Eldritch Exorcist

“You surprised me,” Sam said, looking at Peter standing in the storage room’s doorway.

“I surprised myself,” he replied, walking inside.

His hands shook slightly, but his expression stayed determined, even if he looked a little pale.

“You sure?” Sam asked, closing the door behind him and pointing to the chair. “It’s a path of no return.”

Peter sat down stiffly, not letting his back touch the backrest, his gaze fixed on a large container covered in runes at the center of a ritual circle.

“You say that, but it seems you’ve already prepared,” he said with mirth. “I kinda expected something grander,” he added, noticing that the runes and ritualistic parts covered a simple industrial metal tub filled with unidentified liquid.

“I could make it look like a coffin,” Sam proposed. “But the ritual is really not that complicated from a technical standpoint. Some rather basic necromancy to turn your body into a better vessel and mana reattunement to help you materialize, but to be honest, the only really hard part is up to you,” Sam explained.

Peter stayed silent, looking at the setup, speaking only once the storm of thoughts had subsided a bit.

“Will it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“I was hoping you would try to at least sugarcoat it.” Peter chuckled.

“I can’t lie to you about the ritual. Neither can you lie to yourself. I hope you are aware of that. So if there was anything you wanted to say to your mother or—”

“I didn’t talk to my mother,” Peter cut in.

Sam was clearly taken aback, looking at the young man with a frown.

“This again?”

“It’s not like that,” Peter answered, shaking his head. “I can’t make a decision like that for her. And if she doesn’t accept it… well, so be it.”

Sam nodded after a second of thought.

“But remember not to try to pretend it doesn’t bother you when pushing your soul. You’ll have to be clear about what you are, or the ritual will fail.”

“I know.”

“No small lies, no half-truths.”

“I know,” Peter repeated.

“And you won’t be able to turn back. Once we begin, you either finish the rite or you die.”

“I know.”

“I know you know. But I need you to understand. I need you to understand how close to true death you will be. Understand there won’t be a heaven to go to. This is it. You fuck this up, there are no second chances, no resurrections, no clouds for you to sit on and play a harp overlooking the earth. You die, you’re gone forever.”

Peter opened his mouth to confirm once again, but then closed it. The idea of heaven and hell as his father had taught it to him had died somewhere, some time ago, along with the man. He paused for something else. It wasn't longing for heaven, but for that nothingness, for the rest. A feeling he thought he had gotten rid of once the pain subsided, but it turned out not to be that easy, as more and more problems and dilemmas piled up in his life.

“I understand,” he said after a pause.

“Good.” Sam then went to pick up a set of tools from the desk. “Then let’s get you prepared. I’ll have to mark your flesh for the enchantments, which means I'll have to carve symbols into it. Something like tattooing, but you might feel it beyond the flesh. I can numb your skin, though—”

“No,” Peter cut in, shaking his head. “It’s fine.”

Sam stared at him for a few seconds, narrowing his eyes. “You didn’t push your soul out of your body today. You’re in pain.”

“I have been for the past few days.”

“Why? The ritual wouldn’t be affected.”

“Just a reminder,” Peter said with a shrug. “Your speeches about magic and power are nice, don’t get me wrong, but it’s kinda… distant. It’s nice to know what I run towards, but to make the decision, I… I felt like I needed to remember what I was running from.”

“You scared yourself into the decision?” Peter lowered his head slightly, but Sam’s next words surprised him. “Well… if it works for you.”

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The boy looked at him, frowning.

“I thought you would believe the promise of power should have been enough. Or something along those lines…”

“Sure. It should be in my book. And maybe some time ago I’d tell you it was just a sign of weakness, but… I guess… as a certain feline said, we have different breaking points and things that push us. So while I never did anything fuelled by fear, I sure as hell pushed through some fights with hatred and pride. But in the future, I’d suggest choosing a different motivator than fear or running from something. Emotions can be treacherous. Discipline and drive are a much better foundation.”

“I’ll try to rely on them, then, once I know what that goal really is beyond running from pain.”

Sam gave a short nod. “Let’s get back to magic, shall we? Emotions are exhausting.”

“You’d prefer to drown me than talk about them?”

“I’d prefer drowning myself, depending on the length of the talk. Now sit.”

The next few hours were spent on preparations for the rite. As Sam said, the magic itself was relatively straightforward. He drew runic arrays and circles on Peter's skin, some in paint only, others etched into the skin with ink, while some were cut directly into the flesh. Peter was also surprised by his part, as it was just, well, drowning and then clinging to life as much as he could. There were no words for him to say, no spells to cast, just hanging on until he was back.

“You will feel a pull from the inside, something trying to take you away, tear you out in every direction at once. At the same time, you should also sense the mana, although I have no idea what it will be like. I never read a first-hand account of a ghost’s materialization,” Sam explained, leading Peter to the pool. “Your soul after the mutation is already halfway there. It should begin your change naturally, but the human half will try to, well… die. Don't let it.”

As he explained, Sam led Peter towards the tub, pointing for him to sit at the edge.

“Ready?” he asked as the young man plopped onto the cold metal edge with the water behind him.

“Ready.”

“You sure you don’t want to call anyone?”

“No,” he answered firmly. “This is my decision. And I’ll live with it or, well, die with it,” he said.

“Good. I’d say take a deep breath, but that will just lengthen it,” Sam joked despite the situation. “Get rid of the air in your lungs.”

Peter did as instructed, sitting at the edge of the metal pool. He felt his heart racing, like it was about to jump out of his chest. The fear numbed his body as thoughts swarmed. There was a reason he hadn't tried the projection for the last few days. And it was exactly this. He knew he would have second thoughts. The idea that maybe he could just live like this with the discomfort until an easier solution came with time now seemed so logical.

The words “let’s stop” were at the very tip of his tongue. But the pain was like a wall in front of them. There was a reason he did not talk to his mother. She hated magic, the thing that had killed her husband, the thing that kept him alive. In the end, she believed it was evil. His boyfriend, on the other hand, would tell him not to risk it. He just wanted to go back to their old life somewhere else, but that was the extent of the changes he wanted.

But not Peter. He wanted to get away from the pain. He wanted the change, yet the thought that it was a bad idea grew with each second, broken only by Sam’s words.

“Once you are submerged, you will panic and fight out of instinct, so I will hold you down. This is your last chance. The moment you touch the water, I will drown you,” he said, his voice even, strong, and strangely reassuring in its coldness. He would not hesitate. He would drown him.

Fear pressed on as Peter wanted to shout to stop. But with the last ounce of will, he stopped himself and forced out a slight nod. It was all that the last part of his courage managed to do before giving his body over to fear. That was enough. Peter opened his mouth to scream, but it was too late. Sam pushed him into the water by the chest.

The moment Peter’s back touched the liquid, it was as Sam described. Every instinct flared. He stayed still for a few seconds before he started to struggle. At first, it was a reflexive push to get up, stopped by the arm holding him down. That push quickly grew into a struggle as he tried to fight his way out of the water. But it was no use. The arm was much stronger than he was, like an iron clamp on his chest.

This continued for a good minute until, finally, his lungs couldn’t take it anymore and he took a reflexive breath, the muscles winning the struggle against his control. The first sensation was terrible as the liquid burned and choked him. Peter tried to cough, but it only brought in more liquid. He fought and struggled, as tears mixed with the fluid all around until something changed.

The oxygen-deprived muscles slowly relaxed as a strange peace and calmness began to take over.

It wasn’t that bad.

There was coldness, but with it, the pain grew distant, too. Though it came from his soul, it receded as if his mind were too tired to notice.

Maybe he should let it take him, finally rest, relax, go into that nothingness.

He was so tired, after all.

He let his arms fall as his muscles relaxed further, his vision growing dim at the edges. He felt as if he were entering a tunnel as he saw less and less. Finally, as his body grew still, the water calmed and cleared. He could see a man's face hovering over the pool, no longer holding him down but chanting over the tub. Both of the man’s hands were raised high as he chanted in an unknown language.

Yet Sam’s eyes were on him. Despite the slow death, they didn’t change in the slightest, still cold, hollow, and slightly unnerving, although after knowing the man for some time, he could see something more in them.

An expectation.

Why would he care about others' expectations now? Now, when it all grew so distant. Peter slowly closed his eyes, and a memory entered his mind, projected onto the canvas of his closed eyelids.

It wasn’t the first time he died. He had experienced bleeding out on a butcher’s hook like a stuck pig, back at a party. They'd hung him there by accident to teach him a lesson for something he hadn't done.

Normally, that memory came in a blur of voices, sensations, and thoughts, chaotic and unreadable, but right now the familiar sensation of dying seemed to be guiding his mind. For the first time, the scenes of that night came to him, sharp and clear.

The whispers from the moment the hook entered his flesh played with surprising detail. He both knew and dreaded what would come next. First, the pain, then the arguing of his killers growing distant as he slipped out of consciousness, and then finally his wish.

His reply to the other souls as they screamed into his mind, promising, threatening, begging, and finally offering to help him, to give him a chance to live.

The words he was so ashamed of.

A wish spoken in fear and anger to be fulfilled in return for the use of his body.

“Just kill them. Kill them all.”