When I was a young priest, fresh out of seminary, I was assigned to a small parish in Spain, a place steeped in history and tradition. My mentor, Father Mateo, was a middle-aged priest in his early 50s, a man who had enjoyed a peaceful career with little drama. He was kind, wise, and deeply devoted to his faith, embodying the calm and steady presence that I aspired to emulate. The town we served was old, its cobblestone streets winding through a labyrinth of ancient stone buildings, some of which had stood for centuries.
The heart of the town was our church, a magnificent Gothic structure that dominated the skyline. The cathedral’s towering spires reached toward the heavens, its stone walls adorned with intricate carvings of saints and angels. Inside, the air was cool and heavy with the scent of incense, the light filtering through the stained glass windows casting a kaleidoscope of colors on the polished stone floor. The altar, adorned with golden candlesticks and an ornate crucifix, was the focal point of the church, drawing the eyes of the faithful to the symbol of Christ’s sacrifice.
Father Mateo had served in this church for decades, guiding the souls of the townspeople with a gentle hand. His life had been one of quiet devotion, marked by the rhythms of daily Mass, confessions, and the sacraments. He had seen the town change over the years, but his faith remained unwavering, a beacon of stability in an ever-shifting world. My arrival was meant to be a continuation of that peace, a passing of the torch from one generation of priests to the next. But that peace was not to last.
One evening, as Father Mateo and I were returning from visiting a sick parishioner, we passed by a narrow alley. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed two figures standing in the shadows. They were dressed in black—one a gaunt, pale woman with eyes that gleamed unnaturally in the dim light, the other a tall, wiry man of African descent, his expression vacant, almost hollow. They were an odd pair, but what struck me most was the palpable sense of unease that radiated from them. It was as if the very air around them was charged with something malevolent.
Father Mateo noticed them too, his face creasing with concern. “We should approach them,” he said, his voice steady but laced with a hint of worry. He was not one to shy away from those in need, but something about these two figures unsettled even him. Still, we were men of God, and it was our duty to offer help to those who might need it.
We approached cautiously, introducing ourselves as servants of the Church. The woman stared at us with a cold, piercing gaze, while the man remained silent, his eyes unfocused, as if his mind was somewhere far away.
“We’re here to offer you the light of Christ,” I said, extending a small crucifix toward them. The woman’s lips curled into a faint, almost mocking smile. She accepted the crucifix, but her touch lingered on it too long, as if she were testing its weight, its power. The man said nothing, his gaze still fixed on some unseen point in the distance. There was something deeply unsettling about the encounter, something that gnawed at me long after we had parted ways with the strange pair.
A few weeks passed, and the memory of that night began to fade, though it never completely left me. Then, one afternoon, as we were leaving the church after evening prayer, I saw the woman again. She was waiting for us at the gates, her appearance even more disheveled than before. Her eyes were wild, filled with a desperate urgency that made my skin crawl. She rushed toward us, grabbing my arm with surprising strength.
“Father, you must come to my home,” she pleaded, her voice shaking. “There is something I need to show you. Please, it’s important.” Her grip tightened, and I could see that her hands were trembling.
Father Mateo, ever the compassionate servant, was ready to follow her immediately, but I held back. There was something about her that filled me with dread, something dark and oppressive that seemed to cling to her like a shadow. Still, I couldn’t ignore her desperation, and so I reluctantly agreed to accompany her.
She led us through the narrow streets, her steps quick and unsteady. The town was quiet, the sun setting behind the hills, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch out like grasping fingers. We arrived at a crumbling building on the outskirts of town, near the ancient castle that loomed over everything like a silent sentinel. The building was old, its façade cracked and weathered by time, and it exuded a sense of abandonment and decay.
When she opened the door and invited us in, I hesitated. The Church had strict rules about visiting the homes of single women, but she assured us that her friend—the man we had seen with her that night—was inside. I looked at Father Mateo, who nodded, his eyes bright with curiosity and concern. Reluctantly, I agreed, and we stepped inside.
The moment I crossed the threshold, I felt it—a suffocating presence that seemed to press down on me from all sides. The air was thick, heavy with a sense of foreboding that was impossible to ignore. The walls were covered in strange symbols and writings, some of which were familiar, while others were utterly alien. There were crosses, but they were inverted, twisted mockeries of the sacred symbol. Other drawings depicted grotesque figures, bizarre and unsettling in their detail.
One image, in particular, caught my eye—a pair of cell phones, drawn with childlike simplicity, yet each had arms and legs, and they were holding hands. Beneath them was a crudely drawn pentagram. It was a disturbing blend of the mundane and the demonic, and it sent a chill down my spine.
Father Mateo, however, seemed undeterred. “What is all this?” he asked, his voice steady but tinged with curiosity. The woman turned to him, her eyes wide and unblinking.
“They are the symbols of the old ways,” she whispered. “They protect me…or they used to.” Her gaze shifted to me, and for the first time, I saw real fear in her eyes. “But they’re angry now. Ever since you gave me that crucifix, they’ve been angry.”
I felt a surge of dread. This was no ordinary fear, no common superstition. Something dark and ancient had taken hold of this woman, something that fed on her despair. I knew then that we needed to leave, to distance ourselves from whatever malevolent force had taken root in this place.
“I’m sorry, but we have another appointment,” I said, my voice strained as I tried to mask my unease. “Perhaps we can come back another time.”
But she wouldn’t let us leave so easily. “No, please,” she begged. “You have to help me. I’ve tried everything, but they won’t go away. They’re angry because of you, because you disturbed them. You have to make it right.”
Father Mateo, full of compassion, turned to me with pleading eyes. “We should help her. This is why we’re here.”
Reluctantly, I agreed. “Very well,” I said. “But first, let us pray.”
The woman nodded eagerly, leading us to the center of the room where a small table stood, covered in melted candles and more of those strange symbols. Father Mateo and I bowed our heads, and I began to pray, invoking the protection of the Lord, asking Him to cleanse this home of any evil that might dwell within it.
As I prayed, the atmosphere grew even heavier, the air thickening with an unnatural pressure. When I asked God to bless the home so that only good spirits could dwell there, something shifted. The door to the room slammed shut with a deafening bang, and a cold wind swept through the space, causing the candles to flicker wildly. My heart pounded in my chest, and I could feel the presence of something dark and malevolent, something that was angered by our intrusion.
Father Mateo’s eyes were wide with shock, but he remained composed. “We should continue,” he said, his voice firm but shaken. I finished the prayer quickly, and as soon as the final word left my lips, the wind died down, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.
“We need to leave,” I whispered to Father Mateo. He nodded, and we both turned to the woman, who was staring at us with a strange, unreadable expression.
“We’ll come back another time,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “But for now, we must go.”
We left the apartment as quickly as we could, the oppressive feeling lingering even as we stepped out into the night. The streets were empty, the only sound the echo of our footsteps on the cobblestones. As we walked back to the rectory, neither of us spoke. The memory of the slamming door and the unnatural wind was fresh in our minds, and I knew that something was terribly wrong.
The following days were filled with unease. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we had stumbled into something far beyond our understanding, something that had been waiting for us. Father Mateo tried to remain optimistic, but even he couldn’t deny the fear that had taken root in his heart.
Then, a few days later, the woman came to us again. She was even more frantic than before, her eyes wide with terror. She claimed that ever since our visit, her home had been plagued by strange occurrences—whispers in the dark, objects moving on their own, a cold that seeped into her very bones. She said that the spirits were angry, that they were punishing her for inviting us into her home.
“They’re old spirits,” she said, her voice trembling. “They’ve been here long before us, before the church, before everything. They don’t want to leave.”
I exchanged a worried glance with Father Mateo. We were not exorcists, and this was far beyond anything we had been trained for. But we couldn’t ignore her desperation. Something evil had taken hold of her, something that fed on her fear, and we had to do what we could to help her.
That evening, we decided to return to her apartment, but this time we came prepared. We brought holy water, crucifixes, and a collection of blessed items. Father Mateo suggested that we bring images of Christ and the saints to cover the strange symbols that adorned her walls. It was a desperate measure, but we had little else to go on.
When we arrived, the atmosphere was even worse than before. The air was thick with a sense of malevolence, and the temperature had dropped noticeably. The man, her silent companion from before, was there again, sitting in the corner, muttering to himself in a low, rhythmic tone. His eyes were closed, his expression vacant, as if he was in a trance.
The woman led us to the center of the room, where the strange symbols were most concentrated. We began to hang the images we had brought, covering the walls with depictions of Christ, the Virgin Mary, and the saints. As we did so, I could feel the tension in the room increasing, as if the very walls were resisting our efforts.
Father Mateo took out a vial of holy water and began to sprinkle it around the room, reciting prayers of protection. The man in the corner suddenly stopped his muttering and began to tremble, his eyes rolling back into his head. The woman clutched her rosary tightly, her knuckles white with fear.
Then, just as Father Mateo finished his prayer, a gust of wind blew through the room, more powerful than before. The windows rattled, and the lights flickered as if on the verge of going out. The candles on the table were extinguished in an instant, plunging the room into darkness. I could hear the woman gasping for breath, her fear palpable in the pitch-black room.
“Continue the prayers,” I commanded Father Mateo, my voice trembling with both fear and determination. He did as I asked, raising his voice above the howling wind that seemed to come from nowhere.
As I listened to him pray, I felt an overwhelming presence, something ancient and dark, pressing in on us from all sides. It was as if the very fabric of reality was bending under the weight of this malevolence. I could feel it in my bones, a primal fear that told me we were in the presence of something far more powerful than anything we had ever encountered.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, the wind stopped. The room was plunged into a suffocating silence, broken only by the sound of our ragged breathing. I could feel the eyes of the woman and her companion on me, their gazes filled with a mixture of fear and expectation.
Summoning what courage I had left, I stepped forward and placed my hand on the woman’s head. I began to pray, calling upon the power of Christ to banish whatever evil had taken hold of this place. The words felt heavy on my tongue, as if they were being dragged out of me by some unseen force.
As I prayed, I could feel the presence growing stronger, pushing back against me, resisting my words. The temperature in the room dropped further, and I could see my breath misting in the cold air. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I knew that if I faltered, if I let my fear take hold, whatever was lurking in the shadows would win.
And then, just as I felt I could go no further, a sense of peace washed over me. The darkness receded, and the room grew warm once more. The oppressive atmosphere lifted, leaving behind a stillness that was almost unnerving in its suddenness. The woman let out a shuddering breath, her body relaxing as the tension drained away.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, Father Mateo spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s over.”
We left the apartment that night, our nerves frayed but our faith intact. The woman thanked us, her voice trembling with relief. As we walked back to the rectory, the streets were eerily quiet, the only sound the distant tolling of the church bell. I wanted to believe that we had done some good, that we had driven out whatever darkness had taken hold of that place. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t over. Not really.
In the days that followed, the woman began attending Mass regularly. She confessed her sins, sought absolution, and seemed genuinely repentant. She spoke of peace and a newfound sense of purpose, and for a time, I allowed myself to believe that we had succeeded.
But then, late one night, as I was preparing for bed, I heard a faint whisper outside my window. At first, I thought it was the wind, but the sound grew louder, more insistent. It was a voice, speaking in a language I didn’t recognize, low and rhythmic, like the chanting we had heard from the man in the apartment.
I looked out the window, but there was no one there. The street was empty, the night still. Yet the whisper continued, growing closer, as if it were moving through the walls, circling me, closing in.
I grabbed my rosary, clutching it tightly as I began to pray. But even as I prayed, the whisper didn’t stop. It lingered, just on the edge of hearing, a reminder that some shadows are never truly banished. They retreat, yes, but they don’t disappear. They wait, biding their time, watching, waiting for the right moment to strike.
And that was only the beginning.
Over the next few weeks, the symbols I had seen in the woman’s apartment began to haunt my thoughts. They would appear in my mind unbidden, sometimes when I was alone in my room, other times during Mass. I would catch glimpses of them in the shadows cast by candlelight, in the patterns of the stained glass windows, in the faint etchings on the stone walls of the church. They were always there, lurking at the edge of my vision, waiting for me to acknowledge them.
My dreams became a battleground. Night after night, I was tormented by visions of the symbols, of the dark presence that had haunted the woman’s apartment. In my dreams, the symbols would come to life, twisting and writhing like serpents, their shapes shifting into grotesque forms. I would see the woman’s face, twisted in agony, her eyes pleading with me to save her. But no matter how hard I tried, I could never reach her. The darkness would close in, suffocating me, drowning me in a sea of despair.
I began to dread sleep, knowing that the nightmares awaited me. Even in the daylight, I felt the presence of the darkness, hovering just out of sight. The shadows in the church seemed deeper, the corners darker. There were times when I would catch movement out of the corner of my eye, but when I turned to look, there was nothing there.
Father Mateo noticed the change in me. His once peaceful demeanor now carried a weight of concern, his eyes filled with worry as he watched me struggle. “You’re not yourself, my son,” he said one evening after Vespers. “Whatever you’re facing, you must confront it with faith. You mustn’t let it consume you.”
I wanted to heed his advice, but the fear was too great, the darkness too overwhelming. It was as if something had taken root inside me, feeding on my doubt, my uncertainty. I continued to pray, to seek solace in the rituals of the Church, but the symbols remained, growing more vivid, more real with each passing day.
One night, as I lay in bed, exhausted but unable to sleep, I heard the whisper again. It was closer this time, almost inside my head. The words were still unintelligible, but their meaning was clear. They were calling to me, beckoning me to follow, to give in to the darkness that had been stalking me.
I couldn’t take it any longer. I grabbed my rosary and fled to the church, seeking refuge in the only place I believed was safe. The cathedral was dark, the only light coming from the candles that flickered on the altar. I knelt before the crucifix, clutching the rosary so tightly that the beads dug into my skin. I began to pray, desperately seeking comfort, begging for the darkness to leave me.
But as I prayed, I felt a cold breath on the back of my neck. The whisper was louder now, clear and insistent. I could feel the presence behind me, looming, waiting. I squeezed my eyes shut, reciting the Lord’s Prayer over and over, hoping it would drive the darkness away.
Then, just as I felt I could bear it no longer, the whisper stopped. The air grew warm, the oppressive weight lifted. I opened my eyes and saw Father Mateo standing beside me, his hand on my shoulder, his expression calm and resolute.
“It’s not over,” he said quietly. “But you’re not alone. We’ll face this together.”
His words brought a sense of relief, but also a lingering dread. I knew that whatever had taken hold of me, whatever darkness had been awakened, was not gone. It was still there, waiting in the shadows, biding its time.
The following weeks were a blur of prayers, confessions, and rituals. Father Mateo and I spent countless hours in the church, cleansing it, blessing it, trying to rid it of the darkness that had taken root. But the symbols continued to haunt me, appearing in my dreams, in the shadows, in the very walls of the church.
And then, one evening, as we were finishing our prayers, I noticed something that sent a chill down my spine. On the floor of the church, just in front of the altar, was a faint outline. It was one of the symbols from the woman’s apartment, barely visible, but unmistakable.
I pointed it out to Father Mateo, my voice trembling. He looked at it, his expression grave. “It’s a sign,” he said, his voice heavy with the weight of his words. “The darkness isn’t finished with us.”
I wanted to ask what we should do, but the words caught in my throat. I knew there was nothing more we could do. The battle wasn’t over, and the darkness was still watching, waiting for the right moment to strike again.
And so, we continue our work, trying to bring light to the shadows, to drive away the darkness that haunts this town. But I know that it’s only a matter of time before it returns, before the symbols reappear, before the whispers start again.
Because some battles aren’t meant to be won. Some shadows aren’t meant to be banished. They linger, waiting, watching, knowing that one day, we’ll falter. And when we do, they’ll be there, ready to claim us.
The darkness is patient, and it knows that sooner or later, we all succumb to it.
Hayden Coombs 