6TH OF SEPTEMBER, 20**
LOCATION: IRELAND
On this day, 9:16pm a truth which has always been in thought a truth that have never been discovered, but this evening it will all be discovered.
Rain fell in thick, slanted sheets, drumming against the cracked pavement and pooling in the weeds that clawed at the sidewalk. The house stood at the end of the street, forgotten by time it's paint peeling, windows dark, and porch light flickering like a dying heart beat. Under the glow, a young man stood with an umbrella motionless. He started at the house, his face unreadable, but his knuckles whitened around the handle. There was something about the place that unsettled him, something he couldn't express but he felt it l, heavy and watching, just beyond the curtains.
Then he moved.
His footsteps splashed lightly as he approached the rusted gates, the hinges groaning as he pushed them open with a slow creak. The overgrown yard swalloed him in shadows as he stepped inside the compound, eyes scanning the crumbling walls and shattered windows. Overhead, the wind picked up, and a loud with a loud crack, a loose shingle broke free from the roof, crashing to the ground behind him. He flinched, but didn't stop.
The door eased open by itself with a low groan l, revealing only darkness inside. His unease deepend, but something, curiosity or duty pushed him forward.
He stepped into the house.
The door swung shut behind with a soft click.
The air was cold and thick with damp. Somewhere inside, the rhythmic plink...plink... of dripping water echoed through the silence. He followed the sound slowly, his footsteps muffled by the sodden floorboards, until he stood before the basement door... and reached for the handle.
The basement door groaned as he pulled it open, revealing a thick, suffocating darkness below. He squinted, his eyes scanning for anything to cut through the gloom. On a small stand beside the doorway, an unlit candle stood, forgotten but perfectly upright. He then place his hand on the rope of the candle litting the candle up.
Its flame flickered weakly, casting long shadows against the walls. With the candle in hand, he began his descent.
Each step creaked under his weight, and the deeper he went, the more the light behind him faded until it was swallowed completely. He looked back once, nothing but black. He was alone with the darkness.
Then, ahead, a faint glow.
He followed it, the candlelight wavering as he approached a half-open doorway. Beyond it was a room. Strange and untouched.
The walls were lined with old shelves packed with books, some tilted, others fallen. A cluttered desk sat in the center, buried beneath stacks of yellowed paper. Atop it, a small statue of Christ watched over the room in silence, arms outstretched. The flame danced in His glassy eyes.
He stepped closer and picked up one of the papers. A star-shaped symbol, hand-drawn, rough, and unnerving, was scribbled in thick black ink. He set it down and placed the candle on the desk, its glow spilling over the papers like molten gold.
Something caught his eye behind the bookstand, a hidden spine jutting out awkwardly. He reached for it and pulled free a thick, leather-bound book covered in dust and spider silk. He laid it on the desk, its cover blank and worn, its weight oddly heavy in his hands.
He stood for a long moment, staring at it.
Then he tried to open it.
But the book wouldn't budge.
He didn't know what else to try.
He tugged at the book again, pried at the binding, even ran the candle's flame along its edges, hoping the heat would weaken it. Nothing. He set it on the desk and slammed his fist down in frustration. Still nothing.
With a growl, he picked it up and hurled it at the wall.
It hit hard… then bounced.
Straight back at him.
The corner caught his face and made him stumble.
He stood in stunned silence, candlelight swaying as if amused. He stared at the book where it now lay on the floor, mocking him.
He exhaled sharply and dropped to the ground, sitting with his back against the desk, letting the frustration settle in his chest.
Then he looked at his palms.
A soft glow.
Yellow light began to pulse beneath his skin, like threads of fire weaving into form. A symbol the same star he had seen on the paper, etched itself just above his hands.
He thought to himself.
Could this be it?*
*He stood slowly and approached the desk again, heart pounding. He laid both palms flat on the surface of the book.
The moment his skin touched the cover, the symbol blazed to life.
The exact same star formed on the book's surface, pulsing in sync with the glow on his hands.*
Then.... Click.
The book shuddered… and opened.
Not at random.
Not by chance.
But to a specific page.
He leaned in, eyes scanning the ancient text scrawled in a language half-familiar, half-forgotten. Symbols, diagrams, incantations.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. There it was.
Something real.
Something meant for him.
He picked up the book gently, cradling it in both hands, and returned to the floor, sitting cross-legged as the candlelight flickered around him.
He flipped through the pages impatiently, muttering under his breath, "This isn't what I'm looking for."
Spell after spell, symbol after symbol, none of it made sense. Until something stopped him cold.
An envelope.
Tucked deep between two thick pages.
It was old and yellowed, sealed shut with wax nearly flaked away. One word was written across the front in bold, jagged handwriting:
NAAMAH
His hands trembled slightly as he dropped the book and tore the envelope open. Inside was a folded paper, brittle with time, titled:
A DIARY
He read. And with each line, his breath grew heavier.
"I have made many mistakes in life and many bad decisions. I was not a free man—I was a slave. A worker bound in chains. I wanted to be free from the shackles of slavery and darkness.
Then I met her.
She was the most beautiful person I had ever seen. Warm. Her smile could brighten the blackest of days.
She was… pure.
But we shared something in common. We were both chained, held captive by something far greater than us.
Still, we took a stand.
We broke free, with nothing but our will, and ran.
We had a family. A girl and a boy.
For a while… it was good.
Until that night.
I had gone out to buy gifts for the kids. But when I came back…"
The flickering bulb above him sputtered, buzzing faintly. The light blinked, casting sharp shadows that crawled across the walls. He paused, looking up. Silence.
He lowered his eyes back to the page and continued.
"...I saw her.
Lying in a pool of blood.
I stood frozen in disbelief.
Then I saw it—flames in the distance. Upstairs.
My children were upstairs.
I ran, heart pounding, lungs screaming—but they weren't in their room. I searched the house, yelling their names as the fire devoured everything.
I collapsed to my knees in the center of it all, broken. Helpless.
Then I felt a hand… cold, weak
It was her.
She clutched my shirt, pulled me close, and whispered with what strength she had left:
'Please… don't go back.'
Then… she died."
His eyes blurred as he read the next line, but he couldn't stop. The words pulled him deeper.
"I stayed in that spot for three hours. Motionless. Numb.
Then I heard a voice.
A voice I hadn't heard in five years.
The one who kept me in chains all those years…
The Devil himself.
He stood in front of me, smiling like an old friend.
He said, 'You thought you could walk away from me? There are consequences. Happiness isn't free.'
Then he leaned close and whispered:
'I hope your kids are still alive.'
And he vanished."
The paper trembled in his hands.
"In that moment, I swore I would kill him.
Not just him—but every last one of his followers.
No man.
No demon.
No angel.
Not even God Himself will stop me.
And in my journey… I learned the truth.
The Church isn't what we thought it was.
It's not holy. It's not pure. It's a mask. A front.
But I can't be sure I had to dig deeper.
It was all planned.
The Devil was just a part of the execution.
I've made it clear:
I will hunt them down.
One by one.
I've written their names.
In the Black List.
Kept in the book in my study.
Anyone who finds this book and the list please finish off what I couldn't... For my family."
As he finished reading, he let the paper slip slowly from his hands, floating gently onto the desk like ash from a fire.
He stared at nothing.
His mind swirled with questions, confusion wrapping around his thoughts like fog.
Was it true?
Could any of it be real?
Was this just the rambling of a broken man, or the confession of someone who had seen too much?
*Then he noticed it.
A small black pigment, smudged into the inside cover of the book. Almost invisible, almost… waiting.
He reached for it and carefully pulled it free.
It was small.
Rectangular.
A book, but thinner, sleeker.
The cover was dark leather, worn at the edges, and in faded gold letters it read:
BLACK LIST
His breath caught in his throat.
The thing was real.
The list the diary had spoken of. The one Naamah had used to track them, his enemies, his tormentors, those responsible for everything lost.
He opened it.
Names.
Dozens. Some crossed out in red ink.
Others untouched.
But what made his skin crawl was that among them were names he recognized. Names whispered in sacred halls. Names of people praised in temples. Revered. Worshipped.
He ran his fingers across the page slowly, almost afraid the letters would burn.
"Who… was this man?" he whispered.
And then his eyes landed on it.
The name. Not written like the others, this one was etched. Carved into the page, not with ink, but something deeper.
And in that moment, a cold realization crept over him.
Naamah wasn't just a man.
He was….