Chapter 23: THE ASHFORD POSSESSION — PART 2
Night fell over the Ashford house like a burial shroud.
We'd prepared the room as thoroughly as possible—crosses at every corner, salt lines reinforced, blessed items placed according to the Rituale Romanum. Ed had spent two hours consecrating the space, his Latin precise and unwavering, building walls of faith around the battlefield we were about to enter.
It felt like building sand castles against the tide.
Michael waited in his restraints, head still twisted backward from our earlier visit. He hadn't moved in hours. Hadn't spoken. Just lay there, that wrong smile frozen on his face, watching the doorway where he knew we'd appear.
"Remember the plan," Ed said quietly. "I lead the rite. Paul, you provide support and keep its attention. Lorraine monitors Michael's soul, warns us if he's fading." He met my eyes. "If I say abort, we abort. No arguments."
"Understood."
We entered together.
The cold hit immediately—deeper than before, bone-deep, the kind of cold that made your thoughts sluggish and your limbs heavy. Frost had formed on the windows since afternoon. Ice crystals glittered on Michael's eyelashes.
"You returned." The demon's voice rumbled through the room like distant thunder. "I thought perhaps you'd fled. So many do, when they see what I am."
Ed opened his book. Began the Latin phrases I'd memorized over two years of training, the ancient words of the Roman Rite of Exorcism that had been banishing demons since the Middle Ages.
"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus..."
The temperature dropped further. Michael's body convulsed against the restraints, back arching until I heard vertebrae crack. His mouth opened and a scream emerged—not his voice, not the demon's voice, but something in between. A child's terror mixed with ancient rage.
I stepped forward, channeling Faith Resonance into the blessed items Ed had placed around the room. They glowed faintly, pushing back against the darkness, creating a network of sacred power that pressed inward on the entity within Michael.
"Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii..."
The demon laughed.
It shouldn't have been able to laugh while an experienced exorcist spoke the sacred rite. The words should have caused pain, disruption, weakness. Instead, Seraph—I knew its name now, had felt it when I entered the room—seemed amused.
"Your Latin bores me, old man." The voice dropped an octave, became something that made my teeth vibrate in my skull. "I've heard better from priests who didn't survive the hearing. But you—" Michael's head rotated to face me, that wet cracking sound making my stomach turn. "You I want to hear. Let the anomaly try. Let's see what he's really made of."
[WARNING: ENTITY ENGAGING DIRECTLY]
[FAITH RESONANCE DRAIN DETECTED]
I pushed harder, forcing more of myself into the prayers I'd learned. The words came out in Latin that Father Mancini had drilled into me until I could recite them in my sleep.
"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti..."
The blessed items flared brighter. Seraph snarled—the first sign of discomfort it had shown. The restraints groaned as Michael's body thrashed, foam flecking his lips.
"Closer," Ed muttered. "Keep pushing."
I stepped toward the bed. Toward Michael. Toward the thing wearing him like a suit.
Michael's hand shot out.
The restraint around his wrist should have held. It was leather reinforced with blessed metal, designed by Ed himself to contain possessed individuals. But Seraph didn't care about design. Didn't care about physics or material strength or any of the rules that governed normal existence.
The restraint snapped. Michael's hand—impossibly fast, impossibly strong—caught my arm.
Claws manifested where fingernails should have been. Black, curved, dripping something that smoked where it touched my skin.
Three deep gouges opened in my forearm.
[SOUL INTEGRITY: 100 → 75]
[DEMONIC CORRUPTION DETECTED — MINOR]
[ENTITY DESIGNATION: SERAPH — TIER 3]
[WARNING: SENT BY HIGHER AUTHORITY]
I screamed. Couldn't help it. The pain wasn't just physical—it was spiritual, existential, as if the demon was trying to tear something out of me that had nothing to do with flesh.
"I am called Seraph." Michael's grinning face was inches from mine, breath that smelled of death and sulfur washing over me. "Your masters sent me to watch you. You are so much more interesting up close."
Masters? I didn't have masters. I didn't have anyone who—
Seraph threw me.
I hit the wall hard enough to crack plaster, slid down to the floor with stars exploding in my vision. Ed was shouting, continuing the rite, trying to regain control—but the demon's focus wasn't on him anymore. It was entirely on me.
"Paul!" Lorraine's voice, sharp with fear. "Get up! You have to get up!"
Furniture exploded. The chair beside the bed splintered into shrapnel that peppered the walls. The crosses we'd placed began vibrating, screws working loose, metal heating until it glowed.
The salt line broke.
"Abort!" Ed's voice cut through the chaos. "Everyone out! Now!"
Lorraine grabbed my arm—my good arm—and hauled me toward the door. Ed backed out behind us, still reciting, still fighting to hold some ground. But we were retreating, and Seraph knew it.
Michael laughed as we fled. The sound followed us down the stairs, echoing off walls, drilling into our skulls.
The door slammed behind us—on its own, without anyone touching it. Inside Michael's room, the boy screamed. His voice this time. His terror.
And we were helpless to save him.
The Ashford kitchen smelled of blood and antiseptic.
I sat at the table while Ed bandaged my arm, movements efficient and practiced. He'd done this before—for himself, for Lorraine, for the many people they'd saved over decades of this work. His hands were steady even when his eyes showed barely controlled fury.
"Three gouges." He pulled the bandage tighter. "Just like the Morrison demon. Just like the claw marks you got two years ago."
I remembered those scars. The faint lines on my left forearm that had faded but never quite disappeared. Now I had matching ones on my right arm. A matched set.
"It was waiting for me." My voice sounded distant. Hollow. "It wasn't even trying to possess Michael properly. It was just... waiting for me to show up."
"I gathered." Ed tied off the bandage. "It said 'your masters sent me.' What masters, Paul?"
"I don't know."
"Stop." His hand slammed the table, making the first aid supplies jump. "Stop lying to me. I've trusted you for two years. I've treated you like a son. And every time something like this happens, you retreat into 'I don't know' like it's a shield."
The words hit harder than Seraph's attack.
"I'm not lying." I met his eyes, forced myself not to look away. "I don't know who sent Seraph. I don't know why demons keep noticing me. I don't know what I am that makes me different." All true, technically. I knew I was a transmigrator, but I didn't know why that mattered to hell's hierarchy. "All I know is that something about me attracts their attention. And I've been trying to use that—to help people—while figuring out the rest."
Ed studied me for a long moment. I could see the war in his expression—anger fighting with affection, suspicion battling trust.
"Tomorrow," he said finally. "Tomorrow we research this 'Seraph.' We find its weaknesses. And then we go back in and save that boy." He stood, gathered the bloody gauze. "Get some sleep if you can. We have work to do."
He left me alone in the kitchen.
I sat there for a long time, listening to Michael's distant screams filtering down from upstairs. Wondering what "masters" Seraph was talking about. Wondering if the system—the Warren Legacy Protocol that had been guiding my path since I woke in this world—was somehow connected to the demonic hierarchy.
The thought chilled me deeper than any ghost ever had.
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