posted on Jul, 17 2005 @ 12:08 PM
* * March 27 1896 * *
“Father, you summoned me?”
“Ahh, Michael, please do come in.”
Michael stepped into the candle lit den, closing the heavy oaken door behind. He turned to his left, kneeled, and quickly made the sign of the cross
before the crucifix which hung upon the wall.
He rose as quickly as he kneeled, and walked further into the room, careful not to touch the musty library which had been the life’s work and
research of the aging priest, Father Francis McCain. Though Michael took great pains not to gaze at the tomes at his sides, he could not help but
notice such titles as Unausprechlichen Kulten, Liber Ivonis, Livre D’Ivon, and De Vermiis Mysteriis stacked side by side along with
the Holy Bible. A sense of dread filled Michael’s heart as he scanned the books, and took comfort when at last he was able to free himself from
“I see by the look on your face, young Michael, that my books have caught your attention?” stated Father McCain from behind a large desk, adorned
with carvings and covered with various instruments and devices unknown.
“Father, beg your pardon, but... no one has ever stepped into your den before. To see such demonic scripts such as these, held by the office of a
priest of the Catholic Church! What am I do make of this?” Michael replied nervously, careful to avoid the Seal of Solomon covering the floor as
he moved to the chair opposite of the Father.
“My boy, you need not worry or concern yourself with these. In fact, I must confess, it is because of these books which I have brought you here to
me.” McCain answered. He finished writing, lowered his quill pen back into it’s well, and placed the parchment into a drawer.
His head lifted to gaze at Michael on more time, his eyes red and tired.
“I have an important mission for you, Michael. It is of utmost importance that you do exactly as I tell you.”
“Yes Father, of course. You know I shall do whatever you ask. Even if I were not your subordinate, you are my friend. You have but to ask.”
Father McCain sighed heavily. “Yes, I know. And you as well have been a friend to me all these years I have been stationed here. That is why I
know I can trust you, that is why I despise myself for involving you in this.” Father McCain pushed himself from the desk and stood, staring out
the stained window behind.
“Father?” questioned Michael. What was going on here?
“Hmm... The sun sets early this evening. Look, over there, the children playing as if nothing could ever be wrong in their lives.” McCain shook
his head. “To be innocent, and ignorant, again.”
Michael stood by his mentor’s side. “Father, tell me what is bothering you, and what I can do to help.”
McCain smiled and placed his hand upon Michael’s shoulder. “I cannot.”
“Then why have you brought me here? The way you talk, your actions, and all of this-“ Michael said as he turned, waving his hands about. “What
manner of study is this?”
“Sit, my friend, sit. I shall tell you just enough, in the hopes that it would be enough. And with that, maybe some semblance of understanding
shall arise. But you must swear to me, and all that you hold holy, that you shall not tell any soul of what you will learn here tonight. Swear
Michael looked deep into the Father’s eyes, gauging the old man before him. Liver spots dotted his face and hands. His hair, of what little is
left, gray and thinning. His eyes, however red they may be, full of life and shine... and of what? Concern? Panic?
“I swear, Father.”
“Good boy. Now sit with me, and listen to what I must say, and then you will know what you have to do.”
Hours passed as Michael sat, listening, not speaking a word. He sat, listened, watched the concern seep from his friend’s face. He sat, watching
the shadows grow longer, reaching, feeling his heart race and his breath becoming harder. He sat, and listened, while Father McCain talked about his
life, his works, and what was to come to the both of them.
“I... I understand, Father.” Michael braced himself upon shaking hands, lifting from the chair. Michael turned to the door, head bowed in such
a way so that the library could not be seen.
Reaching for the door lever, Michael, with head still low, whispered to his friend, “And you are certain about this?”
“Yes, Michael, I am. I have seen it,” whispered McCain in turn, as he once again looked out the window into the night sky.
Michael opened the door and left, leaving Father Francis McCain alone.
“He’s gone now. You may return.”
A shadow gathered form from the darkest corner of the room, merging and shaping into that of a man.
“You know he will not do as you asked him to,” a gravelly voice echoed throughout the room.
“I know. But as you said earlier, some things cannot be helped.” McCain reached into a second drawer of the desk, opening to reveal a ceremonial
dagger kept within.
“You still have a choice. You, above all, do not have to take this course.”
McCain pulled the dagger out from the desk. “I know, and I understand the outcomes of both choices.”
“Are you ready, then?” asked the shadow as it flowed closer.
“Yes, yes I am.”
McCain sat back down, holding the dagger close to his heaving chest. Closing his eyes, McCain began.
“Forgive me father, for I have sinned,” he spoke, as the dagger plunged deep. His eyes flung open to look at the shadow before him. “Please,
forgive me...” he responded with the last of his breath.
“No, Father. It is I who must ask forgiveness of you.”
* * * * *