The Profane

By Vincenzo Bilof

Vincenzo Bilof invites you to enter a world of nightmares. Faith has power. It is brandished like a weapon by priests, whose sole mission is to ensure that paradise touches each corner of the Earth. Paradise, however, is an abyss, and those priests serve the ultimate evil. To spread their unholy cause, angelic hosts are exorcised from innocent victims, though there is one young woman - Lana - who has been trained to bring the demonic institution crashing down once and for all. Hell, it turns out, is dark. And cold.

The Perverse. The Pious. The Profane.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Source Point Press
• Release date: Jul 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781945940309

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 Vincenzo Bilof

Edited by David C. Hayes

Cover Design by Matthew Revert

Layout Design by Lori Michelle

All rights reserved.

www.sourcepointpress.com

OTHER WORKS BY VINCENZO BILOF

Necropolis Now

Queen of the Dead

Saint Pain

Confessions of the Impaler

Mother, I’m Not an Android (I Promise)

Dark Rising

Escape from Dinosauria (with Max Booth III)

Japanese Werewolf Apocalypse

Nightmare of the Dead

The Horror Show

Gravity Comics Massacre

Visions of a Tremulous Man

Vampire Strippers from Saturn

The Violators

PROLOGUE

Beneath the tree, the priest sat on the bench and waited for Sister Eugene to waddle toward him. The woman was incredibly old, but nobody knew her real age. This shady spot was a perfect retreat from the 88 degrees and climbing afternoon. The priest was comfortable.

Sister Eugene’s jaw moved. She was probably eating seedless red grapes out of her pocket, as was her habit.

Father Dacius, who was on the edge of fifty, stood from and eased Sister Eugene onto the bench. Good day to you, Sister.

Hello, Father, she said, crunching on a grape A lovely day isn’t it?

A bit too hot for me. But this is a good spot.

The shade is good. You know, Father, this is where you should have stayed.

In the monastery, where they taught him the rituals for a secret holy war that would doom him.

No, not him. Lana.

You will never be helpless, he had told her.

I should have remained a student? he asked Sister Eugene.

A teacher, she said.

Interesting. Why?

The nun stared at him, chewing. We delude ourselves, Stephen. We’re not interested in the divine plan.

The priest sighed, folded his hands on his lap. He focused his attention on the chapel, as students passed in front of the bench with books in their hands and earbuds in their ears. The chapel’s windows reflected pure white light. Tree branches arched over the bench.

Lana might never see another day like this one.

You will not be helpless.

There is faith, and there is will, Sister Eugene said. There is no plan.

Father Dacius offered a sad smile, looked down at his folded hands. You know I admire everything you’ve done here. You helped me. I won’t ever forget how much you taught me.

Don’t torture yourself. Be angry with us. But not yourself.

Why do this now? Father Dacius asked the nun. Why do they want me here? I did what I was supposed to do.

And you no longer believe it was worth it. You became attached to a person.

Then I suppose it is my fault, isn’t it? I made a mistake. I cared for her. I realized how awful the entire thing is.

Sister Eugene tossed a red grape into her mouth. I will hear what they have to say, Father Dacius said.

Good. Then go. They are waiting for you.

He stood, bowed slightly to her. It would have been proper to kiss her hand. It would have been proper to scream in her face.

It will be the ultimate sacrifice, Lana.

We like our martyrs, don’t we, Sister Eugene? Father Dacius said.

I believe we like to win.

***

Father Dacius entered the conference room, glanced at the serious faces. A dozen old men stood, with the exception of Bishop Reaver. Father Dacius knew all of their names.

The room smelled like mildew and blood.

Please sit, Father Dacius, Father Brand said.

We are going to be here for some time, Dacius, Father Reaver said, his voice an echo in a well, deep and easy to hear. His eyes looked like holes in the hull of a sunken ship.

Father Dacius and the rest of the men sat down in front of a large conference table. A small, analog television set with its bulbous, milky screen sat on a black cart with a VCR on a shelf beneath it. The priests and bishop looked at him. He noted the nasty color of the walls: nicotine stain yellow.

The priests introduced themselves. Father Dacius didn’t hear them. These men had decided Lana’s fate before she was born.

Father Dacius, Bishop Reaver said, you know why we’re here?

No.

We have the utmost faith in our endeavor.

Father Dacius had no intention of fighting them all. He had already rationalized that it would accomplish nothing. But he stood from his chair. Threw his words over their heads.

The Catholic Church, he said. There is little faith in us, let alone God. The people this church has hurt . . . the crimes seem to be endless. I believed. I believed I could change the world, because you taught me to believe, and I don’t know why you chose me. I’ve condemned a woman. I convinced her that she’s possessed by an angel, and within her very soul there is a power that can break an unspeakable evil. All she has to do is suffer. While we live in a world where our governments can bomb cities from half a world away.

Are you finished? Father Reaver asked.

No, I’m not. Lana is going to die because of what we did.

Father Reaver glanced at some of the others, and then his sunken eyes rested on Father Dacius again. And what will your tirade accomplish? What is it that you want?

I want a guarantee that no priest will ever be asked to do what I did. No more training. It wasn’t just Lana’s life I pitched to Hell.

For God’s sake, Thomas, show him the tape! one of the old men said to Father Reaver.

Father Dacius knew he had lost control. There was no going back now. He had opposed them. He had opposed everything. He stood against the weight of God’s power over his very life.

Father Reaver’s heavy eyes were downcast. Searching, perhaps, for the memory of a lie that would help his cause. But what was his cause? Why did this meeting exist?

When Father Reaver nodded, his hangdog jowls shaking, another priest rose from a chair and pressed the appropriate buttons to power on the TV and VCR. Father Dacius remained standing.

We never told you what happens to these people, Father Reaver said. All of us have felt what you’re going through. We’ve been in your shoes.

What happens . . . ? Father Dacius said.

We find between two and five each decade, Father Reaver repeated the familiar statistic. While our enemies find far more. We don’t know how many. We may never know. Which is why our work is so important.

A figure appeared on the TV screen. A body wrapped like a mummy, lying in a bed. The camera was positioned directly over the neatly-bandaged head.

You remember Jevonte Junior? Father Reaver asked.

Of course. Father Dacius had learned his trade as an apprentice during Jevonte’s indoctrination.

Every person who is under the direct care of an angel will become insane, Father Reaver said.

Father Dacius stuck his tongue between his teeth and bit down gently to stop from saying: You mean possessed, Father Reaver. When an angel possesses an innocent person, they become insane.

Nothing was happening on the TV. The bandaged head lay on a pillow.

It is their fate, Father Reaver continued. The angel assumes full control, but there is terrible amnesia. It does not remember the face of God, or why it fell from Heaven.

Stop, Father Dacius said.

It cannot die, Father Reaver said.

The head rose slowly from the pillow.

Turn it off, Father Dacius said.

You must see.

I must see nothing!

You will see. Father Reaver seemed to become taller, his wide frame a black wall of cloth that was no different than the standard black clerical shirts everyone in the room wore, though its darkness was pure, clean; the texture of oil. If we do not complete our holy task, innocent souls are lost, and the wrong people—perhaps our enemies—can find Jevonte’s ruined body.

The bandaged head rose from the pillow, and several of the priests in the room turned their heads. Some of them coughed, cleared their throats. Father Dacius felt warmth on the back of his neck, felt the perspiration on his back. He glanced from the TV to Father Reaver’s glaring red eyes. The room’s walls seemed closer, and the air was gone. The priests nearest Father Dacius were too close.

On the TV, a pair of bandaged hands reached for the concealed face and savagely tore at the wrap.

No man in the room was breathing.

The wrap unraveled, and there was a face. A large, red face. A face full of blood, and a wide, black mouth that opened wide enough to devour worlds.

Father Dacius closed his eyes.

Turn it off, he whispered weakly.

There was a click.

Leave us, Father Reaver said.

He heard them move, felt their shoulders brush against him. He knew these men did not look at him as they passed.

When the door closed, Father Dacius opened his eyes.

I admire you, Father Reaver said from across the room. When you volunteered for the training, I learned about your past. I know the horror you’ve seen, the pain you’ve felt. You understand your own selfishness. You question why you chose this path.

And you’ll say that God chose this path, Father Dacius said. I never had a choice. It’s God’s will. God’s plan. His design that people suffer.

Don’t be delusional! You know better than to allow such garbage to come out of your mouth.

I’ve condemned Lana.

You’ve saved her. Taught her what you were trained to teach her. World governments are not friendly to us now. Our faith has been damaged forever by men who abused their power. In the past, Jevonte would have been given to us. But our enemies have a greater hold upon those who wield authority.

Father Dacius ignored most of Father Reaver’s monologue, his mind drifting to Lana. Always, always to Lana.

This is not a Catholic problem, Father Reaver said. The Jews, the Muslims—they recognize evil.

How does an angel fall, and ruin someone’s life? What’s the difference between an angel and a demon?

Stop acting the fool. You know the difference.

I know, but I don’t believe.

Then you understand the consequences. You cannot quit, Father Dacius.

Lana is a bomb. You asked me to help build a bomb.

She is full of glorious power.

She is full of life. She is full of love and hope.

The angels murder their human host. They tear at their flesh. They seek an identity, some reckoning with God—

I don’t care! At least she would have lived. We could have stopped her from becoming like Jevonte. We could have done something. He paused, shaking his head. I can’t accept what I’ve done, now that she’s gone.

Silence. No more salesmanship from the other priest. No more forbidden, arcane rituals reserved for the eyes of men like Father Dacius.

Father Reaver stared at him.

Until he turned and walked out. Wandering the campus in a daze, he felt his powerlessness. The waste of breath that comes with a prayer—the means by which he might be able to salvage some hope or recover some strength was another pathway to self-loathing. He was small, silly, trite. The vanity he had been unable to avoid as an integral part of God’s war twisted his heart; there were no answers that could satisfy. He was a betrayed lover, thrown aside by a power that never wanted him in the first place. A power that never acknowledged him. Exposed beneath that broad, blue sky, he lost himself in his wandering, until he stopped abruptly in front of the bench where he had sat with Sister Eugene earlier. He sat in the shade and wept into his hands for uncounted time.

N O   S A N C T U A R Y

CHAPTER ONE

The exorcist closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The smell of human wreckage filled him, caused his lips to tremble on the verge of a smile. Yes. Shit and pain. The dungeon smelled like shit and pain, and this was good. It was like coming home.

This was his favorite part of the job, and he was good at it.

Father Willard opened his eyes and allowed the idea of a smile to fade. The ancient, labyrinthine dungeon was before him. Tucked into their cold, dank cells, the possessed began to groan and howl. They knew he had arrived. They could smell his cleanliness, his purity.

How many? Father Willard said.

Beside him, the jailer’s clean jawline and bold eyes betrayed the youth that had escaped Father Willard. The jailer was a promising young priest, eager to please and full of ambition.

We have nine occupied cells, Father, the young jailer said while adjusting his lantern so that light beamed down the old corridor.

There were nine last time.

The ledger is updated, Father. The names and dates are accurate.

Father Willard spoke through grinding teeth. I don’t care about the ledger, Father Ricci. He stopped himself. This old castle was in his charge and administration was his biggest failure. Records meant nothing to him. He was the only working exorcist in the castle and its stewardship had fallen upon his unwilling shoulders, but he didn’t care how many of the possessed waited in the darkness, as it only represented how much work lay ahead of him. None of it mattered. The cardinal had already arrived for the inspection, and it was inevitable this castle would be shut down.

Why should he care now? He never glanced at the records. There was no pretense in a priesthood of killers. If you knew one of them, you knew all. There was no administrator, no ruler, no captain, no lord. There was an unspoken hierarchy of power that protected him from jealousy; he left them alone, and they respected his proficiencies, because his work gave them the screams they so desperately wanted to hear. They learned from him, watched him. Faith meant nothing in this fortress of pain.

This collection of lunatics was doomed. The castle was going to be scoured by the cardinal, each depraved cleric exiled into the abyss beneath the dungeon. Cardinals were executioners, the purifiers who washed those infected with terminal madness down the drain of darkness. The castle was hardly more than a deteriorating asylum, and its residents could not be allowed to appear in society again. Father Willard had entertained the notion of running into the abyss on more than one occasion; his fate was meaningless. His function would have been served. His existence was a program involving rituals and arcana that defied logic, and his participation with it was indication enough that his grasp on reality was weak.

This jailer might be salvaged by the cardinal. Young and fresh, eager to please. Father Willard had read his file, but his cracked memory left only an inaccurate impression. Father Ricci had to be a killer, like the rest of them. Within the young priest’s mind, there was still a notion of identity, the concept of a past that had led to this moment. A withering of forms would stop Father Ricci’s ideologies, his perception of purpose behind the ritual of existence itself. Permission to maim and hurt another person beyond their endurance—Father Ricci helped shut the eyes of life and exercised an absolute power over reality. Eventually, the abyss would call to him.

Father Willard surveyed the young jailer’s face. He inhaled deeply, allowing the infusion of human waste from the imprisoned to fill the back of his throat. To taste the proof of life.

We have one fresh occupant, Father Willard said. I assume we can trust the confirmation, and the occupant is actually possessed.

Two, actually. We had three, lost one to the abyss.

Was I told about this?

Uh, no, Father. Forgive me, but—

Willard stopped the young priest with a wave of his hand. It makes no difference. Why did we lose one?

The other jailer, Father Stephan, came down here with a field agents. I found Father Stephan’s body. There, just in front of that cell. He pointed a few feet away. His throat was cut. The agent and one of the occupants were gone.

Father Willard sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. One of his priests had been killed, and one of their guests had been released by a field agent.

You told me I should never alert you when you’re resting, Father Ricci said. I’m the only one who reports to you, Father.

Fine. What else?

We no longer have a field agent working for us.

The one who killed Father . . .

Markus.

Yes, Father Markus, Father Ricci said.

The field agent brought two new guests, murdered Father Markus, and escaped into the abyss with one of the others?

Yes.

Father Willard stared into the darkness beyond. The abyss was his destiny, just as it was the destiny of all those who could not receive the exorcism rites; in the galaxy of nothing beyond the dungeon, an entire tribe of savages thrived. They haunted this sanctuary of human waste, and only the light could persuade them to remain in the dark.

Father Willard had failed as an administrator, and the cardinal had come to deliver the reckoning. How much time had passed in isolation, his eyes poring over old, leather-bound books until they succumbed to the weight of his eyelids?

It didn’t matter.

The new occupants, then. Show me.

I heard about the last one, Father Ricci said.

The last one. The last exorcism.

And now you want to share your opinion, Ricci.

I told them to tie him down good. Sometimes I wonder if I could take on the wildest ones. Those idiots deserved what happened to them. I knew how strong he was, saw him almost break one of those doors down. He smashed another jailer’s head against the wall.

Father Willard had tied the girl down himself, a task reserved for those assigned to work beside him. The man’s restraints were tied too loosely and he nearly broke free. Father Willard didn’t realize until after the debacle that he wanted him to break free.

The challenge had amused him.

Father Willard observed the young man’s smooth features. The nearly hairless chin. Un-calloused fingers. Eyes that have yet to witness the abyss.

Maybe you will work for me on this next one, Father Willard said.

Father Ricci nodded, his face betraying no hint of enthusiasm or dread at the prospect. Yes. Of course, Father. I wish to learn from you.

Father Willard wanted to tell him there was nothing to learn, that humanity was an illusion, the idea of a soul nothing more than a story concocted to enable religious offices like the one he had abused for so long to exist.

Instead, he said, I am sure more experience will give you a better opportunity to leave with the cardinal.

Leave?

Father Willard ignored him. He listened as the cell occupants shouted obscenities and spat at him between the iron bars that covered the small aperture at the top of each door. Father Willard inhaled their stench. His stomach rumbled hungrily.

Together, the exorcist and the jailer descended into the deep dark. Father Willard clasped his hands behind his back and peered into the torch-illumined cages. The hoary faces, lips puckered, split, blistered. Strings of matted hair, moustaches, talon-like fingernails. They retreated from the iron bars and into the familiar cold.

The caged men and women babbled and moaned.

Father Willard stopped and peered into a cell. Father Ricci moved the lamp closer to the bars, and a shrunken ball of a person was revealed, shivering in the corner like a wet dog.

Fastest I’ve seen one of them break, Ricci said. Two weeks. She said the Act of Contrition almost every day.

You think she is broken?

Her name was Genevieve. She’s one of the two new ones.

The Act of Contrition is strong. The possessed may keep their willpower for a long time.

You think she’s been trained to infiltrate us?

There is always a possibility.

Don’t they usually get sent to the abyss?

Father Willard blinked.

The abyss is real, Father Willard said.

Father?

This place was all that he had, and Cardinal Augustus was coming to take it from him. A part of him wished that he cared. That he would fight to keep his office and the castle. But it was too late. A man with his skills rarely lasted so long as an exorcist. He was efficient. Unyielding. Father Willard’s sanity could not bend, because he did not understand faith. Father Ricci likely still prayed at night; he may have presided over nightly mass more than once during the week. A