CHAPTER EIGHT

Father McMullen knelt before the altar, his hands trembling as he clasped the rosary, praying for clarity. And also, he had to admit, praying for protection. His mind still flashed images of that girl, Scarlet, brought here by her mother so many days before, of that moment when even here, in this holy place, every window shattered. The father glanced up and looked all around, as if wondering if it had really happened—and he felt a sinking pit in his stomach as he was given the stark reminder, the former windows now boarded up with plywood.

Please, Father. Send us protection. Send her protection. Save us from her. And save her from herself. I ask for a sign.

Father McMullen didn’t know what to do. He was a small-town priest, with a small-town parish, and he did not have the skills to deal with a spiritual force of this magnitude. He had read legends of it, but he had never known it to be true, and certainly had never witnessed it with his own eyes.

Now, after spending his entire life praying to God, after spending his life talking to others of forces of good and evil, he had witnessed it for himself. True spiritual forces were doing battle, here on earth, on display for all to see. Now he had experienced it—everything he had ever read and talked about to others—for himself.

And it scared him to death.

Can such evil really walk the earth? he wondered. Where did it come from? What did it want? And why had it all come his way, fallen into his lap?

Father McMullen had contacted the Vatican right away, reporting what had happened, asking for their help, for guidance. Most of all, he wanted to know how to best help this poor girl. Were there any ancient prayers, ancient ceremonies, he did not know of?

But, to his dismay, he had never heard back.

The father knelt there, praying, as he did every afternoon, now praying longer and harder.

The father suddenly flinched as the huge, arched wooden doors to the church banged open, light flooding in behind him, a cold breeze rushing on his back. He felt an immediate chill—and it was not just from the weather.

He sensed that something dark had entered the place.

The father, his heart pounding, quickly gained his feet and turned around, facing the entrance, wondering what it could be. He squinted into the light.

In walked the silhouettes of three men in their sixties, with white hair, dressed in all black, with black turtlenecks and cassocks. He examined them in wonder; there was something different about them, something sinister. They did not look like any priests he had ever seen.

“Father McMullen?” one of them asked.

The father stood his ground as they approached, and nodded back shakily.

“Who are you?” he asked. “How may I help you?”

“You sent for us,” one said.

The father looked at him, puzzled.

“I did?”

They reached him and as they did, one of them held a piece of paper out.

The father took it. It was from the Vatican.

“They’ve sent us to investigate,” one of them said.

The father felt some relief, yet still, he examined them with apprehension, taking in their stark appearance.

“I am honored that you’ve come all the way from Italy,” he said. “Thank you for coming. Can you help?”

The men ignored him, though, all turning, examining the plywood on the windows, looking at each other knowingly, as if they had seen this before, as if they knew exactly what had happened.

“This girl that you describe,” one said, his voice dark and low. “What is her name?”

“Her name is Scarlet,” Father McMullen replied.

“Last name?” the same man asked.

The father looked at him, unsure. He did not know if he should protect his parishioner, protect her privacy. But he knew that was silly; these men belonged to the Church.

“Paine,” he answered, feeling increasingly hesitant.

One of them wrote as he spoke.

“And where does she live?” he prodded.

Now the father felt even more uncertain. He cleared his throat.

“With all due respect, may I ask why are you asking all of these questions?”

The three men looked at each other disapprovingly, then one of them stepped forward. He came too close, and the father took a half step back.

“If we are to help her,” he said slowly, his voice somber, “we need to know everything.” He leaned forward. “Everything.”

The father cleared his throat and averted his stare.

“Well…” the father said, then stopped. “I would like to know how you plan on helping her. Perhaps I can bring her here to the church to perform the service?”

The father wanted these men, whom he felt unsure about, on neutral ground.

“Father,” one of them said, stepping forward and clasping a firm hand on his shoulder, “I don’t think you understand. We did not come to help your parishioner. We came to stop her.”

“Stop her?” the father asked, horrified. “What do you mean exactly? She’s just a teenage girl.”

The man shook his head.

“She is far more. She is an ancient, demonic soul, and she will unleash a destruction unlike you have ever seen on the world. Our jobs, as members of the Church, is to stop her—by any means necessary.”

The father paled. “Our job is to heal our people,” he said, horrified. “I did not write to the Vatican for this. I think you should all leave now. I did not want this.”

The man tightened his grip on his shoulder, and the father cried out. His grip was so strong, it sent a pain up and down his spine.

The man stared back with steely black eyes, and the father felt as if he were staring into the depths of hell.

“You may not have wanted us,” he said darkly, “but we are here. And we are not leaving until this girl you speak of—Scarlet—is dead.”