The wind howled like a dying animal outside. Dry and mournful, it slithered through the cracks in the wooden walls, whispering secrets only the damned could understand. Steven sat alone in the dim room, bare chest still damp from the nightmare sweat, boxers clinging to him like second skin. The creaking of the old house was louder tonight, angrier somehow.
The bottle of whiskey sat untouched, casting a long, amber shadow over the table. Beside it lay the book: "Devil's Will." Its cover, worn and cracked like burnt leather, pulsed faintly, almost like a heartbeat.
He reached for it. Fingers trembled, not from cold, but from something he couldn't name. The second his thumb touched the edge of the cover, the lights in the house began to flicker. Once. Twice.
Then darkness.
A cold breath swept over the back of his neck. He turned.
Nothing.
He flipped the book open. The pages felt warm, too warm. Like they had soaked in fire and remembered it. His eyes scanned the strange language. It wasn't Latin. It wasn't anything human.
Then the whispers came.
"Burn…"
"Consume…"
"He's watching…"
"Set them free…"
The voices coiled around his ears like snakes, speaking over one another, hissing truths and threats. Male and female, young and old, some in rage, some in weeping.
He slammed the book shut, but the voices didn't stop.
They grew louder.
The flame on a nearby candle snapped high and green. The room suddenly smelled of scorched flesh and desert dust.
Steven stumbled back. The mirror on the wall began to rattle. Then it scratched.
One deep line… then another… then a third.
Three claw marks.
The whispers fell silent. In their place, a single voice echoed, booming, guttural, ancient:
"The soul you bear is not your own. The vengeance you wield is borrowed… and the one who gave it will return."
Steven backed away, heart pounding, breath sharp.
And in the reflection of the mirror, he saw Larry.
Pale. Hollow-eyed. Bound in chains of ember and ash. Reaching out to him.
Steven screamed.
***
The wind howled like a beast in pain, battering the ancient stained-glass windows of the old church that sat alone at the edge of town, where the roads stopped and the desert began. Lightning crawled across the sky, painting the wooden steeple in momentary fire. Rain tapped against the roof like drumming fingers.
Inside, the church was quiet. Hollow. Candles flickered on the altar, their flames bending toward some unseen breath. A crucifix hung above, shadowed and solemn, its Christ figure half-devoured by time.
Father Marcus stood alone in prayer, whispering in Latin beneath his breath. The scripture in his hand trembled—not from fear, but something more ancient. A feeling. A coldness brushing the edges of his soul.
Then the doors creaked open.
Wood groaned. Wind bled into the chapel. And there he stood.
A hooded figure stepped in from the storm. Rainwater dripped from the soaked edges of his coat. His head remained low, his face hidden in the shadow of the hood. But it wasn't the sight that turned Father Marcus pale.
It was the sound.
Each of the figure's footsteps on the wooden floor hissed with heat, burning the wood beneath him. Faint red embers crackled with each step, and the scent of ash followed behind.
Father Marcus's voice broke. "...Steven Henderson?"
Steven raised his head slightly. Just enough for the priest to glimpse tired, red-ringed eyes, full of weight. Full of fire.
"I need guidance," Steven said, his voice rough, hollowed by sleepless nights.
The priest looked around nervously, motioned quickly with his hand. "This way," he whispered, leading him down the side aisle toward a hidden wooden door. It creaked open into a small candle-lit room, used once for confession, now long-forgotten.
Steven entered slowly, dragging behind him the smell of brimstone.
Inside, Father Marcus locked the door. The flickering candlelight danced across the peeling walls, illuminating a small wooden cross nailed unevenly to the ceiling.
"Sit," Marcus said.
Steven obeyed, his breath visible in the sudden cold.
"I can feel it burning inside," Steven muttered. "Like I'm not alone. Like something's staring through my eyes when I look in the mirror."
Marcus didn't speak. He knelt, pulled open a hidden drawer beneath the altar table, and took out an old cloth-bound book.
"This place has seen devils before," Marcus whispered, placing the book gently in front of Steven. "But you're different. You carry him... and something else."
Steven looked at the cover.
It bore no title. Just a scorched handprint. It hummed with faint heat.
Then, Steven spoke barely above a whisper, "What is this?"
"The sins of fire," Marcus replied. "And the will of devils."
He looked at Father Marcus, his eyes bloodshot, voice breaking as the weight inside him finally slipped free.
"Pay for my sins, Father…" he whispered, pain cracking through each word. "What's happening to me? How could I… how could I ever regain my peace? I can't live like this anymore. I came here thinking to live a peaceful life away from the memories of what I've fought. But I can't find peace."
He ran his fingers through his wet, tangled hair, gripping it tightly. His chest heaved, muscles tensed as if he were holding back a scream, or something worse.
Father Marcus didn't move. His old eyes studied Steven, not with fear, but pity. He'd seen soldiers return from war. But never had he seen a soul this torn.
"Peace is not the absence of fire, Steven," the priest said gently. "It's learning how not to be devoured by it."
Steven shook his head, eyes wet, voice hoarse.
"He's not sleeping anymore, Father… The spirit inside me… he's awake and he don't want peace!"
The candle beside them flared suddenly, then died, leaving them in half-darkness. Silence fell.
Outside, thunder cracked again. But it was quieter here. Still. Like even the storm dared not cross the chapel's threshold.
Father Marcus stepped forward, placing a trembling hand on Steven's shoulder.
"Then it's time," he said. "Time you stop running. Time you learn who he is… and who you must become."
He pointed to the scorched book on the table.
"This is the Devil's Will. Not just a book—" he paused, voice heavy with dread, "—but a door. One you open with blood, and walk through in pain." Steven didn't respond. He just stared at the handprint on the book's cover, as the flickering flame of the last candle danced in his eyes.
Father Marcus took a cautious step back from the book, his old robes swaying with the draft that crept through the cracks of the chapel walls.
"Don't read it," he said, voice low, reverent, terrified. "That book was forged from the cries of the damned. Written in a tongue older than Hell itself. If you want peace…" he hesitated, searching Steven's eyes, "...you must sacrifice your inner soul."
Steven's brow furrowed, blood still wet beneath his fingernails. "Sacrifice?" he whispered.
The priest nodded solemnly. "You were not born with this curse, son. You took it. And to undo it, you must offer something equal in pain."
"The demon inside you… it doesn't feed on sin. It feeds on pain. On you. That book," he gestured toward the leather-bound Devil's Will sitting unopened on the altar, "may promise power. But it was not written for redemption, it was written for dominance."
Steven stood frozen, staring at the book. His breath slowed. The flicker of the candles seemed to dim… and for a brief second, he swore he heard it again, a whisper. A laugh. A low growl inside his bones.
Steven turned to leave, his footsteps echoing through the narrow stone corridor.
Just as he reached the door, Father Marcus's voice called out behind him—low and grave:
"Remember…"
"…when it gets independent, there's no turning back. So I wish you will do according to me to gain your older life."
Steven paused. His back stiffened.
He turned his head slightly, eyes shadowed beneath the hood.
"Yeah. I will. I know."
And then he disappeared into the night, the wind slamming the chapel doors behind him.