Chapter 5: Veil Of Deception
Marcus finished tending his fields under the fading afternVeil of Deceptionoon sun. He was a farmer nowVeil of Deception, living simply with his loving mother and two younger brothers, yet he carried the calm devotion of a priest in his bones. The air smelled of dust and hay as he wiped sweat from his brow and walked toward home. The village lay silent under a clear sky. Marcus thought of evening prayer and supper with his family, unaware how quickly peace could vanish.
As he reached his cottage, three figures stood on the porch. Father James, Father Francis, and Father Gabriel waited in the doorway, their cassocks stained and eyes wide with fear. Dust clung to their shoulders and desperation to their faces. Fr. James stepped forward without greeting. "Marcus," he said urgently, "we have come for your help. We are fighting something evil."
Marcus felt a chill in his chest. He led the priests inside and sat them at the kitchen table, where his mother quietly put out bowls of soup. The three priests spoke in hurried whispers, trying not to frighten the family. "Unholy things are happening in our parish," Fr. Francis said, voice trembling. "Priests are acting strangely, people are found dead by morning—often drained of blood. Worst of all, a nine-year-old boy is possessed by a demon. We are out of our depth. We need you to help us!" Marcus's eyes widened, but before he could answer, something disturbing happened in his home.
A sudden cold breeze rustled through the open door. The family dog snapped its head up and barked furiously at the rafters above. Marcus looked up, and his blood ran cold. Dozens of bats had descended onto the tin roof, hanging in a silent, roiling mass. The goats and sheep in the yard huddled trembling in a corner. Even the sky seemed to dim as if dusk had fallen early. In that instant Marcus understood: the demon had followed the priests here.
He sprang to his feet. "You must leave now, before dark," he urged, voice low and urgent. "This evil is here with us!" Fr. James grasped Marcus by the arm. "We cannot," he pleaded. "The boy is in torment tonight. We begged you to return so you could cast it out." The room fell silent. Marcus's mother stepped forward, eyes steady despite the fear. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and said, "Go, my child. Do God's work while you still can." Her faith was a steady light in the darkness, and Marcus took a deep breath and nodded.
By twilight, Marcus rode hard through the fields toward the village. Storm clouds gathered on the horizon, and with every mile Marcus felt a growing dread. He checked the crucifix at his neck and the holy water at his belt, determined to protect his family no matter the cost. The village of Esperance lay ahead, bathed in the last light of day.
Marcus reached the village gates as darkness fell. The place felt unnaturally still. A few villagers wandered aimlessly with distant eyes, murmuring prayers to nobody. Near the chapel entrance, a man in priest's robes knelt cross-legged, hands shaking, repeating frantic confessions under his breath. A young mother nearby clutched her sick child and glared at its pale reflection in a puddle as if it were a stranger. They froze briefly when they saw Marcus and crossed themselves, pleading silently for hope. Marcus rode closer, heart heavy, and dismounted quietly. He crossed himself and pushed open the heavy wooden doors, the hinges groaning as if warning them away.
Inside the old stone chapel, candles flickered in the gloom. Four priests surrounded a small boy bound in a wooden chair at the altar. It was the nine-year-old. His skin was ashen and dry; his limbs jerked violently. The boy's head was thrown back, eyes rolled white, as he screamed in a voice that was not his own. Fr. James, Fr. Francis, Fr. Gabriel, and Father Andrew kneeling in a circle around him all chanted prayers of exorcism. Holy water soaked the floor and hissed as it dripped from the boy's bound body. Marcus drew a crucifix from his cloak and held it to his heart, joining their chant: "In nomine Patris et Filii…"
The moment their prayers began, the chapel groaned and the candlelight died. A fierce wind ripped through the broken roof, scattering ashes and splinters. Through the jagged hole above, a sickly green cloud formed and blotted out the last rays of twilight. The boy's laughter deepened into a guttural roar. Before Marcus could react, a colossal form burst down through the ceiling. Methusi had revealed itself: towering and horrific, with charred black skin that pulsed like living embers. Massive, tattered wings unfurled behind it, dragging through the air as if rending the twilight sky. Its eyes burned with cold, pitiless fire. It stood nearly ten feet tall, a fallen angel of pure darkness, and Marcus felt his knees buckle at the sight.
The demon unleashed a roar that sounded like distant thunder. The floor beneath the altar cracked open. In an instant, five pillars of fire shot up, each one engulfing a priest. Marcus dove to the stone ground, clutching his crucifix to his chest. Fr. Michael's cry was cut off as flame consumed him, his body crisping instantly. Father Francis held up a Bible, but fire leapt up and burned the pages to ash. Father Gabriel fell to the floor face-first, ashen and still. The chapel filled with choking smoke and the smell of burning flesh. Marcus crawled away, coughing, eyes stinging, refusing to think of the scorched bodies.
Methusi roared triumphantly. In the ruined roof above, roof beams exploded apart and from the gap poured thousands of bats. They swarmed around Methusi in a black, screaming cloud. The creatures twirled as one, forming a dark tornado of wings above the priests' bodies. Then, as if obeying a command, they streamed out through the shattered doors and into the night sky. Methusi followed, its form dissolving into the shadows that twisted and melted away in its wake. Marcus forced himself to his feet, jaw clenched. "Mother," he whispered, already running outside.
He hurried to his horse and vaulted into the saddle. Lightning cracked across the sky, illuminating the horde of bats as they hurtled east. Great thunder boomed overhead, shaking the fields around him. The wind tore at Marcus's robes as if trying to snatch him from the saddle. The road back to his home was long and straight. Every thunderous stride of the horse carried the demon closer to his family. Marcus pounded at the horse's flanks with his heels and shouted, "Faster!" He leaned low, racing through the night.
The horse stumbled into Marcus's yard. He jumped down, heart hammering, and sprinted to the house. His old dog followed, barking anxiously. The front door was ajar, swinging on its hinges. Lantern light spilled out into the night air. Marcus rushed inside, calling, "Mother!" at the top of his lungs, but his voice cracked. The living room lay strangely quiet.
In the flickering lantern light, Marcus saw his mother kneeling by the hearth, arms wrapped around someone. Relief surged in him. He thought she believed he had returned. He ran forward. But as he stepped closer, the figure straightened, and Marcus's blood froze. The person standing there had Marcus's face—every feature in place—but a cruel, toothy grin stretched over it. Its eyes burned like cat's eyes, gleaming with hatred. The creature hissed, "Your mother is safe with me now." Fear struck Marcus to the core. He sprinted the final few steps.
His mother's face lit with joy. "Michael!" she cried. But when she saw the cruel eyes and wicked smile instead of her son's, relief turned to terror. "No…" she gasped, clutching at a small cross on her neck. The demon only sneered. With a single swift motion, it seized her head in its clawed hands and bent it back. Marcus screamed, but it was too late. There was a sickening crack as her neck snapped. His mother's eyes flew open in shock, then went blank. She collapsed silently to the floor.
Marcus stumbled, tripped, and caught his mother's limp body. Warm blood soaked his sleeve. He fell to his knees beside her, cradling her cold body to his chest. He pressed a hand to her neck where the blood flowed, but he knew there was nothing he could do. He pressed his lips to her forehead and whispered, "Mom... please..." Tears mixed with the blood on his hands as he held her close. "Jesus, help her," he prayed desperately, but no mercy came. Rage and sorrow burned in him. He kissed her forehead one last time and whispered, "I'm sorry." Through his tears Marcus felt ice settle in his heart. He would not forget this evil.
Outside, the black storm clouds were finally breaking to gray morning. Marcus stayed in the living room through the first light, unwilling to leave his mother alone. When dawn crept in, his two brothers arrived, eyes red with sleep and fear. Their faces fell as they saw their mother on the floor. Without a word, the three men set to work together.
By sunrise, they had dug a grave on the green hill above the village.
The villagers gathered with bowed heads as the simple ceremony began. Marcus placed a small bouquet of wildflowers on his mother's coffin—daisies and wheat from the field she loved. Carefully, he tucked his mother's rosary and a tiny prayer book inside her coffin. The mourners bowed their heads and the village priest spoke blessings as each brother dropped a handful of earth onto the caskets.
Marcus stood long after the grave was filled. The morning sun broke through the clouds, casting warm light on the dark soil. He pressed his hand to the wooden cross marking his mother's grave, whispering a quiet goodbye. His cheeks were wet with tears, but beneath the pain a new resolve burned. Methusi had taken everything he loved. But Marcus's faith was his armor, and he would not let this evil stand. He met his own reflection in a puddle of mud by the grave—eyes red, fists clenched, but jaw set with determination. He whispered, "God be my strength."
Turning to his brothers, Marcus did not need words. They walked away from the graves toward the smoldering village, the dawn light on their shoulders. Whatever lay ahead, Marcus knew he would face it with the power of his faith.
The war was only beginning.