I was left standing in the backyard of the chapel all alone. I didn't know what to think of all of this, but what I did know was that I could feel frustration filling my veins. Anger. Hatred. Then, thoughts of my father came into my head and I relaxed a bit. What would he do in this situation? What would he do to rid himself of these horrible thoughts?

I knew exactly what he would do.

I walked over to the well we had constructed years ago when I was just a young boy. We'd built it at the very far right of our fence, situated right next to the chicken coop. There, leaning on its stone, was my wooden practice sword. I grabbed it and held it to my eyes. The old hardwood was chipped in many different places from years of training and I would need to build a new one soon.

I took it to the center of the yard and began my sword forms, the ones my father had taught me. I moved in fluid motion, the sword a wooden extension of my arms. I swung right, blocked high, spun, thrust, and stepped back. After about sixty minutes of constant practice my face was drenched in sweat and already I felt worlds better. However, my hands were not. I had been squeezing so tightly that blisters had started to form on my palms. I took one of my hands off the hilt and studied it. The blisters weren't red and filled with yellow puss. They were purple and filled with black.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, said a prayer to my Lord, and rested the practice sword back against the well. I drew up the bucket and bathed myself in the cool water deep from the ground. I took a sip and quickly spat it back out. Was there an issue with the well? Why did the water taste like... dirt? It wasn't the crisp sweet water I was used to.

I walked back into the chapel and sat in one of the pews. In only an hour this place would be filled and I would be the center of attention. Should I just cancel the sermon? No, better not to do that. These good people needed the Lord, especially in light of all of the murders that have been happening. They needed a source of good to look to. They needed God. I could be their medium. I needed to stay strong.

But what was with the little ones? Why did they run away from me?

I snapped my fingers and sat up straight. "Aha! They must have seen the lumps underneath the hood! Yes! That's it." I patted myself on the back and let out a breath. I was getting worked up for nothing.

I stood up and walked over to the ancient altar that held the teachings of the Lord. I'd already practiced today's sermons the evening before but felt it would be good to get one last practice in.

For the next hour, I lost myself in the words of the text only to be brought back to reality when the good people of the Kingdom of Auracle began to spill into the chapel. They were extra chatty today and intermingled with each other happily. The city's guards were the last to arrive, un-equipping their sword and sheath and hanging them on the hooks my father had installed years ago. They nodded at me from the entrance and made their way to the pews.

Once everyone had taken their seats I grabbed my notes from the altar and walked up to the podium. I felt the hood over my ears and was satisfied that the lumps were hidden beneath it. I cleared my throat and tried to speak.

No words came out.

A minute passed and the people of the Lord started to whisper. I tried to open my mouth again to say something, to preach the sermon I had practiced, but still could say nothing. I felt a drop of sweat drip from the nape of my neck and down to the small of my back. My right hand was trembling but my left remained calm.

Then, foreign thoughts entered my head. Thoughts that were not my own.

What has gotten into the pastor today? He looks ill...

Oh, look at the tits on that one. I'd love to get between those thighs.

I wonder if he knows I've been cheating on him. Son of a bitch serves him right for giving me that black eye last week.

Can't wait to get out of here.

This fuckin' place looks like it's been to hell and back. The pastors should have more respect for their place of worship.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to remain calm. The chapel room spun above my head and I could feel the trembling in my right hand intensify. So much so that my wrist was aching from the tension. My breathing grew faster, my heart beating at an unreasonable tempo. Dark thoughts filled my head. Ideas. I wanted to kill of these fuckers. Make them see the Lord before their time was due... or, send them down to the depths of hell.

An elderly woman, perhaps eighty-five years old, stood on shaking legs. She raised a finger and asked in a concerned tone, "Pastor, are you alri-"

My head raised so rapidly that the hood covering my lumps flew backward. I let my eyes burn into the old hag and I could see her heart, her lungs, her veins... I could feel her pulse from here. I extended my hand in her direction and... and...

BOOM

The old woman exploded into a cloud of gore that covered the absoluteness of the chapel. The violence was so sudden, so unbelievably quiet, that no one believed it had just happened. Not even myself.

My heart rate was back to normal and it felt as though I had just relieved myself sexually. I looked down at my hand. It was charred to a crisp.

A soldier stood up in the back, his silver armor now a shiny red. What he yelled out next would flip my world upside down. It would scar me with an ancient title that I would be plagued with for the rest of my life.

"Demon!"