It was a crying shame. The Forester home was a smothering blanket of despair. Upstairs, Eli's tortured screams reverberated through the house. The walls trembled faintly with each shriek, as though the home itself recoiled from the presence inside.

In the dim living room, Father Pierce leaned against the wall, his cassock wrinkled and sweat-stained. His assistant, Deacon Samuels, stood beside him, adjusting his ill-fitted collar. Where Pierce’s discomfort seemed genuine, Samuels carried himself with a veneer of condescension that made Margaret Forester's stomach churn.

“Mrs. Forester,” Samuels began, his slicked-back hair shining under the flickering light of a table lamp. “The church is doing all it can to assist your family, given... the circumstances. But it would have been easier if—” he hesitated, then delivered the final blow with a venomous undertone, “—if Eli had been baptized.”

Margaret’s eyes widened, the words hitting her like a slap. “What are you saying?” she stammered, her voice trembling.

“It means,” Father Pierce interjected, straightening himself, “that the road to salvation may be longer. Demons are particularly vicious with unbaptized souls. It complicates the rites.”

“Complicates?” Margaret was close to sobbing. “He’s my child! He’s just a boy!”

Her husband, Todd Forester, clenched his fists, his jaw tight. “Enough with this church nonsense,” he growled. “Are you saying you can’t help him?”

“No, no,” Pierce replied quickly, raising his hands in placation. “Of course, we’ll continue. But it may require more... specialized assistance. That comes with additional resources.”

Samuels stepped forward, his smirk faint but unmistakable. “We’ll need your credit card information to ensure the Church can authorize further support.”

Margaret stared at them in disbelief, her voice cracking with despair. “You’re asking for money? My son is—he’s—”

“Possessed,” Samuels finished coldly, waving a dismissive hand. “And this isn’t a charity, Mrs. Forester. Salvation requires sacrifice.”

“Sacrifice?” Todd barked, his voice filled with fury. “You two vultures haven’t done a thing but pray and chant! I knew this was a mistake. We should’ve called a psychiatrist.”

Margaret turned to him, her face flushed with anguish. “How dare you! You’re not committing our only baby. he is our son, our only son your asshole!. He needs us, not some padded room in the damn house on the hill!"

----------------------------------------

“He’s your son,” Todd spat, his tone dripping with venom. “Always has been. Running around in his little wizard costumes, acting like some kind of freak. No discipline, no consequences. And look where it’s gotten us. He’s possessed!”

Margaret’s face flushed with anger. “How dare you say that about Eli! He’s a child, Todd—a child! He needs help, not your—your cold, toxic judgment!”

Todd sneered, his arms crossing as he leaned against the wall. “Oh, I’m the problem now? Sure, blame me. Go ahead, Margaret. That’s what you do, right? Can’t deal with the fact that you’ve raised a damn weirdo? This is on you. You’ve babied him since day one.”

Margaret stepped closer, her voice trembling with rage and sorrow. “Don’t you dare put this on me. Where were you, Todd? Always at work, barking orders like we’re one of your platoons. You think this family runs on discipline and yelling?!”

Todd scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Here we go. The ‘bad husband’ speech. Classic. News flash, Margie: life doesn’t come with participation trophies. Maybe if you’d taught him how to be normal instead of letting him play with his little wands and fantasy crap, we wouldn’t be dealing with—this!”

Margaret’s fists clenched at her sides, but before she could fire back, a low chuckle interrupted the tense exchange.

Both priests were smiling now. Father Pierce leaned slightly closer to Todd, his tone sickly sweet. “He’s not wrong, Mrs. Forester. Lack of discipline does leave openings for sin to creep in.”

Deacon Samuels added, his voice just as condescending, “You’d be amazed at how many parents enable these... situations. It’s a shame, really.”

Margaret’s mouth fell open, her anger momentarily eclipsed by shock. “How dare you... How dare you blame me when my son is upstairs screaming for help!”

Todd smirked cruelly. “They’re not wrong, Margie. This is your circus, and that’s your little demonized monkey.”

The tension boiled over, their voices clashing as Eli’s tortured screams grew louder, filling the house with anguish. Then—

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

Three deliberate knocks echoed through the chaos, each one louder and more insistent than the last. The sound carried an unnatural weight, shaking the very foundation of the home.

The arguing stopped instantly, the oppressive silence replaced by an icy chill that seeped into the room.

“What the hell?” Todd muttered, his eyes darting toward the door. “Who... who would come at this hour?”

Father Pierce took a cautious step back, his face pale. Deacon Samuels followed suit, muttering nervously.

Todd stormed to the door, his frustration boiling over. “This better be important,” he growled, yanking it open.

Standing in the doorway was a tall man, his silhouette framed by the dim glow of the porch light. He was dressed impeccably in a black and gray suit, his crimson tie tied neatly at the collar. A wide-brimmed black hat sat low on his head, a red strap circling its base. His gloves one on each hand that looked e3xactly the same, stark black, bore white embroidered crosses on both the palms and backs of his hands.

“Good evening,” the man said smoothly, his voice calm and controlled. “I’m with East Valley Power and Gas. We received a report about abnormal energy consumption at this address.”

Todd’s brows furrowed, his anger reigniting. “What are you even talking about? It’s the middle of the night! Who called you?”

The man stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. His movements were slow, deliberate, and unsettling.

“Hey!” Todd barked. “Who the hell do you think you are? Get out of my house!”

The man adjusted his hat, unbothered by the outburst. “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he said, his tone as cold as the air now chilling the room.

Before Todd could respond, a low, guttural growl rumbled from somewhere deep within the house. The walls trembled, picture frames rattling as the sound grew louder, reverberating through the space.

Margaret clutched her chest, her breathing shallow. “What’s happening?” she whispered.

The man turned to her, his sharp gaze cutting through the dim light. “How long,” he asked calmly, “have you been afflicted?”

Margaret hesitated, but before she could answer, Todd snarled, “This is insane. I’m calling the cops.”

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

The man exhaled deeply, his breath visible in the now-freezing air. “That’s not going to help,” he said softly, almost to himself.

The house groaned, and from upstairs came a sound that was unmistakably not Eli’s voice—a deep, echoing laugh that shook the walls.

Van Helsing’s cold breath lingered in the air like an omen as he spoke again, his voice low, deliberate, and calm. Each word seemed to hang in the room, heavy and inevitable.

“That’s not going to help,” he said, his pale eyes flicking toward Todd’s clenched fists. “What will help is answering my question. How long has your family been afflicted?”

He turned to Margaret, ignoring Todd’s simmering rage. “You seem... more reasonable. Tell me.”

Margaret opened her mouth, but Todd cut in with another venomous sneer. She wanted to protest every fiber in her screamed to ignore him, kick him out. but deep inside behind the torment and pain there was a single speck of hope.

Margaret hesitated before answering, her voice trembling. “It started when we moved here... two months ago.”

Van Helsing tilted his head slightly, as if pondering the weight of her words. “Two months in a new town?”

Margaret shook her head quickly. “No... Same town. Just a new house.”

Van Helsing nodded slowly, as though piecing together fragments of a puzzle. “I see. And what of GI Jackass here?” He gestured toward Todd with the faintest flicker of a smirk. “Has he always been like this, or is his hostility also new?”

Todd’s anger boiled over. He surged forward, grabbing Van Helsing by the collar and dragging him toward the door. Margaret screamed, trying to pull her husband back, but he shook her off, his fury unstoppable.

“I’ve had enough of this!” Todd bellowed. “Priests, Helsings, all of you—get out! Just get the hell out of my house!”

Van Helsing’s expression remained calm, his body unyielding despite Todd’s grasp. “As you wish,” he said softly. “But do me a favor first. Show the priests out, would you?”

Todd froze mid-step, his face twisting in confusion. Margaret’s breath hitched, and her wide eyes darted around the room.

“The priests?” she whispered.

Todd let go of Van Helsing’s coat, his head snapping toward the living room. The priests were gone. No sound, no movement, nothing to suggest they had ever been there.

And the house had gone silent.

Not the comfortable silence of an empty home, but a cold, oppressive stillness that clawed at the edges of the senses. It was the kind of silence that amplified every breath, every heartbeat, and made the hairs on the back of the neck stand on end.

Todd and Margaret exchanged a panicked glance.

Then the lights began to turn off.

It started with the small nightlight in the corner, its glow vanishing with a faint pop, leaving a cluster of insects buzzing confusedly in the dark. Then the lamp on the table flickered twice and died. The television sputtered out next, the screen going black with a hollow click.

One by one, the lights in the hall extinguished, followed by those in the kitchen. The darkness crept through the house like a living thing, consuming every trace of light until only the front room remained illuminated.

Margaret clutched Todd’s arm. “What’s happening?” she whispered.

Todd looked toward the stairs. The shadows at the top of the staircase seemed impossibly thick, as if the darkness had gained mass and was waiting there, alive and watching.

Then the smell came.

It was sharp, pungent, overwhelming.

Margaret gagged, covering her nose with trembling hands. “Is it... gas?”

Todd shook his head, his face pale. “The power, maybe?”

Van Helsing, now standing in the middle of the room, removed his coat methodically, draping it over a chair. “Neither,” he said, his voice cutting through the suffocating air. He met their eyes, unhurried, unafraid. “It is sulfur... and darkness.”

He began rolling up his sleeves, revealing forearms marked with biblical passages. The inked words were precise and intricate, each verse standing in stark contrast against his pale skin.

Across his chest, partially visible beneath his button-down shirt, were passages from the Holy Bible—Job, Enoch, John 3:16. They seemed less like tattoos and more like scripture etched into his very being.

Along his forearms were names written in bold, ancient lettering:

Adam, Seth, Enos, Kenan, Mahalalel, Jared, Enoch, Methuselah, Lamech, Noah.

Beside each name was their lifespan:

Adam – 930 years. Seth – 912 years. Enos – 905 years. Kenan – 910 years. Mahalalel – 895 years. Jared – 962 years. Methuselah – 969 years. Lamech – 777 years. Noah – 950 years.

Only Enoch lacked a death date.

“If you fear the dark,” he said, his words measured and deliberate, “I suggest you step into the light.”

The room’s only illumination came from two candles on a shrine near the fireplace. The once-warm fire had vanished, leaving only the faint flicker of the candles’ flames. Between them rested an urn, surrounded by religious memorials—a statue of the Virgin Mary, a figure of the baby Jesus, and small plaques inscribed with words of love and peace. It felt less like a source of comfort and more like a solemn memorial.

Van Helsing approached the shrine, his footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence. He extended his gloved hands over the candles, murmuring softly. “We appoint this mortal sorrow, most merciful God. Maintain the light.”

As he spoke, the flames flickered, not dying but shifting, as though drawn by an unseen force. The fire leapt from the candles, trailing through the air like serpents of light, before wrapping around his arms. The names etched into his skin began to glow one by one, each illuminated with a fiery brilliance.

The room plunged into absolute darkness. The glow of the names on Van Helsing’s arms became the only light, casting an eerie glow that made the shadows around them seem alive.

Then, it came.

“ROAAAWR!”

The sound was guttural, unearthly—a roar and a scream, reverberating from the blackness in front of them. Margaret clung to Todd, who stood frozen, his face pale with terror.

But Van Helsing did not falter. He did not scream.

He preached.

His voice rose, a commanding presence in the void. As he spoke each name, its meaning resonated, echoing like a divine decree.

“Adam—Man!” The name ignited, casting a radiant glow.

“Seth—Appointed!” Another name flared to life.

“Enos—Mortal!”

“Kenan—Sorrow!”

“Mahalalel—Blessed God!”

“Jared—Shall Come Down!”

“Enoch—Teaching!”

“Methuselah—His Death Shall Bring!”

“Lamech—The Despairing!”

“Noah—Rest!”

With the final word, the glow from the names on his arms surged into a vertical beam of fire and light. The blaze pierced the darkness, revealing the source of the horrific growl.

Two demonic figures stood before them, their forms grotesque and twisted. Their flesh was a sickly gray, marred by cracks from which oozed a tar-like substance. Their eyes glowed with a malevolent red light, and their wicked, snarling faces twisted in agony.

They were wearing the clothes of the priests.

The realization struck Todd and Margaret like a physical blow. These creatures, now shrieking and writhing in the holy light, had once disguised themselves as men of God.

The fire from Van Helsing’s arms lashed out, striking the demons. Their flesh sizzled and melted under the relentless assault, their screams echoing in the enclosed space. The air filled with the acrid stench of sulfur and burning flesh.

Van Helsing’s voice rang out above the chaos, a steady proclamation of faith and resolve.

“You who dwell in the shadows, be revealed in the light of His glory! Be consumed by His justice!”

The demons’ forms convulsed, their bodies disintegrating under the purifying flames. Their howls grew weaker, their presence dissipating into the void, until finally, they were gone.

Silence returned to the room, save for the steady crackling of the holy fire now dimming on Van Helsing’s arms before phasing out.

Looking down at the floor, Margaret and Todd stared in stunned silence at the blackened ashes smeared across the hardwood. The once-pristine floor was now scorched, marked with soot and shadowy remnants of the demonic forms.

Margaret, her voice trembling, managed to whisper, “I... I can’t believe you... just...” But the words faltered, lost amid the whirlwind of her thoughts.

Van Helsing glanced down at the mess, his expression as calm and detached as if he were inspecting a wine stain on a tablecloth. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “I really should have put down some newspaper.”

Margaret’s mouth fell open. Todd, nervously shifting his weight, let out a strained laugh before quickly silencing himself, unsure whether to be amused or horrified.

Van Helsing straightened his tie and glanced at the couple, the faintest trace of a smirk curling his lips. “I’m sure a little soap, some water, maybe a bit of salt and vinegar will do wonders for that. But, just to be safe, you might want to consider hiring a professional. Some stains have a way of... lingering.”

The husband and wife remained frozen, wide-eyed and speechless, as the house began to stir back to life. One by one, the lights flickered back on, returning a semblance of normalcy—though the air still carried the faint acrid tang of sulfur.

Van Helsing adjusted his coat as he prepared to leave, his presence already beginning to feel like a dream or perhaps a fevered hallucination. “Your child will be fine,” he assured them, his voice calm but firm. “The demons were not bound to him. They were latched onto this house.”

Margaret stepped forward, desperate for answers. “What do you mean? Why our home? Why us?”

Van Helsing paused at the threshold, his back to them. His silhouette was framed by the soft light spilling in from the street, his figure as mysterious and otherworldly as when he had arrived. “There are places,” he said slowly, his voice carrying the weight of some ancient truth, “that act as magnets for the unholy. Residual despair, hatred, grief... they seep into the foundation, the walls, even the soil. A house like this, with a past as dark as its shadows, doesn’t need much to become a beacon for something far worse.”

And with that he left.

He did not elaborate, he felt no need to.

Instead etched on to the floor was a warning as if it were burned into the wood hidden under the ashes, a warning that on this foundations demons were burned for their sins.

A warning that the spirit realm would not forget.