Father Marlo’s Ritual

  The night was restless.

  Father Marlo woke up with a jolt, his chest rising and falling as if something had pressed against it in his sleep.

  Outside, a storm was brewing. Lightning cracked through the sky, illuminating the town for fleeting seconds. The wind howled—not the kind that carried rain, but the kind that whispered omens.

  Something was wrong. He could feel it.

  He pushed himself from his stiff mattress and shuffled toward the church aisle. The candles flickered as he passed, the air thick with unease.

  At the altar, he fell to his knees. His hands shot into the air as he prayed in a fevered frenzy. Latin, Greek, Aramaic—words tumbled from his mouth in every holy tongue he knew.

  “Spiritus Sanctus, illuminet me!”

  His voice grew louder, his body slick with sweat. The old ritual—**the only thing that ever gave him clarity—**was in motion.

  He needed an answer.

  What was happening in this town?

  What was Emil?

  He swayed, spinning on his knees, eyes rolling as if something unseen had taken hold of him.

  “Emil… Emil… Emil…”

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  His voice echoed in the empty church, bouncing off the high walls like a taunt. The storm outside roared louder, as if something had heard him.

  But no answer came.

  Father Marlo collapsed, his hands trembling, heart pounding.

  He had felt something stir. A presence that should not be.

  And then, far off in the town square, a shadow stepped into Greywick.

  The Devil’s Visit

  The town of Greywick had many traditions, but none as dreaded as the arrival of the man in black.

  He came once every hundred years, stepping from the shadows as if he had always been there. No one knew his name. No one dared ask. They only knew what followed.

  Each time, he would take something. A child. A priest. A merchant. It was never random. Never questioned. The town understood:

  This is the balance of things.

  Tonight, he came for Emil.

  He arrived without sound, his coat absorbing the moonlight, his face like a painting that had been smeared just enough to be wrong.

  Stepping into the dim-lit square, he found Emil waiting.

  The boy stood still, hands neatly folded, dark eyes reflecting the lamplight in ways that did not make sense.

  The man in black took a step forward. Then another. He raised a gloved hand, fingers curling in command. The balance must be restored.

  But then—he hesitated.

  A tremor rippled through his limbs. His throat convulsed. His entire body recoiled as if the air itself had turned against him.

  A wet, retching sound tore from his mouth. Black bile splattered onto the cobblestone.

  The town watched in horrified silence. This had never happened before.

  Emil took a polite step closer. “Are you okay?”

  The man in black staggered back like he’d been struck.

  For the first time in history, he spoke. His voice was raw, hollow.

  “What are you?!”

  Then, in a blur of shadow, he turned and fled.

  His cloak whipped through the wind, and in an instant, he was gone—leaving only the bile, the silence, and a town too afraid to breathe.

  They had feared the man in black for generations.

  But now, they feared something else entirely.

  Evil itself had come to take Emil.

  And evil had run away.