Chapter 2: Seekingthe Bishop's Counsel.
He climbed the narrow stairs to the bishop's private chapel. Inside, Bishop Aurelius knelt before the high altar, praying the Litany of the Saints—the ancient invocations repeated in every solemn exorcism rite, When Marcus interrupted, the bishop rose, pale and grave.
"I have seen the boy's darkness," Marcus said. "This is no ordinary possession, the demon called itself Methusi—an entity unbound since before our records."
The bishop's eyes widened. "Methusi… that name is not in any index of infernal spirits, We must consult the old archives."
He led Marcus to a hidden cabinet beneath the sacristy, Within lay manuscripts dating to the sixteenth century—records of catacomb relics, exorcisms, and forbidden rites. Among them Marcus found a brittle parchment describing three priests who opened a "portal of the damned" beneath the church to summon a dark power. Their names: Zion, Kigali, and Jethro.
"This matches my vision," Marcus whispered. "We must find the portal and seal it."
By torchlight, they descended into the church's catacombs—narrow tunnels lined with the bones of martyrs exhumed from Rome's ancient cemeteries, the air was damp and stank of decay.
Bishop Aurelius held a vessel of holy water, prepared according to the Rituale Romanum's exorcism blessing, Marcus carried the crucifix and a relic: a fragment of mummified cloth said to be Zion's burial shroud,they paused before a low arch sealed by iron bands, strange symbols were carved into the stone—half Latin invocations, half alien runes.
Aurelius sprinkled holy water and intoned, "Ecce crucis signum, fugiant phantasmata cuncta" ("Behold the sign of the Cross; let all specters flee"). The iron bands groaned but did not break.
Marcus placed the shroud fragment against the arch. "This cloth was stained with Zion's blood," he said. "It may react." The runes glowed faintly red, then blackness swirled at the base of the arch—a window into a void, from its depths came a low rumble, as if something vast stirred.
Retreating from the arch, Marcus and Aurelius returned to the chapel, there they found Father Benedict, an elderly scholar who had studied under Zion himself, his mind a vault of lore.
Benedict fetched a leather-bound codex: an English translation of De Exorcismis et Supplicationibus Quibusdam, the Vatican's 1999 rite of major exorcism.
"To banish Methusi," Benedict explained, "we must perform the Rite of Major Exorcism here at the portal, We will need the Litany of the Saints, Psalm 68, a Gospel reading—preferably John 1:1–14—and the deprecative and imperative formulae." He paused. "And we must have more holy water, a blessed medal of Saint Benedict, and relics of martyrs."
Marcus nodded. "I will gather what we need. Miriam must be warned to keep the family safe."
Outside, the sky had turned a bruised purple, a wind howled through the empty streets. Windows rattled, In the distance, church bells tolled though no one rang them. Marcus hurried to the bishop's vestry, where he reviewed the village ledger. Reports had come in: livestock found drained of blood, wells turned blackish, birds falling dead from the sky, each event clustered around the church, as if the entire village orbited the portal's growing power.
He recalled the Harrowing of Hell—the belief that Christ descended into the underworld to free captive souls, now it seemed that Methusi's portal was an inverse: a gateway not for salvation, but for damnation.
Back in the sacristy, Marcus arranged the items on a white linen cloth: the crucifix, the mummified shroud, holy water, the Saint Benedict medal, and a small vial of salt blessed by the bishop, each element commanded by the Roman Ritual to expel demonic power, he traced a circle in holy salt around the altar.
Benedict began to chant the Litany of the Saints, Aurelius intoned the opening prayers of the Major Exorcism rite: "Our help is in the name of the Lord, Who made heaven and earth". Their voices intertwined, rising in strength. Marcus stood by the portal arch, crucifix raised, ready to confront whatever emerged.
As the chanting built to a crescendo, the void in the arch writhed, a hand—ancient, gnarled, black as oil—reached through, The iron bands splintered, a guttural roar shook the catacombs. Marcus felt the ground tilt beneath him.
"We begin at once," he shouted, stepping forward into the unknown.
The light of the chapel flickered and died, In that sudden dark, the portal breathed—hungry for release.