Blood Of The Eucharistic,
Marcus woke, drenched in sweat. The tunnel's darkness still clung to him, as if it had followed him upstairs. Pale dawn light through the narrow window did nothing to calm his racing heart.
He stumbled into the chapel aisle. Monsignor Valente stood at the altar, head bowed. Marcus paused, then knelt behind him. Valente's robe whispered against the stone floor. The Monsignor turned. Marcus thought he saw red flicker in Valente's eyes, but the moment passed. He shook his head.
At breakfast, the other priests spoke in hushed tones.
"Where is Father Joseph?"
"The Monsignor said he had urgent business."
"They say he slipped on the stairs and fell."
Fear trembled in their voices. Marcus pushed his porridge away and left without a word.
He climbed to the choir loft, heart tightening. There he found Valente, sorting hymn sheets with trembling hands. When the Monsignor saw him, his lips curved into a cruel smile. His eyes glowed dark red.
"Marcus," he snarled—his voice thick, unnatural—"you failed him."
Before Marcus could reply, Valente's shape blurred. His features twisted like molten wax. The kindly Monsignor vanished, replaced by a tall, gaunt figure with clawed hands and a face half‑shadowed. Two ember‑red eyes burned where Valente's had been.
Marcus reeled backward. "Monsignor!"
The creature laughed—a hollow, bone‑grating sound. Then it lunged.
Marcus raised his crucifix. The silver cross sizzled on clawed flesh; black ichor spattered the choir stalls. The demon recoiled, then dissolved into a swirl of smoke. In that swirl, Marcus saw another shape: Father Joseph's habit, folded neatly—then laid across the top stair.
Marcus raced down. At the bottom, he found Joseph's body. The priest lay face‑down, robes dark with blood. A single wound at the back of his skull split open like a cracked egg. Joseph's arms were splayed, one hand still clutching the censer. The brass chains lay broken.
Marcus knelt, trembling. He pressed two fingers to Joseph's neck. No pulse. Joseph's lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling. The soft clatter of the censer lingered in the air.
Then Marcus saw footprints—his own footprints—leading up the steps, each print framed in black ichor. He realized with horror: the demon had worn his face. It had stalked the stairs as Marcus, lured Joseph into the chapel, and crushed his skull with unnatural strength.
A voice echoed from above—the demon's mocking tone, dripping from Valente's lips: "He trusted you. He followed your example. And you delivered him to death."
Marcus covered his mouth. "No…"
He stumbled back. The choir loft doors burst open. Valente stood there once more, robe clean, face calm. But his eyes were empty pits of red.
"I needed a host," the demon rasped. "Monsignor was weak. So I took him."
Valente stepped forward, joints cracking like old wood. His lips peeled back to reveal jagged black teeth. "And then I wore your face," the voice continued, "to end Joseph's faith in you."
Marcus lunged, raising his crucifix. But the demon‑Valente vanished into a curl of smoke that drifted toward the altar. The candles guttered. Shadows stretched and twisted.
Marcus gathered himself. He crossed himself and began a new form of exorcism, one he had only read of in forbidden texts. He spoke in a firm, steady voice:
"In nomine Iesu, qui lux est et vita, ego te expello."
The words rang out. The smoke recoiled. The altar candles flared. Marcus sprinkled blessed salt in a wide circle. He traced the sign of the cross on the floor.
From the shadows came a low growl. The demon reformed—first as Valente, then shifting into its true shape: a hulking figure of smoke and bone, eyes burning like coals.
Marcus held the crucifix high and intoned the Litany of Protection:
"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us. Saint Michael, defend us. Saint Benedict, protect us. All you angels and saints, stand guard!"
The creature shrieked, a sound that rattled the pillars. It charged. Marcus braced himself behind the salt circle. The demon's claws scraped the stone; each strike sent sparks flying.
Marcus advanced, chanting the Exsufflation:
"Spirits of evil, be silent! In the name of the Father, I command you to speak no further lies."
At once, the demon froze, head cocked as if listening. Marcus seized the moment. He stepped outside the salt circle—risking its protection—and thrust the crucifix into the creature's swirling form.
"Exorcizo te, omnis immundus spiritus," he cried, voice cracking with effort. "Ex aure et ore Domini nostri Iesu Christi…"
Pain exploded in his chest. He gasped, falling to his knees. The demon's laughter filled his mind, twisting his prayers into mockery. His ribs felt as though they were being crushed by invisible hands.
But he held on. He forced out the next lines:
"…ut sis expulsus et educus foras, et non revertaris ad locum hunc. Per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen."
A burst of white light exploded from the crucifix. The demon reeled, hissing. Smoke and shadow tore away from its form. With a final, ear‑splitting shriek, it lunged at Marcus—and passed through him as if he were mist.
Marcus collapsed, body wracked with pain. His vision swam. He saw Valente's broken form slumped at the altar rails. Father Joseph's censer lay overturned, embers cold.
He crawled to the Monsignor. Valente's face was pale, eyes closed. Marcus placed a hand on his shoulder. "Monsignor… wake."
Valente's eyes snapped open—human eyes, frightened and confused. He whispered, "The… the tunnel…" Then he slumped, weeping.
Marcus helped him stand. He gathered the shattered censer and the pouch of ash. He pressed the items to his chest.
High above, the chapel bell tolled. Marcus realized he had no strength left for Matins. He made his way to the infirmary, each step agony.
That night, he awoke to a summons. A parchment lay on his pillow:
> "Fr. Marcus is suspended from all priestly duties, effective immediately, pending investigation into the death of Father Joseph."
Marcus read the words twice. The chamber felt suddenly cold. The torch on the wall guttered. He pressed a hand to his side—his ribs bruised, every breath a stab of pain.
He folded the parchment and tucked it into his robe. Methusi had used his face to kill Joseph and possessed Valente to sow chaos. Then it had slipped away, leaving Marcus to bear the blame.
Marcus rose and crossed himself. His voice was a whisper: "I will clear my name. I will finish the Rite."
He stepped into the corridor. The stones seemed to tremble underfoot. Somewhere deep below, the hidden portal pulsed with dark energy.
He would return to that tunnel. He would descend into its black heart. He would complete the Rite of Major Exorcism—not as a suspended brother, but as a true soldier of light.
Even if it cost him everything.
And he knew the final battle lay ahead—where Methusi waited, hunger in its ancient eyes, ready to claim his soul.
He did not look back. The road before him was pain. But it was the only road he had left.
Marcus walked on into the darkness.