The Last Benediction

The chapel had stood long before memory could grasp its age. Its stones, darkened by centuries of rain, smoke, and shadow, seemed to breathe, carrying secrets that whispered in corners and between cracks. Father Malachi walked the nave with deliberate, careful steps, his worn shoes creaking softly against the wooden floor. His hand rested on the leather-bound book he had carried for decades, its pages yellowed, fragile, and heavy with words that seemed to shift if you looked too closely. The air was thick with dust and incense, but beneath it ran a subtle undercurrent, almost metallic, almost alive, pressing against his lungs as though reminding him that some things in this world were not meant to be touched.

“Father,” whispered Thomas, his pupil, pale and trembling, hands clenched tightly over the hem of his robe. “Are… are we ready?”

Malachi’s eyes scanned the shadows. Candles along the altar flickered, smoke curling upward, twisting into shapes that could have been angels—or wings of something far older and more patient. “We do not need to be ready, Thomas,” he said, voice calm but heavy with authority. “We need to obey. Faith will guide us.”

Thomas swallowed and nodded, though his throat burned with fear. He had seen exorcisms before, under Malachi’s guidance, but this felt different. The air pressed close, tight, the way it did when something waited just beyond sight.

Mary lay on the altar, wrapped in threadbare blankets that did little to hide the grotesque twisting of her limbs. She was quiet now, unnervingly so, her chest rising and falling like a small drum in the oppressive silence. Earlier, she had screamed in voices that were not hers, words that curled and slithered in the room like living things. The smell of iron and decay lingered, making Thomas gag. He forced himself to look away from her contorted fingers.

Malachi knelt beside her. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” he intoned, voice low and deliberate. The words echoed softly in the nave, vibrating against the stone, stirring motes of dust into shifting, dancing patterns. Thomas echoed him, faltering, uncertain, yet obedient.

Mary’s body jerked violently. Thomas flinched, clutching the edges of his knees. Malachi did not flinch, though his knuckles were white and his lips pressed tight. The boy noticed the faint tremor that ran along his mentor’s jaw, the subtle shaking of his hand on the altar rail.

“You must not fear,” Malachi whispered, more to himself than to Thomas. “The Lord will guide us. Obey, and the darkness will leave.”

Hours passed. Candles burned low. Shadows stretched and shifted, almost imperceptibly, bending the edges of the room. Mary’s violent thrashing slowed, replaced by a stillness so unnatural it made Thomas’s skin crawl. Her eyes fluttered open. Clear, wide, human. Relief hit him like a tidal wave. “She’s… okay,” he whispered.

Malachi smiled faintly, but the gesture did not reach his eyes. Relief was dangerous. The floorboards beneath them hummed faintly. A whisper coiled around the edges of Thomas’s hearing, sibilant, curling, gone when he turned.

When Mary’s mother arrived to take her home, she held her daughter close, whispered thanks, and left, oblivious to the subtle tension that lingered in the chapel like dust.

Thomas spoke first, voice soft. “Father… it’s over. Right?”

Malachi nodded, though his smile felt hollow. “The evil is gone,” he said. “The Lord protects us.”

Even as he spoke, a subtle weight pressed in his chest. Not outside, not in the air, but inside, winding along the edges of thought. Memories he had thought long buried stirred faintly, like shadows stretching to touch him.

The confessional waited at the back of the chapel, cold, dark, smooth under his palms. Malachi knelt inside, whispering prayers under his breath. Thomas lingered near the door, uncertain, uneasy, sensing a presence he could not name.

“Father?”

Malachi opened his eyes, forcing a smile. “I am… fine, Thomas.”

Fine was a lie. Fine had never felt like this. Subtle whispers began rising, curling in the edges of his mind. Not in the room, not in the air, but inside him, delicate, persistent, patient.

We are free, it said.

Malachi froze. The voice was soft, gentle, almost soothing—but patient and intelligent. It twisted the edges of thought, shaping them subtly.

He tried to pray, but the words felt wrong in his mouth, heavy, reshaped as they left him. The rhythm of the demon inside Mary was gone—but another rhythm had taken its place, entwined with his heartbeat. He looked at Thomas, wide-eyed, innocent. Malachi wanted to warn him, to say anything—but no words would form.

We are free. Free together.

The whisper curled like smoke, patient and cunning. Malachi’s horror crept slowly, almost imperceptibly. The exorcism had worked—Mary was free—but the demon had not left. It had only moved. It had entered him.

He shook, and the shadows in the corners seemed to lean closer, watching, waiting. The confessional walls pressed faintly, closing him in. He tried to pray again, but his syllables fell twisted and hollow.

Hours—or perhaps minutes—passed. The chapel smelled of smoke, candle wax, and a faint metallic tang that seemed to seep from the stones themselves. The girl was gone. The boy remained. Malachi knelt, whispering prayers, feeling the presence inside him respond, patient, intelligent, unyielding.

And then the memory surfaced. He had been fourteen, racing along the cliffside with Jacob, heart pounding, the wind sharp in his ears. They had glimpsed it then—a shape, long and pale, wings ragged, stretched impossibly across the rocks. They had screamed and fled, blaming shadows, the heat, their fear. That shadow had never left. Now, decades later, he felt it again, patient, cunning, inside him, guiding thought, twisting prayer, pressing against his soul.

He understood, slowly, with the cold certainty of despair: it had always been here. Always waiting. Patient. Intelligent.

A subtle movement at the far end of the chapel caught his eye. Wings? Or light bending strangely? He could not tell. A whisper, soft and insistent, curled along the edges of the room, echoing a rhythm of the past and present. His heartbeat echoed it.

Thomas did not notice. He never would.

Malachi pressed his hands together, forcing words from his lips. They emerged heavy, reshaped by the presence inside him. He looked at the boy. The altar. The flickering candles. And in the quiet, he understood: the demon was inside him.

It had not fled. It had only moved.

We are free… together.

The chapel held its breath. Malachi knelt. Shadows leaned closer. Wings flickered at the corners of vision, a memory, a promise, a presence. The boy remained, untouched, unaware.

Malachi realized with absolute clarity he would never be free. He would carry it, patient, silent, eternal.

The wind outside whispered against the stone, and the candles flickered in the empty chapel. Somewhere, deep within him, the demon smiled.