The Priest's fingers spit out holy water, which sizzles on the walls. He circles the living room chanting useless words from a book. The Victim is sitting on the sofa, rocking, smelling like sweat and death. And I am waiting unseen on the ceiling.
"Begone demon!" The Priest yelled.
The demand makes me smile. Weak Priest. The Victim is mine. And they will have their endless nightmares, blood-letting scratches, and my wicked whispers. They will see the images of my twisted, contorted, vile body.
I am their Hell, Priest.
I won't leave...
because I'm still rotting in the basement.