The Exorcist

Ithappened in the year 1813 A.D., when, as a young novice in a Bohemian monastery, I accompanied an important priest to Paris. It was the first serious errand in the three years of my ministry. We were traveling in a small carriage. I sat almost opposite him, but even that did not make the old man talk.

All the way the priest was silent. It seemed as if he had fallen asleep, but suddenly he opened his eyes and began to recite the Lord’s Prayer in Latin in a monotonous voice, looking at the wall of the carriage behind me. I looked around in surprise, but saw nothing but the wall. After the third time I prayed, the priest fell silent and closed his eyes peacefully. Relaxed as if nothing had happened. “Maybe I’ll become like that in my old age?” �" I thought at the time, not even guessing whether those years would come to me.

How far we traveled, I can hardly say, but soon the carriage stopped. The priest, I was never told his name, got out of the carriage, and I obediently followed. We stopped near a forest. A few meters away from us stood an old ramshackle house. It must have belonged to the local forester.

The priest strode confidently toward the house. I looked around as I went. It was a rather gloomy place. Old fallen trees had their roots twisted outward, as if showing the way to the underworld. Low gray clouds covered the sky, the wind flung leaves in my face and twisted them into small whirlwinds. As I went around a whirlwind, I caught a branch sticking out of the ground and almost fell, but the priest picked me up without even looking in my direction.

We walked up to the house. The priest went onto the little porch and knocked. No one answered, then the priest knocked again. There was a rustle behind the door, and then the door opened with a loud creak. An old man in some dirty clothes stood before me. Several small twigs were stuck in his long beard. It must have been the forester. He whispered something to the priest and looked at me incredulously. The priest smiled back at me and nodded, inviting me to come with him into the house.

I can’t tell if it was creepier outside or inside. Once inside, the first thing that caught my eye was a cross, chipped from several pieces, with a dead raven nailed to it.

‘It’s for protection,’ the Priest explained to me.

For the first time since we had met, he spoke to me. But my mind still wasn’t clear. Lord, Jesus Christ, what can a dead bird on a cross protect against? This is more like paganism. I was tormented by doubts and questions, but I was accustomed not to ask questions, but to narrate the Holy Letter. That was my lot then.

The master of the house invited us to sit down and have some water from the road. The priest took a mug of water and before drinking it, he dipped his cross into it. To me he ordered me to do the same with my cross. Once again, I swallowed my question. In our monastery we prayed before eating, but we never consecrated water before drinking in this way.

Suddenly, my companion, without even a drink of water, dramatically poured it on the forester. To my ignorant surprise at the time, the forester began to wriggle and groan heavily, making strange wheezing noises. Meanwhile, the Priest stood over the forester, holding a crucifix in one hand and smoking incense in the other. He began to recite slowly and insistently, first the Lord’s Prayer, and then other prayers in Latin that I no longer knew. The forester wriggled on the floor like a snake. I, numb with fear, continued to stand there, clutching a cup of water in my hands.

There was a rumbling noise. The priest snatched the cup from my hands and poured the contents on the forester. He howled and, exhaling loudly, lost his senses.

Suddenly the house shook. The beams began to crack.

‘Leave the house quickly,’ the Priest shouted to me. ‘And don’t look back!’

We ran for the exit, and in a moment I was outside. I shuddered with a quickening fear. I felt a kind of heat at my back. The noise and rumbling seemed to shake the ground beneath my feet. But I did not look back, as the priest had ordered me to do.

When it was quiet, about five minutes later, I turned around. Instead of a house, there was a pile of dead wood a few feet away. I started running frantically, looking under every beam, looking for the Priest. With difficulty, after removing a few pieces of wood, I saw him. The Priest was lying there, breathing heavily. He had a large gaping wound on his left forearm. I immediately tried to reach him from under the beams, but he stopped me.

‘Take this,’ he said quietly and held out his right hand to me, it too was covered in blood. I looked at the Priest’s palm. There lay a piece of leather. Judging by the size and bloodiness, it was skin from his forearm. ‘It will protect you. Come on.’

I took the Priest’s skin with a trembling hand. It had some strange symbol painted on it.

‘Carry it with you at all times until you get to that monastery we were headed to. There…’ the priest coughed, ‘You will find Father Jean. Tell him everything that happened here. With this sign �" don’t forget to show it to Father Jean �" I give you my powers and privileges,’ the Priest’s voice grew weaker and weaker. ‘The monastery will explain everything to you. Hurry. Patience is not a benefactor now.’

With these words the Priest died.

*******

I did not know what to do and, quickly praying for his soul, drove the horses to the monastery in the suburbs of Paris. In the courtyard I was met and led into a small hall. Soon Father Jean came to see me. He listened attentively to all my story and then asked me to show him the sign. When I took out a piece of leather, Father Jean gasped. Then he offered me dinner and lodging for the night, for which I was very grateful.

The next day, after prayer, I was led to one of the underground cells.

‘You have become the receiver of a great man, my son,’ Father Jean said to me. ‘Everything that was his is now yours. You will be the new exorcist of our monastery. And now we have to sew this mark on you,’ Father Jean pointed to a piece of the Priest’s skin. I looked at Father Jean with fear and surprise at the same time, but he only gave me a wooden stick in his teeth and lifted the sleeve of my robe. ‘This mark was drawn by a very strong man, but now he is in our Father’s realm and there is no other way out,’ with these words he began to sew the Priest’s skin to my forearm.

And now a few weeks had passed, and I had mastered weapons and Latin. Now a new uncharted life awaited me. I was leaving the monastery forever…

Reviews

[Relic]

I liked the story. I was immediately attracted to the font and the fact that it was written in the 1800's. I too wrote something in that time frame. (Not on my pages as of now) It seems to attract many writers for its romantic settings and language.

There were some things that kind of threw me off, but not to the detriment of the story. I'm glad I read it, I'll be reading more from you.

Good job.

[Yana Larson]

Thank you very much. I'm glad you enjoyed it. Yes, it's a special era. It's a special era that allows you to write off all sorts of strange things as magic and evil. You don't have to wonder what science would say)))) There's a lot of room for the creative soul

Have a good day)