Father Abbott closed his eyes as he murmured a quick prayer. He had always been strong in his resolve for the church, and for his love of God, but this would take every ounce of strength the man could conjure.

He was outside the door of Sister Margie. A decidedly average brunette from Maryland, built with a slime frame and a shrill voice, and a tragic backstory involving the death of her betrothed. She turned to the cloth willingly and turned to faith for her grief. Father Abbott had always been pleased with her. She was studious and devoted. Until two weeks prior.

She had cringed away from communion. She had spoken her prayers in an ancient language that no one at the church recognized. She had spit in the face of a fellow nun. The final stray had come to pass when she, he took a stabling breath, excreted in the pews.

Father Abbott hadn't wanted to be hasty; he hadn't wanted to jump to conclusions, but he had read the signs. He knew what must have happened: the sister had been possessed. Possessions were rarer nowadays; he had bargained with the Bishop. But, not impossible. He told his superiors to come, to see. He begged for help. None had come. A single letter, addressed only to 'Whom it may concern,' found its way to his desk, declaring him fit to handle the situation as he seemed appropriate. He had called for backup, and the diocese had denied him the request.

He had prayed heavily, and the matter had weighed on his heart until he realized what he must do. He vowed to help Sister Margie, despite the cost to himself or his career. So, he had dived into all the literature he had on hand about exorcisms. Weeks of research had led him to this moment. He didn’t have the time to devote to his studies, as much as he wished anyway, he had to help Margie. She grew weaker each day as the demon inside drained her.

Margie didn’t stir when he entered the room; he had lightly tapped it before he opened the door, hoping she’d be decent. He had heard some tales of improper behavior amongst possessed individuals. His heart wept for Sister Margie, and he exhaled sharply upon seeing her this way. She was stripped down to her white nightgown, and her arms and legs were restrained with leather cuffs. Two sisters waited on either side of Margie, each holding a lantern up. He cleared his throat.

“If you would like to wait outside, now is likely the time to do so.” Father Abbott told them in a careful voice. He wanted them to stay. Selfishly, God help him, he wanted them to be at his side through the likely trauma he was about to face. He had no grave sins for them to bear witness to, but he could not falter in the face of the demon. Whatever else came, he could be strong for the convent. They nodded at each other.

“We’d like to stay, Father.” Sister Tory told him; her shoulder squared. He nodded back and approached Margie.

“Sister Margie, we’re going to try to help you now.” He took another deep breath, clutched his rosary beads, and held his bible open. He had memorized the rite, but the bible acted as an anchor.

“Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name. Your Kingdom come.” Margie’s eyes flew open, and she barked out a deep, guttural noise.

“He won’t help Margie now.” The deep voice teased. “She’s gone.”

“Your Holy Spirit come upon us and cleanse us. Your will be done, on earth as in heaven, Or our bread for tomorrow. and forgive us our sins, for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us.” Another dark laugh came from deep within Margie.

“John Abbott, you’re too weak to save her. You’re a bad father, Father.” The demon’s voice baited him once again, but he ignored it.

“And do not bring us into temptation.” Father Abbott continued as the demon roared.

“Do not ignore me, Father.” The beast spit.

“The power of Christ compels you to return from where you came.” Father Abbott said, trying to clear his mind of anything that could stop the momentum of the moment. The demonic voice hummed in joy.

“Christ has not compelled me for some time, John. You’ll have to work harder.”

“What is your name, demon?”

“Work. Harder.”

“Ávē Marī́a, grā́tiā plḗna, Dóminus tḗcum,” Father Abbott began, growing more comfortable with his Latin in each syllable. “Benedícta tū in muliéribus, et benedíctus frū́ct—"

“I am Lagasse, a demon of Hell, and I will not be willed away with some simple Latin prayer!” The demon screamed over Father Abbott’s prayer. The silence of the truth hung in the air, thick and dangerous until Father Abbott encouraged the women to begin to pray.

The trio had discussed that if the demon announced his name, they would begin chanting a prayer to compel him directly. He hadn’t thought the demon would give up his name so easily. It was the key to a successful exorcism. The murmurs of the women rose as they began their prayers.

“Sā́ncta Marī́a—” Father Abbott began, his rhythm and cadence coming back to him more easily.

“Sā́ncta Marī́a Mā́ter Déī.” Lagasse, the demon, mocked. “Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu. Santa Maria, Mãe de Deus. They are just words, padre. Doesn’t matter if they’re Latin or French or Portuguese. They can’t hurt me. And these Sisters are not good at Latin. Ladies, please, fuck off. I need a word with the good Father.” The women looked at Father Abbott, but otherwise kept pace. Good, he thought, let’s get this bastard.

“Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” He finished strong in English. If this hound of Hell wanted him to use his native tongue, he would. He would use it to banish this demon back to the underbelly of Hell.

“Amen, daddy.” Lagasse had dropped the deep, guttural voice for Margie’s. Except he had dropped it down an octave, making it silky rather than smooth. On the bed, Margie writhed in her nightgown, and thrusted her hips up. Father Abbott turned his head, feeling empathetic for the girl who had lost control of herself. For the girl who was writhing pathetically in front of him with no ability to stop. Lagasse broke his thoughts with a hateful and deep laugh, it was still Margie’s voice, but it was all wrong—twisted and harsh. He tried to push his darkening thoughts down, tried to discourage himself from even forming the idea, but it was too strong. His desire too powerful.

Father Abbott liked it. He thought that Margie looked sexy even. He hated himself for it immediately. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, and Lagasse’s laugh cut him in half.

“Daddy? Having nasty thoughts?” Lagasse asked, using Margie again. The priest dropped his eyes to the bible and cleared his throat. “Oh, didn’t you know I could tell what you’re thinking? How awkward. Do the girls not know that you touch yourself at night? Do the Sisters not know how you pant out their names while you fuck your hand thinking of their tight pussies and little anuses?” The uproarious laughter was too much for Father Abbott. The room was too small, the heat from the lanterns too warm, and the demon’s words too true.

“Lagasse, lesser demon of Hell, the power of Christ compels you back to the bowels from whence you came!” Father Abbott screamed at the monster, willing him with everything to go, to go and never return, to free the innocent from his clutches, to relinquish his control over Margie. And, suddenly, the room’s energy shifted. The air seemed less charged. Margie’s body slumped against the bed, drenched in sweat and piss. He hadn’t noticed, but she must have peed during the exorcism. He hated himself for what she had gone through.

“I think he’s gone.” He said to the two shaking women. “Would you get her cleaned up, please?” He asked before turning heel. He was going right to prayer. He knelt down in front of the altar and began his chant. And all at once his chest felt like it was going to explode. He clutched it, afraid it was a heart attack, and staggered to his feet. He removed his robes and his beads and felt a bit better. He slumped down into a pew and willed his heart to resume it’s normal pace. Then he felt a stinging around his neck. He quickly undid his collar and tugged at the shirt. Nothing was amiss. He lifted his cross and realized there was a ‘t’ imprinted on his skin.