circle within the large one. Several symbols were woven into the space between the two circles. A triangle was also drawn into the smaller circle. It had three circles placed at its three edges. The circles had three symbols, one apiece that resembled the ones drawn before the outer circle.

He studied every delicate curve, every sharp point, every symbol he'd made on the floor. He rubbed the symbol with a finger. It had dried. Satisfied he'd made no error in that aspect of the ritual, he turned the lantern's weak beam to the other body lying on the hay beside the desk. Lucy. She was also naked but her body reflected an even richer glow than the lantern provided. Her eyes were closed in sleep. Her breasts were firm, round and jutted out of her chest. He trudged to her, bent and hoisted her in his arms and gently took her over the circle and dropped her on the center. Her head shook. She mumbled something in her sleep.

She looked beautiful in her sleep.

As he gazed upon her face, a stinging sensation burned him. It came on him so suddenly that it was a great deal of effort that kept him from falling over. The pain was excruciating. It lasted awhile. He'd experienced the pain just one other time; when Roy had forced a part of him out. That part of him receded, diminished. He felt it leaving him then. It was agonizing. It happened again.

He thought of how it'd happened and remembered Zaebos. Zaebos! Zaebos was gone. How? They'd killed his escort. Who? He was filled with rage, rage tempered with fear. A foreboding filled him. Something was coming. Curse those girls! He cried in his mind. May their souls burn forever in purgatory! May their spirits never find peace! May their bodies rot and smell till the earth and its microbes despise them!

But he knew his time was short. After this procedure, he believed he would still have a little energy left to face his foe, whoever it was.

"Bas...tard!"

He swirled.

The weak voice floated from Darcy's mouth, more or less a glum whisper. He saw her head rise weakly; her eyes faint blue and ajar.

"Whatever... you are, you... are... not long... for... this world," she threatened, releasing a long strand of saliva out of her lips. "I... will..." and she gave a failed tug at her leash.

He didn't respond to her. He didn't have that time. All was set. He looked back at Lucy's naked body. A warmth occupied the empty space he'd felt. She still slept.

He pulled the shorts down and stepped out of it. Roy's penis was beginning to rise and harden with the warmth. He read into Roy's darkest thoughts. In the abyss of his soul, Roy had always wanted to do this. Even if it's once. The boundary had kept him away however. That and Darcy.

He stroked it for a few seconds. Then he crouched and crawled over to Lucy. Her legs were spread apart. He saw her beautiful private, hidden by the hairs, clean, unshaved, and untouched. He felt the seed beginning to form in his scrotum.

He was atop her now, staring at that wistful, innocent face. That expression had been there the moment he sent her to sleep. She was still under that spell. Her breasts pointed towards him. They looked tender and beautiful as before. Like they were perfectly made for her body. Not too big and not too small.

"Bas...tard," Darcy murmured again, this time louder than the last. It seemed her strength was returning. "You... would do... this to the... poor girl."

He paid her no attention. He returned to Lucy's face. And saw her eyes flutter open.

He was taken aback. His brows creased in surprise. This wasn't possible.

But it was. She looked at him dully. She still had no control of her body.

He returned into her eyes. He had to seal her back. Going past those blue irises however, there'd appeared a powerful layer of celestial protection. It burned his gaze. It pushed him back.

Vanquished, he fell. It was all going wrong. Her spirit had woken. He never expected it to be that strong. He was supposed to be stronger. And he was. Till Zaebos...

He picked himself up. He was going to do it forcefully. He climbed once more over her. Her gaze was burning. He positioned Roy's penis. He had to deflower her first.

And then he felt her hand. She gripped his hand tightly. Frustration set in. But her voice, strangely soothing, strangely melodic held him fast. He made no move.

"What are you?"

The voice was superior. It didn't come from her. It came from within. It deserved respect.

"I am Agares," he answered, "servant of Ashmedai, who sits on the right hand of the Devil's throne amongst the seven princes and lords nine hells."

"What want you from this body?"

"She is to birth the Legion, offspring from my seed," he replied.

"This body wants no part in your scheme," the voice within Lucy spoke.

"Well, this body has no choice," Agares scoffed. He was growing tired of the word play. He forced her hands apart. With strength he didn't imagine her to have, she resisted. She forced her hands back. This self will astonished him. He struggled to move her hands back. She held.

He looked into her eyes and was struck with a ghostly realization. Another presence had joined them. He saw her eyes linger at somewhere behind him and return. He retreated. He started to turn. A sharp pain screamed through Roy's body and completely left him disoriented. He fell into darkness.

"GIVE me a ten-minute head start," Matt said, through the window of the Benz. Jim pushed a full magazine into his revolver. Sarah wasn't sure she should allow it but she nodded.

The chest took refuge beneath his right arm.. Strutting past the picket fence, he was met with the sort of scenery he expected. Roy's house stood out in the center as a black maw eager to swallow outsiders and never vomit them. He wasn't sure why he felt that way. The garden had also fallen victim to the curse that had plagued the county's entire inhabitants. They were laid about in shriveled, decomposing piles. It was the same the entire distance they'd come from the river.

He pushed his feet forward. They were reluctant to move. A few steps and he was in front of the door. It was ajar. Pushing it silently, he glared inside. Assured he was in no immediate danger, he entered.

Agares. The name crossed his mind. He'd seen the name within his mini Necronomicon – the glossary of everything from bad to the very worst.

Agares. What was his mission? He'd fought two other demons in his lifetime: a Succubus and an Abiku. They both had reasons doing the abominable things they did.

The book told him a lot about the demon Asmoday, king of nine hells and trusted servant of the Most Low. Asmoday was one of the devil's right hand men – the seven princes of hell, each of them representing pride, lust, envy, sloth, greed, gluttony and wrath. Asmoday represented lust.

It turned out he also had a right hand man. In the past century, reports milled about Agares rising from Hell's fiery depths to possess humans and commit atrocities of the gravest severities. Evidently, one of his vessels was exorcised, but try as the exorcists could, they could not send him back to Hell. Therefore, they trapped him in a chest lined with pure jewels and a Latin spell of entrapment, designed by John Paul the Second. The chest was claimed lost, no one knew since when.

The Necronomicon also spoke of Agares' escort, that large reptile – Zaebos.

So what did he want this time? The question poked his mind once again. He couldn't pinpoint a peculiar reason; the only palpable one was that he was back to commit all the sins he'd missed in the last hundred years.

The darkness of Roy's house wasn't encouraging. He thought of calling out but cancelled that thought; use the surprise element to his advantage, hopefully. His footsteps however thudded heavily on the tough concrete floor.

A picture hung from the wall on his left. It was a medium-sized frame. It contained a man, a woman and a little girl who looked just around twelve. The picture looked old. Sonny had told them Roy had a wife and a daughter. If he, or anyone else were to judge by the girls on the bank of the river, then he, or anyone else, would easily deduce that, at the moment, they were being killed or worse, dead. Still, no one was seen, no sound was made. It was either ways. He had that invaluable feeling – Hope. The substance of things not seen, that can be achieved.

A staircase opened up in front of him. He noticed the adjacent it. He tried it. It opened. He entered. Two rooms – one on his right, the other on his left – faced him. He went into one, came out and checked the other. They were both empty.

He walked out and went up the stairs. It led him to the dining and subsequent kitchen. His eyes fell on the club resting lazily under the table. He picked the club. He heard a door slam. He swirled. And saw the back door for the first time. Slowly and creakingly, it opened. He walked to it. Pushing the club beside his leg, he stepped out to the backyard.

There the shed stood, against a backdrop of dignified staidness. The graveness was touchable.

A flicker of light caught his eyes, very briefly it lasted like fractions of a second. Within that time, it had spoken to him, through one of the small leaks in the door. Told him to inspect.

He spotted the upside-down crosses. Surely, without a doubt, this was certainly it! The demon was inside. This last sign was infallible. He moused across the yard to the door. Voices came from inside.

He turned the knob. And pushed the door open. It made no sound. It was on his side. He put a step inside. The lantern's weak glow had him adjusting his eyes. But when his eyes were fully adjusted, he temporarily wished it didn't. The level of barbarity that met them transcended his imaginations. They fell on a lady, naked, swathed in blood and more or less crucified to the wall. Her skin was white; her head drooped. She looked dead. She was probably.

That sound! His eyes were drawn from the woman to a manly figure in the center of the shed. Looking closer, he detected a smaller female beneath him. They were both naked. The girl had her back on a strange circle of another circle of a triangle with numerous demonic symbols etched in what seemed strategic places. It had a symbolic semblance to Solomon's key.

This was a ritual, he noticed. The girls on the beach, there were no peculiar signs made on them. They'd just been killed, slaughtered for the sake of it.

The female, Lucy he believed Sonny had called her name, was struggling to get off the symbol, away from under the man he believed was the possessed Roy. Agares. He was struggling to hold her back. That left the woman on the wall as Lucy's mother, Darcy.

Agares didn't notice him enter. A soft groan made him look in Darcy's direction. She was looking at him, her eyes empty and listless. Her eyeballs had sunk deeper into the sockets. She had but a short time left to live; if nothing was done for her, that is.

He silently went to the demon. Agares stopped struggling. Matt caught Lucy's eyes looking into his with an air of purity that made his face flush. Then those eyes disappeared and the demon bent back.

He'd realized something. Matt brandished the weapon. Agares started to turn his head.

With all the rage of a lifetime, he swung the club. It connected exceptionally.
Chapter Eight – An Intermission

Royston Moses's Tale

ROY knew where the fishing was best but that wasn't what attracted him to this side of the river. Discovered by him and known only to him, that part of the river was almost all the time calm, peaceful, in ways that he had very few words to describe. It offered him a few minutes', usually a hour's, respite from his self-acclaimed deplorable and miserable life. It provided him the opportunity to cool his mind and drive his thoughts away from home, away from that crone he called 'wife', even away from his partners for a priceless period of time, however brief.

He glared at the water. It waved in beautiful, transparent-blue smoothness. He saw the schools of trout, haddock, anchovies amongst others and their fingerlings dancing like the surface may care below the surface. One sweep of his net and he was sure he would make a catch that was going to surpass the summations of the separate fishers at the main view.

He allowed his eyes study the fishes carefully, checking the biggest ones, the ones most fleshy. After the observation and the simple survey, he turned his mind away from the fishes altogether and studied the surrounding waterscape. The long, hollow reeds jutting out of the surface of the river, the tangs all patched in closer to their types, the wracks, it was a near-nirvana. All the water needed now were swans.

All of a sudden, a glint caught his eyes as they strolled past the branches of the reeds. He traced it back and found it. It came from behind a patchwork of the sea weed, a crystalline beauty.

He jumped off his boat and waded to the reeds. Tons of fishes cleared from his way as his feet sank into muddy bed, then lifted and sank again.

He pulled the long branches apart and his eyes fell upon what was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

It was a chest, emblazoned with jewels upon all of its edges, beautiful, glittering gems. It sent a splash of colorful reflections that danced in his eyes. Quite small, clean, unaffected by as much as a drop of the river's water, it stood in a personification of elegance.

What was inside? was the question that rocked the world of Roy's mind. It had no handles and rested on a bed of grasses. The thought of coming upon gold, or even more expensive jewels rubbed on him. He put his hand and gave an effort to open it. It didn't budge. Of course, he knew it wasn't going to be that easy. But how did it even end up there? What other beautiful secrets did this part of the river own?

He looked right, then left, with half a mind that someone had accidentally stumbled on the find, the other half expecting his eyes to fall upon another glint. They didn't and he was satisfied with the one he found.

That good life he'd so often dreamed of, that had eluded him for so long was drawing closer to reality. With the chest's contents, he was going to turn the compass of his life around.

He lifted it. And found it was really heavy. It contained lots of stuff. He had to get it home... and in secret too.

Feeling all aglow, he returned the chest to its throne of grass and waded back to the boat. Readying his net, he resolved. He was going to make his biggest catch ever today, and distribute it all to the guys. They would appreciate him, thank him to world's end and leave early. Then he would return and claim the catch, bigger than all catches he had ever made and probably will ever.

Studying the reeds very well so he got the chest's exact location imprinted in his head, he suddenly noticed ripples spreading towards him. The height of the crests caught his attention. It had come from a source but the source had disappeared. Or was it from beneath the river? Probably a very big fish. He stood. And studiously sent the net overboard to collect.

Matthias Williams's Tale

"SITTING on the edge of the foam-padded bench directly facing the exit from the Bishop's office, Matt waited earnestly. The wait had been a hour long and impatience was beginning to set in. Another hour after that however and he was forced to temper his impatience.

Finally, the Bishop walked out of his sanctum and noticed him.

"Oh, you're still here my child," he said with a gracious, ancient note. The bishop spared him a look before turning to shut the door properly. With head bent almost below the shoulders, he slowly walked to Matt, however, Matt was unto him first, remembering how the bishop usually took his steps one foot at a time.

Bishop Miguél Forza had been given control of this diocese for twenty-three years now. The bishop was well over his eighties. His rotund form comprised of his drooped head that was almost bald, light-yellow skin, sagged, flabby cheeks and slightly-opened eyes. His limbs were all hidden beneath his purple robes. They were weak and he took excessive care when using them.

"I've been waiting for you, father," Matt replied.

"Have you now?" the bishop replied. "For what reason, son?"

"You said you wanted to see me. That and I need directions."

The bishop had transient global amnesia, a short term memory lapse that was common with old people.

"I just wanted to wish you a safe trip, that's all," the bishop whispered. "About directions, I trust the Lord already has a path set up and he will show thy way to thee."

Then in a pained, embarrassed look, he asked, "But tell me son, what way leads to the bathroom again?"

Matt smiled. The man's memory lapses were at work.

"It's..." he started, "you'll go north and at the end of the hall, turn right," he answered.

"Thank you, son," Bishop Miguél appreciated. "Remember that you keep in the way of the light and your path shall be guided."

"Yes, father," Matt replied and with finality added, "so I'll be on my way now."

The bishop gave him a tight hug, released him, did the trinity salute and said, "Go with God, my child." Before he turned to leave, the bishop stopped him.

"Say again, which way leads to the bathroom?"

Matt smiled.

STUMBLING out of the cathedral, Matt knew the direction he was to take. More, he'd given them to himself. In absolute disguise. The light... the sun... its direction. He looked at the bishop's diocese. It loomed large, almost hovering atop him. Its many windows peered at him. The way to the bathroom: north, then where north ends, right.

Taking the sun's direction as north, he stared at the road before him. It stretched, so far he could not see its end.

He wondered. What was he going to meet at his destination? He remembered his first two exorcism journeys, the only other ones he'd taken.

The first one led him to the west of Arizona, to the small district of St. George and to the Mountview Hotel. St. George was situated close to the Grand Canyon. There he faced his first test – a Succubus that called herself Esta. Luring unsuspecting men (which almost all of them were) to her lair within the hotel, she drained them dry of semen, blood and life force. She'd clocked thirty by the time he found her. The guys just kept disappearing and very few people had the sense to ask around. Unfortunately for those few, they ended up the same way as those before them. A horrible cycle of sex and death. The filthy thing (though he had to admit she was quite beautiful on the outside) had tried to seduce him on arrival. It wasn't pretty. It was a near death experience. It developed in him a certain level of misogyny. But he was inexperienced then. Not the same as now.

The second test took him out of the U.S. of A., out of America. It landed him in Africa, home of abundant sunshine, home of abundant mosquitoes, home of thousands of century-old deities and religion, home of millions of people who respected their deities and their religions.

The test took him to the west, to the estimated hundred and forty million population of Nigeria. It took him to Osun, a state named after one of the state's deities, the goddess Osun. It took him further to a place called Mopa, where the people (Yorubas they called themselves) claimed to have an artifact of a passed legend called Oranmiyan still alive and intact: a fat staff that was stuck into the ground not more than an inch deep but said to have remained like that for about a century. He'd seen it too. It was hard to believe. It was about five metres high and was strangely made of granite and iron studs.

The test then was a child-eating demon called Abiku in their tongue. Abikus were a breed of demons that ensured the success of the birth of a child only to feed on the soul of the child after it was born.

When he got there and learned of the demon's nature, it became very easy to find. All he had to do was wait in the labor ward of the resident hospital. And there he expelled it, never to return. The people were eternally grateful but that was one characteristic he discovered there. The Yorubas were a very interesting bunch, very lively people. They made his stay quite overwhelming. If there was a chance of visiting Africa again, he was sure he was going to drop by.

After that, three months passed before he received word to ready himself for his third journey.

Pulling himself into the present, he stopped a taxi. He gave directions.

AT the end of 'right', the taxi stopped.

"Right or left?" he asked.

The way had ended and divided into a path on the left and another on the right.

"Hang on," Matt said and got out. He looked to the right. Nothing interesting there. The road rose up steeply to resemble the hump of a brontosaurus. The left, in sharp contrast, dipped low in a gradual decrescendo until it met level ground. He looked down that road until it became far and small in perspective. He saw the side view of the city, its very few skyscrapers and... his eyes stopped there.

In the distance, so small, almost insignificant that he at first believed it was a trick of the eye, he observed masses of clouds forming a little patch above a place he couldn't pinpoint. It was one of the omens he was always on the lookout for. He saw them gathering. A small patch in the midst of an endless, clear sky.

The raspy hoot from the taxi brought his mind back to his body. Briskly, he returned to a hot-faced driver. He had a fez on.

"Look dude, father, whatever, I got money to make okay?" he said as Matt entered and sat.

"Sorry," Matt said. "It's left."

HE stopped at a green, rain-washed signpost that read "WELCOME TO HAVEN COUNTY". A day's ride and now here he was. Why the county had that name was to Matt ineffable. It really stank of otherwise. Clouded by the thick mist that blanketed everything he saw, he pushed himself over the naked path.

With the mist swirling and coiling, he referred the county as more of Silent Hill than Haven. As he walked, he expected the blaring noise of the siren of the church to suddenly spring out, summoning the people to sanctuary and signaling the starting of that dreaded moment when Alessa Gillespie's demons crossed from hell to wreak nightmares on those stranded within the county.

Strands of grasses grew here and there; mostly they looked like forest undergrowth. A few houses he passed stood out like ghosts, eerie in the mist. He would've missed them had he not turned back out of watchfulness. The clouds coiled around themselves, purposely it seemed, cutting off everything solar.

As he pushed deeper into town, he came across faces, misty, sullen faces and more houses.

This is one hell of a sad town, he thought. Then he noticed the grasses and the shrubs here. They were dying fast! Was it simply due to lack of sunlight? Or was it that and something else? Or something else completely?

In the faint distance, two men appeared, more or less materialized out of nothing. They were talking to themselves, consciously surveying the mood the morning had taken. Their voices were low, inaudible and even if they weren't, the mist wasn't going to help him hear what they were saying any better.

When they dipped closer however, he fine-tuned his hearing, the better to grab any bit of information, anything at all. And luck shined on him when they passed beside him. It was like the mist cleared just for the moment for him to hear one the men say "Scary stuff, it was..."

He turned. "Excuse me."

The men stopped, looked at him like they hadn't noticed him before due to the mist and then changed their expression from mild surprise to personal respect. Something told him this people had a thing for religion, more precisely Christianity. It was all well. He decided to go straight to the point.

"You were both saying something that caught my ear just now, if you don't mind," he said calmly.

"Yes," one of the men answered him. He looked like he needed a jelly bath. His skin was ghostly white, same as his eyes. They seemed to pass through Matt to an unknown distance.

"Yes, something happened down at the river. Terrible, weird stuff," the man continued. "Two girls, murdered, gore all over the place and one, half of her missing." Matt noticed the man's eyes were jiggling.

"It was scary." The man full-stopped.

Matt took it all in. He believed he'd found his destination. It wasn't hard this time.

"Which way leads to the river?" Matt questioned.

They gave him the directions, after which they did the trinity salute and walked away. Matt adjusted his collar and silently prayed that this infestation not be as bad as the first two.

Darcy Moses' Tale

TURNING in her bed, Darcy's mind throbbed. The events that had taken place that afternoon blazed vividly in her memory. Scamps' head and its detached body, the dipping yellow eyes, how Roy had tried to kill her and how Lucy had intervened. She was a miracle child, that babe, the only reason they were still together. Her belief in the Word surpassed hers.

Even as Roy slept, breathing softly beside her, her heart shook every time he moved. She was afraid that if she but closed her eyes for a few seconds, he would be on her, finishing what he failed in doing before Lucy stopped him, bringing a fast conclusion to her otherwise pitiful life. But Roy slept on.

The knife he'd used was never found. Wonders knows where he'd obtained it from.

That accursed chest was the cause of everything, she knew. The Latin inscription bore testament to it. She wasn't particularly good at the language but knew well enough that 'animus' meant something evil and hostile. Whatever was inside it, she believed it had taken control of Roy's body. The Roy she knew, though he hated her now and she knew it, would never go to the brink of murder to extricate himself from any burden whatsoever.

Also his voice, his eyes, his movements had not been his. They'd lacked coordination, like they had been poorly controlled.

When morning came, she was going to ask him how he came in possession of the chest and find a way to rid their house of its evil and afterwards, take on a light prayer session, she resolved.

Then she slept.

MORNING came and she found herself staring at an empty bed. Roy was gone. It jostled her senses awake.

She rushed to Lucy's room. Lucy was there, still asleep. She hurried to the backyard. And found the shed open. Nobody was inside. The chest was gone.

She had no idea what he had gone to do with it but she believed it was his responsibility. She feared he would never return.

She returned to the front of the house. And came upon a bewildering sight. All the flowering shrubs in the garden were shrivelling and dying. The entire garden looked a big mess. Smell of gunk filled the misty air. Lucy was suddenly beside her, her eyes opened in ghostly fright.

"What's going on, mum?" Lucy asked, her voice weak with tragedy. "And where's dad? I can't find him anywhere."

Darcy knew Lucy had been in love with that garden since she knew what plants were. She simply tapped Lucy's shoulder smoothly.

"I woke up this morning and he was gone. Don't worry, it'll be fine," she assured. A look at Lucy's face told her Lucy didn't believe that. She was herself trying very hard to believe it too.

"I'm going in to pray," she said. It was the only thing she knew she could do.

TWO hours of prayer brought no change to the weather or a fresh breath of life to the dying shrubs and she relaxed and decided to prepare something to eat. But when she got to the kitchen, things didn't go too smooth either.

Images of Roy holding that blade, looming over her, threatening her was still very clear. His raspy voice sang in her head. It made her choke. At the end she figured she wasn't going to be able to go through lighting the stove without contracting a spasm, maybe even faint. She felt queasy. She decided to go and lie down again and hoped it would all clear out.

And turned and almost crashed into Roy!

Of course he was there, she wasn't dreaming. He was back but from where and where was the chest?

"It's just me," he said, noticing the look in her eyes.

That raspy voice, those eyes. She knew instantly it wasn't Roy. He said something she failed to listen to. His voice was much lighter, brimmed with confidence. Roy was gone. Again. Forever? It was impossible to tell.

She turned her eyes from him. Lucy had brought him back yesterday. With the club. Roy had been saving it for hoodlums and burglars. Lucy had used it on him. Sent him to sleep. It ought to be lying around somewhere. She searched the ground.

"You got rid of the box?" she decided to ask. She wasn't sure of the kind of answer to expect. Maybe Roy was still in there.

"It's over now," she heard him reply. That voice chilled her. She moved towards the table.

Suddenly a sharp, acute pain rocked her temples. Her nerves fried. She shook, utterly dazed, stunned. Blankness saved her from that pain and turmoil.

Lucy Moses's Tale

BURYING Scamps was the most painful thing Lucy did in her life. Scratch that. Burying Scamps in two parts was. The cold glint in her dad's eyes when he sent the cat's head packing was the most terrifying. She was there. She saw the whole thing. She'd been unable to do anything. That fact pained her.

Then he'd tried to kill mum and she almost ran away.

She turned in her bed. Sleep was becoming difficult to grasp. Those thoughts were there to remain forever.

That man wasn't her father. The man that magicked the knife to appear and disappear. Certainly not her father. Goodness knows what she could've done had she not seen the club or was it non-existing.

Removing her pillow and pressing it firmly to her chest, she remembered her father, who he'd been, the fun times, the strolls in the beach, the fishing expeditions... the man was well-versed in the knowledge of fish hunting; he'd taught her blackjack too, something mum never approved of.

And then the thing from the chest entered him. Mum was certain it was the chest. She believed her. Strange things had been going on in that shed prior to that noon. She recollected the shrivelled blade of the chisel, the chill she received when he'd opened the door for her, his wounds – he couldn't have inflicted them on himself on purpose. They were sort of deep.

After everything, he was asleep – she seriously hoped he was. She'd hit him hard enough. There was no telling when and where the next tantrum was going to end him in and them as well. She feared for her mum.

Finally she slept. And had the worst of nightmares.

Dangling in the blackness of space, a dark cloud, so dark it surpassed that of space engulfed her. Within it, spectral whispers flooded with one voice, professing its love for her, telling her she was going to start something great. The whispers entered her head. She felt it bite her skin from under. She cried. Cried into black, black space. Then the whispers stopped and the cloud withdrew. Every fibre of its being in her extinguished and she felt a total emptiness, like she'd been used.

Contemplating her predicament, she observed a light. Small and distant and calling, it appeared as a beacon. Hope! From that distance in the looming blackness of space, a surge of warmth began to fill that cavity of emptiness the cloud left.

And then she woke.

Rays of a languid morning filtered in through the window panes. Something wasn't right. No dawn chorus greeted. Not a sound was heard. For a moment she felt she had woken in her dream, with the exceptions of her bed, her room and the dull light. The air felt thick.

She rose and hurried to her mother's room. Darcy wasn't there. Neither was Roy. This wasn't good. In a flash of horror, she saw her father killing her mum in the darkest of the night, disappearing to get rid of the body and evidences.

She rushed out, into the living room. The front door was open. Not good. In a blink, she was outside. Darcy was standing there, looking longingly at the garden. She relaxed. Mum was okay. Which meant dad was...?

A dreadful view caught her eyes. She walked out onto the patio, into the misty morning. And stood transfixed. The garden was dying. This wasn't possible. The day before it was freshly blooming. The flowers, the shrubs, the decorative plants, all of them, were wilting. Many had fallen in defeat. She looked up. She saw the clouds, curling, coiling, depriving the lithosphere of sunlight. That garden had been her baby for a long time. It kept her mind from being preoccupied with the household dilemmas.

"What's going on, mum?" she asked. The words barely left her mouth. She was shaken. Very shaken. "And where's dad? I can't find him anywhere."

Darcy turned to go inside but she tapped Lucy on the shoulder in sympathy.

"I woke up this morning and he was gone. Don't worry, it'll be fine."

Dad gone. Where? It was difficult to tell. She doubted very strongly what her mother said. It wasn't going to be fine.

"I'm going in to pray," Darcy's voice cut into her thoughts. Then Darcy disappeared inside.

She followed behind and when Darcy was out of sight, she rushed to the back, to the shed. She met it open. No one was in there. The chest was gone. Her father was gone. The evil had taken her father from her.

And then the dream came back to her. A sudden need to be prepared surfaced within her. She'd read somewhere that demons, spirits and other bestial beings had a certain fear for salt. It was well known that demons hated crucifixes and had an acute weakness for Holy Water. It was like heavily concentrated acid to their skin. And a crucifix is one of the needed components in making Holy Water.

Getting the Holy Water was going to be hard, maybe impossible in the short term but the others... simple stuff.

Acquiring salt from the kitchen, she sprinkled it in numerous quantities across the entrance of the shed. She had it in her mind that the shed was the most potent place that evil had the ease of opportunity to carry its misdeeds, since it had entered it before. It was going to feel more at home in there than in anywhere else. By the time she was satisfied with the salt boundary, the plastic containing the salt was empty.

She remembered the large cask of paint her father had stored beside the shed for the purpose of repainting it. He'd kept it there sometime late last year.

She ran around the side and found it. It was a big cask. There was a small transparent container beside the wall of the shed. It had a brush inside it. They'd probably been kept there for obtaining paint from the big cask for quick use. She collected till it half-filled the small container. It was red.

Returning to the door of the shed, she dipped the brush into the paint and traced the image of the crucifix on both lintels: the long vertical straight line and the short horizontal drawn across the long vertical and nearer to the vertical's top.

Satisfied, she dropped the container on the floor near the entrance, and made sure the salt was properly and evenly spread; was absent of partitions and segments.

She returned to the garden to try and see if there was anything she could do to salvage what was left. She returned to a much worse condition.

Standing there, pondering for a few minutes, she barely realized when a tear ran down her cheeks. She knelt and put a palm beneath a drooping Primula. It dropped on her hand. The tears became a full-scale sob.

Then she heard footsteps.

She turned.

Her father walked in.
Chapter Nine

MATT carefully dropped Darcy on the floor beside Lucy. The young girl was slowly regaining full control of all her muscles. He'd dressed her in her pink, T-shirt which he found under the desk. She sat in a fetal position and rested her back against the wall. Tears clung to her eyes. Darcy was clothed in his long-sleeved shirt, leaving him with a white undershirt. She'd gone back to sleep. Her breathing was loud and heavy, choked with infrequent gasps. She was going to survive. She was strong, he noted.

He put finishing touches to a diagram he was drawing and when he was satisfied, he stood back. It had a close resemblance to the one drawn by Agares, the one in blood, only more complex. Matt'd sprinkled salt over that one and rendered it useless.

His diagram consisted of an outer wide circle and an inner one. At the centre of the inner circle was the four sided structure of a kite. All of its edges had a cross extending from it. The tips of those four crosses further pointed to other diagrams of the same form still within the inner circle.

This one was simply two triangles, one drawn above the other, both facing opposite directions making it look like a star with six points. The letters A-D-O-N-A-I were inscribed in all the smaller triangular spaces created by the intersection of the two chief triangles and a 'T' sign much resembling the cross on the kite stood in the center of the two triangles. AL and PHA was written on both sides of the triangles above the kite and OM and EGA was on both sides of the bottom triangles but in a mirrored, upside-down direction.

A snake rested in the middle of the inner and outer circle.

Immediately outside the outer circle, EAST, SOUTH, WEST and NORTH were written in clockwork, starting from the top and ending on the left. On both sides of EAST and precisely above NORTH and SOUTH were two five pointed stars – one apiece. Same went for both sides of WEST so that the four stars had the invisible pattern of a square. The stars all had CAN and DLE written on their sides. Also present was the 'T' reminiscent of the six point star within the inner circle.

Above the circles and the cardinal points and the stars stood an almost separate diagram of a triangle with a circle inside it. MI, CHA and EL were written outside the circle. On the left side of the triangle was ANAPHAXETON. The right bore TETRAGAMMATON. The bottom held PRIMEUMATON.

All of this Matt drew and wrote in thick black Marker. Having lost himself in the drawing of this diagram, he quickly checked Agares' vessel. He was still knocked out.

He heard a soft shuffle from behind and turned to see Lucy crying. Pity washed over him. She'd been through a lot. He could see it in those eyes. He quickly picked Roy and dragged him into the center of the diagram he'd constructed. Then he knelt in front of Lucy.

"Dry your tears, child," he soothed.

She responded by cleaning her eyes on the shoulder of her T-shirt. More tears replaced the ones lost.

"I just want my dad back," Lucy whined.

"Faith," he replied. "It does wonders."

She calmed. "You want to exorcise him, right?"

He nodded.

"Will my dad be back?"

His composure was disturbed. He wasn't sure Roy was still in there. If he was, would Agares, as powerful as he was, release him?

"You are not sure, are you?" she helped mightily.

He nodded. "It can go either ways. It leaves and takes him with it or it goes and leaves him alone."

Lucy looked pensive and daunted. Finally she said, "Do what you have to do."

He nodded again and stood. He removed the Necronomicon from his pocket and leafed through its pages.

"Freeze! Put your hands behind your back!" a feminine voice ordered.

He turned.

It was Sheriff Hawthorn. And Jim. Finally. Now he could start without interruptions.

SARAH silently closed the door of her Benz and drew her gun out. Her head, missing her hat, displayed her shock of dark-yellow hair. Anybody could have passed it for blond. Her eyes were serious. Jim, also out at the other side of the car did as she'd done and made a sign at her with his head, asking if he should proceed. She nodded. Having exhausted the ten-minute head start allotted them by Matt, without any signal coming, she'd decided to take action.

Hastily crossing the lawn, Jim stopped just outside the door, where he rested his back on the wall with his gun beside his face and his finger on the trigger in alert and waited for Sarah. She casually walked to the wall and with the gun held in front, pushed the door and entered. Jim went in after her.

Together, they combed the house in seconds, checking the two rooms and all the possible hideouts they had before bursting into the dining. Jim was the first out the back door. He called her while she searched through the kitchen and drew her outside. The shed was open and a faint glimmer of light could be seen within.

With her gun held once more in front, she walked to the shed. Jim brought the rear. He was proving the competent backup that he was ordered to be.

As she pussyfooted towards the shed, thoughts she'd done well to keep from her mind suddenly surfaced. Was the priest still alive? It had been his request that he checked first and she wouldn't offer him a weapon. She knew he would reject it. Now that he or anybody else were nowhere to be found, she wondered if she should've accepted that request. Fisher'd spoken about him claiming the perpetrator, this Royston Moses, was possessed by a demon. She'd accepted that fact simply to save her reputation and have something she could push the blame on, even if temporarily.

Her reputation had been built on a respectable history of stamping authority and order within the county. Gamblers feared her, burglars, murderers, hoodlums, kidnappers, rapists, even the lowly extortionists, they all prayed to high heavens to never to get on her bad side because she always found them out. She had ways. Lots of ways. She wasn't sheriff for nothing. So she'd been shocked when she'd received the call concerning the double murders. Getting to the scene, she'd realized it transcended any regular murder. The person responsible – Roy was a goddamn suspect and the only one they truly had – had a sick and twisted imagination.

It dealt her reputation a blow and gave her a depressive feeling of irresponsibility. It gave her a desperate need to find the killer and bring him to justice before he dealt a second blow. It would give her some reprieve.

So she sprang inside, gun ready and saw a figure move slowly in the blunt glow of the lantern that rested on a desk.

"Freeze! Put your hands behind your back!" she ordered.

Jim appeared behind her, giving her adequate support from the rear.

The figure turned, and with an expression of anticipation nodded. It was Matt. He was alive. She relaxed.

"Oh, it's you," she whispered.

He nodded. A small book was opened in his palm which he returned to studying, his expression suddenly turning serious. And she noticed all the other occupants within the shed.

Her prime suspect was all huddled in front of Matt. He was placed over a large symbol she didn't understand but looked satanic. What was going on here? He looked dead. She hoped Matt had not killed him. They needed his testimony. At the corner were two ladies. One was resting on a wall. The other was laid on the floor, also looking very dead. Her skin was pale.

"The ladies require dire medical attention," Matt informed, not looking up from his Necronomicon. Jim returned his gun to its holster on his belt and went to where Darcy and Lucy were. He picked Darcy up and took her out of the shed.

"Is he dead?" Sarah asked.

"No," Matt answered, "but he might be once I'm through with him."

Then she saw Roy shake. His eyes fluttered dreamily. He shook his head and sat up. And noticed all the people within the shed. Matt noticed. So did Lucy. For a moment his eyes were wild and disconcerting, then they turned gloomy, pitiful.

"Daddy?" Lucy whispered. "Please tell me it's you."

"Of course, it's me sweetie," a weak voice answered, "What's going on here? Where am I? Oh, in the shed. Why am I here now?"

"Mr. Royston Moses, you have been charged with the murder of two young females early this morning, at the Haven River and are therefore to be arrested for interrogation. You have the right to an..."

"Murder? What the hell is she talking about, sweetie?" he interrupted.

"Dad, you're back," Lucy drew a short breath. Through all this, Matt looked unfazed.

Jim entered. He made for Lucy. Lucy was saying "it's going to be fine. There's something in you they want to get out.".

As Jim placed his arms at the back of her knees and at her back, Roy's face flushed with anger. His eyes bulged. The eyeballs flared.

"You will not lay your filthy, sinful hands on her, you stinking, impure fool lest I cast you into the depths of purgatory to rot there awhile!!" he hollered raspingly.

Jim was temporarily taken aback. He raised his hands to his face as if checking for filth. Lucy had returned to sobbing. Matt looked comprehensive and on guard.

"Get her out of here," Matt repeated. Sarah had her gun pointed at Roy and she nodded at Jim. Jim picked Lucy and quickly walked towards the exit.

As they passed Matt, Lucy whispered, "Please, get that thing out of him."

They went out. Roy stood in a rage that forced Matt back and attempted to follow but he stumbled into an invisible barrier and fell down back. Then he noticed the symbol beneath him. He looked at Matt. There was apprehension in those eyes. Matt felt it but Roy didn't show it.

"So the Clavicular Solomonis, is it now?" he said in a jeering tone, probably to hide his fear. "You believe you can use the Key of Solomon to trap me, Agares, keeper of the Legion?"

Matt nodded. "Long enough to expel you from this body."

He turned to Sarah. "You might not want to see this," he said, "and there's every possibility of it possessing you if it's not contained."

Sarah nodded. "I'll be out. I just need a question answered." She turned to Agares' vessel. "Why did you kill the two girls?"

Roy gave a sneer. "Their souls were long due. I simply sent them to Lilith faster. That bitch owes me one. The Martha girl has potential, that one. She'll make a wonderful Succubus."

Sarah brought her gun down. She placed her finger on a pouch on her belt and clicked something off. It was a recorder she regularly carried around. "He's all yours," she said to Matt.

Matt nodded. He followed her to the door and before closing it, she asked, "Can anything be done for him?"

Matt shook his head negatively. "I've searched. There's nothing else." He looked in Roy's direction. "I doubt he's inside at all. All that stuff about him wondering where he was was simply a pretense. They're good at that."

She agreed.

"Do me a favor," Matt whispered.

She was all ears.

"Spread the salt so it entirely covers the entrance." He was looking down.

"That's all?"

"And stay with the girls. For some reason, he wanted to protect the daughter. He had a use for her and I'm afraid if I fail, he'll still come after her. You should get her to the diocese at Wyoming, to the bishop there. He'll handle this demon well. And try to explain to them there's the possibility of them losing him, in case I succeed."

"Anything else?"

He shook his head. "Just don't interrupt."

He closed the door. He searched his pockets for his Holy Water and found it. He wrapped a crucifix around his fingers. Agares looked at him, expressionless. It was the both of them now.

MATT remembered his first two challenges. He'd expelled them quite easily. Esta had been easy. She was a low-rank demon. The Abiku had been relatively easy. It was in its pure form. It had no vessel and was therefore easy to expel. Agares posed a severe challenge than those two.

For one, Agares never allowed Roy chance to explain himself. It was like Roy wasn't in that body altogether. Matt wasn't very sure of that. He needed to gain clarity. So he opened the bottle of Holy Water. Severe pain had to work.

Pouring a little of it into the small cover of the bottle, he walked to Agares. The dybbuk stared at him, trying to guess at his next line of action.

He poured the water into Roy's face. The reaction he received was instantaneous. The demon jumped back and cried in a screech so loud it caused the shed to shiver. Curls of smoke floated from Roy's face which he covered. The room instantly stank of burning sulfur. Matt went forward and suddenly realized he'd fallen back. That sound was horrendous. But he still had to get results.

"Who are you?" Matt asked. He received no reply. He wasn't surprised.

"I could do this all day," he continued. "Speak quickly and your expulsion will be eased."

Of course he knew who the demon was but it was protocol the demon said what it was and its mission. And if it didn't respond, oh well, he was simply going to get on with expelling it anyway.

He poured out more of the Holy Water. The face was the most sensitive part. He waited till Roy retracted his arms from the face and fired a second splash. A second shrill cry, louder than the first, rang. Roy fell. His breathing came in short gasps.

"Who are you?" Matt repeated. "What is your mission?"

"My mission," Agares drew a mocking smile over a pained face, "is to infest. Take possession of everything that has a soul, influence world decisions, give these pitiful humans the power to commit their darkest imaginations. They're gullible, weak. Give the big man up there something to think about."

Even though Matt heard the derision in his voice, he felt he was getting somewhere.

"You haven't given a name," Matt said. "What did you need the girl for?"

Again, no reply. Matt served himself some drops of Holy Water and readied it threateningly.

"Why don't you just exorcise me already? I will not be telling you anything."

Then Matt had an idea. He readily accepted. Exorcism was the most excruciating thing any demon had to go through, the way an average human would go under severe military torture. Most of the time, they break in the process of exorcizing them. This was very likely to work. He was going to take the exorcism prayers slow so Agares would experience its fullness. The Rituale Romanum consisted of six verses. As the tempo increased, so would the torture. All of the verses were inscribed in his memory. He could never forget it. He returned the bottle of Holy Water into his pocket.

"If that's how you want it..." Matt started.

"Deus, et Pater Domini nostri Jesu Christi, invoco nomen sanctum tuum, et clementiam tuam supplex exposco: ut adversus hunc, et omnem immundum spiritum, qui vexat hoc plasma tuum. Mihi auxilium praestare igneris. Per eumdem Dominum. Amen."

He stopped and looked back at Agares. His eyes were bulging with fear. The veins were almost tearing out of the flesh.

"You want me to go on?" he asked. It was rhetoric. Agares answered anyway, his voice tainted with fear and anger.

"You're wrong if you think the Rituale Romanum will force me against my will."

"I just got started," Matt answered. "No need to panic... yet."

Then he continued: "Exorcizo te, immundissime spiritus, omnis incursion adversarii, omne phantasma, omnis legio, in nomine Domini nostri Jesu Christi eradicare, et effugare ab hoc plasmate Dei. Ipse tibi imperat, qui te de supernis caelorum in inferiora terrae demergi praecepit. Ipse tibi imperat, qui mari, ventis, et tempestatibus imperavit. Audi ergo, et time, satana, inimice fi dei, hostis generis humani, mortis adductor, vitae raptor, justitiae..."

At this point Agares gave a loud cry, sharp and short. Matt watched as spasms worked on his possessed body but did not stop.

"...declinator, malorum radix, fomes vitiorum, seductor hominum, proditor gentium, incitator invidiae, origo avaritiae, causa discordiae, excitator dolorum: quid stas, et resistis, cum scias. Christum Dominum vias tuas perdere? Illum metue, qui in Isaac immolatus est, in Joseph venumdatus, in agno occisus, in homine crucifi xus, deinde inferni triumphator fuit. Sequentes cruces fi ant in fronte obsessi. Recede ergo in nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti: da locum Spiritui Sancto, per hoc signum sanctae Crucis Jesu Christi Domini nostri: Q ui cum Patre et eodem Spiritu Sancto vivit et regnat Deus, per omnia saecula saeculorum. Amen."

He stopped. Four more verses and Agares' vessel was frothing at the mouth. The body was finding it difficult to take. Sooner rather than later, Agares was going to respond to buy himself time.

"You still won't talk?"

Agares remained adamant but was weakening. His vessel driveled. He convulsed and fell on his knees and clamped his eyes together. There was intense pain to be noticed. But Matt continued.

"Deus, conditor et defensor generis humani, qui hominem ad imaginem tuam formasti: respice super hunc famulum tuum (N), qui dolis immundi spiritus appetitur, quem vetus adversarius, antiquus hostis terrae, formidinis horrore circumvolat, et sensum mentis humanae stupore defigit, terrore conturbat, et metu trepidi timoris exagitat. Repelle, Domine, virtutem diaboli, fallacesque ejus insidias amove: procul impius tentator aufugiat: sit nominis tui signo (in fronte) famulus tuus munitus et in animo tutus et corpora (Tres cruces sequentes fiant in pectore daemoniaci). Tu pectoris hujus interna custodias."

And with a loud scream he yielded. "Agares. Servant of Asmodeus. Prince of thirty and one legions. Are you satisfied?"

"What is your mission?"

No reply. He continued.

"Tu viscera regas. Tu cor confirmes. In anima adversatricis potestatis tentamenta evanescant. Da, Domine, ad hanc invocationem sanctissimi nominis tui gratiam, ut, qui hucusque terrebat, territus aufugiat, et victus abscedat, tibique possit hic famulus tuus et corde fi rmatus et mente sincerus, debitum praebere famulatum. Per Dominum. Amen."

The blood was searing. Agares' vessel howled. The body shook. Matt stared at him. Half of the prayer was over. He began the fourth verse.

"Adjuro te, serpens antique, per judicem vivorum et mortuorum, per factorem tuum, per factorem mundi, per eum, qui habet potestatem mittendi te in gehennam, ut ab hoc famulo Dei (N), qui ad Ecclesiae sinum recurrit, cum metu, et exercitu furoris tui festinus discedas."

"The girl!" he cried. Matt stopped. He was clearly in extreme agony.

"The girl!" he repeated. "She was pure, vestal. She was to birth the Legion. I was to place the seed in her and protect her till she delivered."

"Is that all?" Matt asked.

Sweat poured down his face. His breath kept coming in strong gasps. His body swayed with each gasp.

"That's all."

"Where's the soul of the one you possess?"

He stared at Matt. His eyes were a deep red. His face was a thick mess of tears, mucus, saliva, sweat and expectorated matter. Matt's was serious. His eyes flared.

"That greedy lecher is long gone. I sent him to purgatory. He's not coming back." Roy answered.

That was all Matt needed. He was free to take full control of this exorcism. He continued to chant non-stop. By the time he finished the fourth verse, Roy was screaming, issuing profanities, cursing. His body swayed aimlessly. The walls of the shed shivered as they echoed his cries.

Finishing the fourth verse, he entered the fifth. Roy's body had become a temple of convulsions. Roy's body was running out of strength to breathe. Midway through the fifth verse, his voice picked tempo and went a note higher.

He ended the fifth and entered the sixth and final verse. It was longer than the rest. It seemed to go on and on. And then he uttered a final, precise, "Amen".

And Roy stopped moving. He turned his wet face to Matt.

"You do know I am not going back down, don't you?"

Matt nodded. "That's why I brought you a friend." And so saying, he retreated to the desk and from beneath it, withdrew the chest. It stood open.

Seeing the chest triggered the loudest cry Matt'd ever heard in his life. He was afraid the shed would simply fly off the ground. Roy's arms were spread far apart and his eyes looked upward. Slowly, black smoke started to crawl out of every hole in his face: his ears, nose and mouth. It rose till it formed a coiling black mass at the roof of the shed. Matt felt the entity that was being released from Roy's body. That was the demon in its true form. In minutes, Roy was completely emptied, drained of the smoke and his body fell limply like plastic on the ground.

The entity coiling above, still trapped by the Clavicular Solomonis contained intense hate. It swirled continually, making gloomy noises. Matt pushed the chest into the circle and muttered, "Teloque animus praestantior omni."

With a moderate speed, the chest began to swallow the black smoke. It kept taking it in until there was none left and then with a forceful slam, it closed. And the shed fell silent.

Matt bent over Roy. He felt his neck. It was cold. His skin was turning white. Roy had been dead for some time. There was nothing he could've done. Regretfully, he pulled Roy's body out of Solomon's key and laid him on his back. His face was bloated. The froth at the corner of his lips slowly began to dissipate.

Matt left the body there. Picking himself together and the chest from the key, he opened the door of the shed and stepped out.

Blinding sunlight streamed down on the lithosphere. The clouds had rolled away. Same as the fog. The afternoon looked beautiful. He smiled. Another job well done.

He went into Roy's house where he waited for Sarah.

SARAH returned much later in the afternoon. Her hat was back on her head. She came in an ambulance. One look at Matt told her he had been successful. It also told her that Roy had not been able to survive the exorcism.

Matt was outside, studying the garden. Most of them had experienced the dark reaction. The shock of having the sunlight suddenly pour of them had drawn their branches to shoot upwards in irregular positions. The yellow was beginning to get brighter. Matt had done the household the favour of watering the garden. He turned and noticed Sarah approaching. She stopped beside him.

"I guess it went well then," she muttered. She briefly looked at the revitalizing plants.

Matt nodded and gave her a view of the chest. "It's in here," he responded, "but its vessel, he couldn't make it."

She shook her shoulders. Then she turned and called two of the men from the ambulance. They had been waiting outside the ambulance waiting for instructions. They reached into the back of the ambulance and retrieved a stretcher. Then they walked past the picket and headed towards the house. It looked like they knew where to go. Sarah had instructed them earlier.

She returned her head to Matt. "Wife is responding well but she's still unconscious and daughter's in perfect condition. She's keeping watch over her mum. She's even reading a novel, that's how mentally well she is. When I told her her father might not make it she didn't seem too troubled, just briefly downcast. Then she looked up and was all "as long as that monster was gone from him she was going to be okay"."

"That's all fine," Matt replied. "I'll be returning to Wyoming now. I have to rid myself of this thing so it'll be delivered as quickly as possible to the Vatican. The pope's going to be really troubled to receive it. But he only can decide where it ought to be kept."

"Okay," Sarah said and stretched her hand for a shake. "Thanks for your help. I'm immensely grateful."

Matt accepted her hand. Before turning to leave, he looked back at the sheriff.

"Can I get a favour from you?"

She nodded and looked at him searchingly.

"A car and about two of your men. I'm not risking any occurrence with this thing again."

She nodded again. "Wait around then. I can arrange that."

THE END
Acknowledgements

The author acknowledges the following people for their contributions:

You, the reader, for sharing in this soft chiller,

My Roommates, Daniel, UK and John, who gave me the time and space, even if involuntarily, to dedicate myself fully into writing this book. They are highly appreciated,

Oaks, for all the encouragement. It meant a mighty lot.
For Those Who Care To Know

I have included in the next page the diagram of the Clavicular Solomonis or the Key of Solomon so you readers can have the idea of how it looks like.

Also, I've added the complete six verses of the Rituale Romanum. The last verse – Exorcismus is a really long one and is pronounced with caution.
THE CLAVICULAR SOLOMONIS

THE RITUALE ROMANUM

OREMUS ORATIO

Deus, et Pater Domini nostri Jesu Christi, invoco nomen sanctum tuum, et clementiam tuam supplex exposco: ut adversus hunc, et omnem immundum spiritum, qui vexat hoc plasma tuum. Mihi auxilium praestare igneris. Per eumdem Dominum. Amen.

EXORCISMUS

Exorcizo te, immundissime spiritus, omnis incursio adversarii, omne phantasma, omnis legio, in nomine Domini nostri Jesu Christi eradicare, et effugare ab hoc plasmate Dei. Ipse tibi imperat, qui te de supernis caelorum in inferiora terrae demergi praecepit. Ipse tibi imperat, qui mari, ventis, et tempestatibus imperavit. Audi ergo, et time, satana, inimice fidei, hostis generis humani, mortis adductor, vitae raptor, justitiae declinator, malorum radix, fomes vitiorum, seductor hominum, proditor gentium, incitator invidiae, origo avaritiae, causa discordiae, excitator dolorum: quid stas, et resistis, cum scias. Christum Dominum vias tuas perdere? Illum metue, qui in Isaac immolatus est, in Joseph venumdatus, in agno occisus, in homine crucifixus, deinde inferni triumphator fuit. Sequentes cruces fiant in fronte obsessi. Recede ergo in nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti: da locum Spiritui Sancto, per hoc signum sanctae Crucis Jesu Christi Domini nostri: Qui cum Patre et eodem Spiritu Sancto vivit et regnat Deus, per omnia saecula saeculorum. Amen.

OREMUS ORATIO

Deus, conditor et defensor generis humani, qui hominem ad imaginem tuam formasti: respice super hunc famulum tuum (N), qui dolis immundi spiritus appetitur, quem vetus adversarius, antiquus hostis terrae, formidinis horrore circumvolat, et sensum mentis humanae stupore defigit, terrore conturbat, et metu trepidi timoris exagitat. Repelle, Domine, virtutem diaboli, fallacesque ejus insidias amove: procul impius tentator aufugiat: sit nominis tui signo (in fronte) famulus tuus munitus et in animo tutus et corpore (Tres cruces sequentes fiant in pectore daemoniaci). Tu pectoris hujus interna custodias. Tu viscera regas. Tu cor confirmes. In anima adversatricis potestatis tentamenta evanescant. Da, Domine, ad hanc invocationem sanctissimi nominis tui gratiam, ut, qui hucusque terrebat, territus aufugiat, et victus abscedat, tibique possit hic famulus tuus et corde firmatus et mente sincerus, debitum praebere famulatum. Per Dominum. Amen.

EXORCISMUS

Adjuro te, serpens antique, per judicem vivorum et mortuorum, per factorem tuum, per factorem mundi, per eum, qui habet potestatem mittendi te in gehennam, ut ab hoc famulo Dei (N), qui ad Ecclesiae sinum recurrit, cum metu, et exercitu furoris tui festinus discedas. Adjuro te iterum (in fronte) non mea infirmitate, sed virtute Spiritus Sancti, ut exeas ab hoc famulo Dei (N), quem omnipotens Deus ad imaginem suam fecit. Cede igitur, cede non mihi, sed ministro Christi. Illius enim te urget potestas, qui te Cruci suae subjugavit. Illius brachium contremisce, qui devictis gemitibus inferni, animas ad lucem perduxit. Sit tibi terror corpus hominis (in pectore), sit tibi formido imago Dei (in fronte). Non resistas, nec moreris discedere ab homine isto, quoniam complacuit Christo in homine habitare. Et ne contemnendum putes, dum me peccatorem nimis esse cognoscis. Imperat tibi Deus. Imperat tibi majestas Christi imperat tibi Deus Pater, imperat tibi Deus Filius, imperat tibi Deus Spiritus Sanctus. Imperat tibi sacramentum crucis. Imperat tibi fides sanctorum Apostolorum Petri et Pauli, et ceterorum Sanctorum. Imperat tibi Martyrum sanguis. Imperat tibi continentia Confessorum. Imperat tibi pia Sanctorum et Sanctarum omnium intercessio. Imperat tibi christianae fidei mysteriorum virtus. Exi ergo, transgressor. Exi, seductor, plene omni dolo et fallacia, virtutis inimice, innocentium persecutor. Da locum, dirissime, da locum, impiissime, da locum Christo, in quo nihil invenisti de operibus tuis: qui te spoliavit, qui regnum tuum destruxit, qui te victum ligavit, et vasa tua diripuit: qui te projecit in tenebras exteriores, ubi tibi cum ministris tuis erit praeparatus interitus. Sed quid truculente reniteris? Quid temerarie detrectas? Reus es omnipotenti Deo, cujus statuta transgressus es. Reus es Filio ejus Jesu Christo Domino nostro, quem tentare ausus es, et crucifigere praesumpsisti. Reus es humano generi, cui tuis persuasionibus mortis venenum propinasti.

Adjuro ergo te, draco nequissime, in nomine Agni immaculati, qui ambulavit super aspidem et basiliscum, qui conculcavit leonem et draconem, ut discedas ab hoc homine (fiat signum crucis in fronte), discedas ab Ecclesia Dei (fiat signum crucis super circumstantes): contremisce, et effuge, invocato nomine Domini illius, quem inferi tremunt: cui Virtutes caelorum, et Potestates, et Dominationes subjectae sunt: quem Cherubim et Seraphim indefessis vocibus laudant, dicentes: Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus Dominus Deus Sabaoth. Imperat tibi Verbum caro factum. Imperat tibi natus ex Virgine. Imperat tibi Jesus Nazarenus, qui te, cum discipulos ejus contemneres, elisum atque prostratum exire praecepit ab homine: quo praesente, cum te ab homine separasset, nec porcorum gregem ingredi praesumebas. Recede ergo nunc adjuratus in nomine ejus ab homine, quem ipse plasmavit. Durum est tibi velle resistere. Durum est tibi contra stimulum calcitrare. Quia quanto tardius exis, tanto magis tibi supplicium crescit, quia non homines contemnis, sed illum, qui dominatur vivorum et mortuorum, qui venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos, et saeculum per ignem. Amen.

OREMUS ORATIO

Deus caeli, Deus terrae, Deus Angelorum, Deus Archangelorum, Deus Prophetarum, Deus Apostolorum, Deus Martyrum, Deus Virginum, Deus, qui potestatem habes donare vitam post mortem, requiem post laborem: quia non est alius Deus praeter te, nec esse poterit verus, nisi tu, Creator caeli et terrae, qui verus Rex es, et cujus regni non erit finis; humiliter majestati gloriae tuae supplico, ut hunc famulum tuum de immundis spiritibus liberare digneris. Per Christum Dominum Nostrum. Amen.

EXORCISMUS

Adjuro ergo te, omnis immundissime spiritus, omne phantasma, omnis incursio satanae, in nomine Jesu Christi Nazareni, qui post lavacrum Joannis in desrtum ductus est, et te in tuis sedibus vicit: ut, quem ille de limo terrae ad honorem gloriae suae formavit, tu desinas impugnare: et in homine miserabili non humanam fragilitatem, sed imaginem omnipotentis Dei contremiscas. Cede ergo Deo qui te, et malitiam tuam in Pharaone, et in exercitu ejus per Moysen servum suum in abyssum demersit. Cede Deo qui te per fidelissimum servum suum David de rege Saule spiritualibus canticis pulsum fugavit. Cede Deo qui te in Juda Iscariote proditore damnavit. Ille enim te divinis verberibus tangit, in cujus conspectu cum tuis legionibus tremens et clamans dixisti: Quid nobis et tibi, Jesu, Fili Dei altissimi? Venisti huc ante tempus torquere nos? Ille te perpetuis flammis urget, qui in fine temporum dicturus est impus: Discedite a me, maledicti, in ignem aeternum, qui paratus est diabolo et angelis ejus. Tibi enim, impie, et angelis tuis vermes erunt, qui numquam morientur. Tibi, et angelis tuis inexstinguibile praeparatur incendium: quia tu es princeps maledicti homicidii, tu auctor incestus, tu sacrilegorum caput, tu actionum pessimarum magister, tu haereticorum doctor, tu totius obscoenitatis inventor. Exi ergo, impie, exi, scelerate, exi cum omni fallacia tua: quia hominem templum suum esse voluit Deus. Sed quid diutius moraris hic? Da honorem Deo Patri omnipotenti, cui omne genu flectitur. Da locum Domino Jesu Christo, qui pro homine sanguinem suum sacratissimum fudit. Da locum Spiritui Sancto, qui per beatum Apostolum suum Petrum te manifeste stravit in Simone mago; qui fallaciam tuam in Anania et Saphira condemnavit; qui te in Herode rege honorem Deo non dante percussit; qui te in mago Elyma per Apostolum suum Paulum caecitatis caligine perdidit, et per eumden de Pythonissa verbo imperans exire praecepit. Discede ergo nunc, discede, seductor. Tibi eremus sedes est. Tibi habitatio serpens est: humiliare, et prosternere. Jam non est differendi tempus. Ecce enim dominator Dominus proximat cito, et ignis ardebit ante ipsum, et praecedet, et inflammabit in circuitu inimicos ejus. Si enim hominem fefelleris, Deum non poteris irridere. Ille te ejicit, cujus oculis nihil occultum est. Ille te expellit, cujus virtuti universa subjecta sunt. Ille te excludit, qui tibi, et angelis tuis praeparavit aeternam gehennam; de cujus ore exibit gladius acutus: qui venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos, et saeculum per ignem. Amen.

That's it. The whole shebang in original Latin. You actually need the first three in exorcising low level demons but for the big guys, just take the big guns.
An Excerpt From Hunted: Jake The Ripper by Artie Margrave

It was pitch black. The darkness was his friend. The night had worn on. It felt sometime around two. He had jumped all the way through the forest. He had little bearing of where he was but he knew where he was headed and he knew he was safe now. Safe again. But for how long?

Jake looked back. He saw dim lights in the distance twinkling in their tens. The hunters were far away now. He'd crossed the backup without alerting them. They were over two dozen. He'd stretched a fortune of distance between himself and them. Now he had the luxury of thought.

He inspected his two arrow wounds. The older wound had healed completely. Pale, wrinkled flesh had filled the hole that had bled. The second one was still open but it dripped less blood.

The hunters had outsmarted him twice. They'd killed his brood, his brothers, every one of them, even those from bits of his old life. Something that had seemed very much impossible to do.

That was the thing: all of his primary senses were honed to perfection the day he died and resurrected. His eyesight was better than the hawk's, his sense of smell sharper than the shark's. He grew hearing sharper than the owl's. He was also stronger, more flexible, tread long distances meant to take him hours in minutes and endurance, endurance that bettered the Dipodomys.

He also had the gift of thought transference. Telepathy. The Psychic communication. He could read minds, feel thoughts, particularly with people he was in some way connected to. He also had the ability to push thoughts into people but he hated it. There was nothing worse than being controlled. Being used. Forced to do against one's own will.

Forced to flee.

He was also blessed with the ultimate gift – Immortality. The span of his life was increased hundred-folds. Unending! He could live for decades, centuries even and wouldn't age a minute.

However, all of these abilities came with a price. A curse. Of course, why wouldn't they? They were all too good to be true. Every contract had loopholes. His, as well as his kind, had an arcane lust for blood as everlasting as their life span. His body needed blood to stay fit. Blood was the nutrient that kept his pigment fresh and kept him healthy.

For centuries, his kind had lived off people, killing them, infecting others, bringing up a dysfunctional bloodline. There was no denying that huge fact. He was a vampire. It was little wonder they had been hunted ever since. The hunters had studied them over the years. They'd grown smarter. And they had slaughtered them till he was just one left.

He, he'd gathered a bunch of 'misfits' together. Many of them hadn't come to terms with their vampirisms yet. They believed they were lost for salvation and had no place among the free living people. He became their Xavier. Jake Xavier. He brought them together, made them his family. Some of them had killed to survive, killed a mighty few. He turned them around. He gave them hope. He taught them how to live off animals. Animal blood was definitely not as juicy, delicious as human blood but he taught them to take animal blood and go by. And it worked.

The people identified them as Rippers. His merry band of Rippers. Why? They always left a bloody mess in their wake. Cow limbs torn apart, horse bowels flared to the public, one hoof here, a bloody dislodged chest there, probably some spilled random animal's guts soaked up in pig fats, those sorts of things. It was how they caught their fun, how they lived their life. The people complained bitterly but hey, it was rather the animals than them. They were satisfied. He was satisfied. The hunters weren't.

They were smart, he gave them that. He was strong, flexible, sharpest in all of his senses, immortal, but they were clever. And they had weapons. Weapons plus brains equals a very formidable foe. There was every reason to fear them and all of those reasons centered around him. He was the last one so figures.

Big Stan was the mad leader of their merry band of hunters. He was there when the hunters had stormed his nest and turned it into a bloodbath. He'd escaped, just barely. He hadn't seen the Mad Prophet that time and wasn't as scared of him as he was now.

Half of the moon had been eaten up by the night. He looked behind him. The tens of twinkling lights were still afar off.

Old Compshire was a little less than hundred kilometers before him. He believed he could get there unhurt. Get there and then what? The small town was all of the time quiet, organized, not the kind of place to be suspected for hosting 'monsters' like him.

It was a small town and those hunters were a mighty plenty. They could comb the place in seconds. But as small as Compshire was, it had a vast number of hiding places. Other vampires had made nests there; in dried up wells, underground trenches, even some in old forgotten houses with old forgotten dungeons, at the cemetery... He knew where he had to go. There he believed he could survive the rest of the night and faintly, hopefully, the day. He'd stayed at Compshire several times in the past and knew the town even better than the hunters. The tiny town had its own dark secrets too. Ghouls against Vampires classics. That was many a decade ago. He sighed, breathed out, and was beginning to relax but his senses tinged startlingly. That familiar sound, he was hearing it again. Soft, whispering drums, beating in twos. Half of a second between the two and a second after the two, intermittent, continuous. Then another, distinct from the first, just as intermittent. Then two others much faster than the first two.

Heartbeats!

He attuned his hearing, just in time. A metallic scraping sound of something slicing through the air. He dodged and the arrow zoomed past his ear.

"Found him, papa," a sickly voice declared.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

TOBI is a developing writer currently pursuing a degree in Computer Science. With your reviews he hopes to develop into a better writer. He currently lives in Lagos, Nigeria.

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