The church isn’t picking up.
Or you don’t have cell service this far into the mountains. Either way, Jack is in for a rough morning.
“Ahh well, the hard way it is then”
You roll up your sleeves and run around the house grabbing ingredients. Cabinets are torn open and ransacked, spices rolling off shelves, counters swept clean. A cabin in the middle of nowhere is not exactly the best place to do a DIY exorcism but it’ll have to do.
You’re lucky that most demon possessions happen outside of churches so the ingredients are easy to come by. Hell, half the reason nutmeg is so common is because it's great for this type of thing. Lord knows that only three people total on the planet use it while cooking.
Jack is still on the floor, writhing where he collapsed. Fortunately for him, he fell on the carpet. Unfortunately for you, you’ll have to vacuum the salt and nutmeg out of the carpet afterwards.
You look at him and you could swear it’s just a seizure. It’s not though. That would be a bit coincidental.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Silver would be great right now, but any “silverware” you find is stainless steel. You lay a spoon on his forehead anyway. Placebo effect and all that.
Time for the real show.
You scrounge through your memory for the right phrase. Your latin is a little rusty, you went to public school after all, but you manage it anyway, walking through the evocations and bindings. The circle, once a future victim of a strong breeze, is suddenly a stone wall, not a grain of salt moving out of place.
“Balthazar?” You ask, uncertainly.
Jack’s eyes go as wide as they can go, black as the night sky with small embers floating through. “I am Xander the Unyielding,” It shrieks, voice tearing Jack’s vocal cords.
That’s not good. “Xander, you have to go back where you came,” You say calmly.
“I will tear out your beating heart --”
“Yeah yeah,” you cut it off, “Off you go” and with another string of latin it’s gone.
Jack’s body goes limp, like an automaton with a broken spring. He looks older, more careworn. His eyes remain closed, but his expression is one of discomfort. You can’t blame him, sharing your body with a demon shaves years off your life.
“Sorry, Jack,” you apologize, stroking his cheek, “but I really need to speak to Balthazar”
His body starts to shake as you start the summoning ritual all over again.