Monday 18th October (Afternoon)
Having remained locked in my homely quarters all morning
rereading Mr. Whitby’s incredible words, the prevailing feeling of being
observed led me into the Church’s nave. And I was not alone in there. Situated
on the left wall is a large statue of Christ on the crucifix. I had been
approaching the altar when it caught my eye. At first I felt as though Jesus’
eyes were watching me. I had only sensed the slightest of movements as I
glanced over at the life-like flesh colors of the beautifully crafted image of
our Lord and savior. Primarily I continued on my path to the altar a few more
steps until a much greater movement at my side triggered me to cease walking
and sharply turn my head back to the crucifix.
Blood was flowing
from Christ’s head where the thorns dug into his skull. I saw water in his
eyes. It glistened from the bright sunlight that flooded the church interior.
The crown of thorns no longer appeared molded and painted, they were fresh.
They were real. As real as Jesus’s eyes that were now focused unequivocally
upon me. Eyes that had once pointed to the heavens were now staring into mine.
I felt as nailed to the spot as he was to the cross. Dark red blood continued
to gently glide from the wounds on his head streaking his thin and gaunt face.
More blood
cascaded from the fresh injuries on his body. The gaping holes that housed the
nails in his hands and feet were small waterfalls of thick and dark oozing
blood. As the fluids dripped with audible splashes onto the hard stone floor
Jesus kept his gaze firmly upon me. At first his expression was solely one of
pain. The agony and suffering of his disposition copiously radiated his every
feature. Trickles of blood from his twisted nest of needled thorns that tangled
into his hair meandered their way down his forehead and into his eyes. He
closed them for a matter of seconds and as he opened them again I found myself
screaming in unflinching terror.
His eyes had
flicked open as if he had abruptly awoken from a dreadful dream. They were now
blood red and malevolent. The expression on his awoken face had been first a
crazed and maddening stare, the agony still very much apparent, but as he
looked deeply into me his expression changed. My scream followed the haunting
conversion of his demeanor. His lips had spread outwards, mutating from thin to
thick as a smile grew on his pulped face. It was wide enough to show his
gritted and bloodied teeth. His wide eyes bulged from their sockets. There was
no happiness to be seen. It was an evil smile. Mischievous and threatening. I
could never before have imagined such a horrible face forming on the features
of our Lord.
I dropped to the
floor and cradled my face with my hands, not wishing to look any longer into
the horrifically distorted face of the incarnate demonic Jesus. I wept and
uttered words of total gibberish into the only means of escape available to me.
But the shield my quivering hands gave wasn’t enough to defend from the sounds
reverberating around me. At first it was merely the gentle splatter of liquid
onto stone floor but in the darkness further sounds emerged. Sounds and words.
I realized I was
chanting prayer into my hands. Lord have
mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy. Over and
over. Until more words flooded into my dizzying mind.
We drive you from us, whoever you may be,
unclean spirits, all satanic powers, all infernal invaders, all wicked legions,
assemblies and sects. In the name and by the power of Our Lord Jesus Christ,
may you be snatched away and driven from the Church of God and from the souls
made to the image and likeness of God and redeemed by the Precious Blood of the
Divine Lamb.
The drip, drip,
drip of blood had lessened as I prayed until everything returned to silence. I
was beginning to lift my head from my hands when I heard the voice in the
blackness of my grasp. A dark, guttural voice that seemingly echoed all around
the church, seeping into every nook and cranny. A voice that I felt resonate
through me and within me.
“I AM KERGOZU,” it said.
Taken from THE DEMON OF HERITAGE
Available from Amazon and Barnes & Noble
Killian H. Gore presents to you a very strange journal from the year 1887. Discovered buried in a small wooden box in a vault, the diary chronicles a bizarre and horrifying chain of events that begin with the arrival of a mysterious gargoyle at a church in the peaceful English village of Heritage and culminate in a perplexing conclusion that will leave you both bewildered and chilled to the bone.
