The Exorcist

In the lowest crypt of the abandoned cathedral, the last exorcist still worked. He had died decades ago, but his hands kept moving, kept pressing the blackened relic against the foreheads of the infected who were dragged down to him. The city above had long fallen to the spore plague, but here below the air still smelled of incense, blood, and cold iron. The ones brought to him no longer spoke in human voices. They screamed in layered tones, their eyes rolled back white, their fingers breaking themselves against the chains as something old and patient tried to climb out through their throats. He did not try to save them. That word had lost its meaning years ago. He only tried to bind the thing inside, seal it back into the rotting flesh, and send the body back into the dark where it belonged. Each time, the ritual took a little more of him. Each time, something behind his own ribs answered back.