The Demonic Book

Sara’s blood turned to ice in her veins. She stood frozen by the wooden rack, staring wide-eyed at the man in the deep shadows. She had earnestly thought Father Patrick was her only friend in this forsaken place. He was the one who guided her, the one who offered a gentle smile when others turned away. Now, that friendly mask had melted off his face. His gaze screamed of pure danger. He reeked of a dark, undeniable evil that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up.

He stepped out of the gloom. His heavy boots barely made a sound against the cold stone floor. These were not the aimless steps of a wandering priest. They were calculated. Predatory. He moved with a chilling grace, effectively cornering her in the pitch-black, empty restricted section of the library.

"Why?" The word scraped past the lump of terror in her throat. Her voice shook hard. She clutched the fabric of her robe, pressing her spine against the rigid wood of the bookshelf. "Why are you doing this?"

"Killing you?" Patrick’s voice lacked any of his usual holy grace. It was smooth, flat, and cold. He tilted his head, watching her tremble. "Because I am following strict orders, little bird. But doing it right this second... well, that would be a tragic waste."

He let his eyes drop. He brazenly raked his gaze over her trembling body. The animalistic hunger in his stare made her stomach turn sour. He looked at her not as a person, but as a piece of fresh meat ready to be consumed.

"I was supposed to give you a quiet death at dawn," he confessed, taking another slow, measured step forward. Sara mirrored him, taking a half-step back until her shoulders hit the unyielding wood. "An untraceable exit. Strangled with your own pillow. Those were the orders handed to me."

He licked his chapped lips. A twisted smirk curled the edges of his mouth, catching the dim yellow light of her fallen candle.

"But I walked into your room early. You weren't in your bed like a good girl. You were on the floor." He let out a low, rough breath, his chest rising beneath his robes. "I saw your bare, wet skin shining in the candlelight. Fucking hell. The water dripping down your bare breasts. The curve of your thighs. I saw you naked, Sara. And that changed my mind."

Crushing horror crashed into her chest. Her breath hitched. He had seen her in her room. He had stalked her in the dark. And then, he used her mother's identity as bait. He knew exactly what to say to drag her down into this isolated trap. He manipulated her deepest, most desperate wish just to get her alone.

"You tricked me," she whispered, momentarily paralyzed by sheer terror. "My mother... none of it was real."

"Your death can wait a bit longer," he coldly informed her, ignoring her realization. "While I have my fun."

Patrick slid his hand into the coarse sleeve of his heavy robe. Metal scraped softly against fabric. He pulled out a sharp dagger. The deadly blade glinted ominously in the dim, flickering candlelight, the steel edge hungry for flesh.

"Make this worth my efforts," he commanded sadistically. He took the final step, trapping her between his bulky frame and the shelves. "Spread your legs and be a good girl. I might consider the remote possibility of keeping you alive if you comply."

Primal survival instinct shattered her paralysis. Fear turned into pure adrenaline.

Sara threw her body weight forward. She slammed her shoulder into his chest, desperate to push past him. She darted for the heavy iron bars near the exit, her bare feet slapping against the cold stone. She just needed to slip through the gap. She just needed to scream loud enough for the guards to hear.

But her petite, fragile frame was no match for a full-grown man.

Patrick lunged with brutal speed. His heavy hand clamped around a fistful of her long silver hair. He yanked backward with vicious force. The brutal motion snapped her neck back and ripped a gasp from her lungs. Before she could scream, he slammed his sweaty palm over her mouth.

She thrashed wildly. She kicked at his shins. She clawed at the thick fabric of his robe, fighting for her life with every ounce of strength she possessed.

"Hold still, you little bitch!" he snarled.

He dragged the sharp edge of the dagger across her delicate neck. The steel bit into her flesh. Warm blood welled up instantly, trickling down her collarbone. Pain stung her skin, sharp and hot. Stinging tears rushed to her eyes, blurring her vision. She tasted the salt and dirt on his palm as she fought for a single breath of air.

He tightened his iron, suffocating grip on her hair and face. He leaned in, his hot, foul breath brushing against her ear.

"You don't actually need to be alive for me to fuck you," he growled.

The vile slur hit her like a physical blow. He meant it. He would kill her right now and defile her bleeding corpse.

He raised the bloodied blade high into the air, aiming for her chest to deliver the fatal killing strike.

Sara squeezed her eyes shut and braced for the piercing pain. But the blow never came.

Patrick’s arm froze rigidly in midair. His muscles locked up tight. The atmosphere inside the restricted section shifted in a heartbeat. The air grew thick, dense, and unbreathable. It felt heavy, loaded with an eerie, suffocating, otherworldly presence that pressed down on her lungs like a solid stone weight.

She forced her eyes open.

During the frantic struggle, a few drops of her fresh, warm blood had splashed onto the dark, mysterious tome she had been inspecting moments earlier. The pristine black leather cover drank the crimson drops, absorbing them into the binding.

Without any warning, the massive book snapped open on its own. The heavy cover hit the wooden rack with a loud crack. The pitch-black pages began to flip furiously. They blurred together, driven by a powerful, phantom wind straight from hell, even though the air in the sealed room was dead and still.

Patrick’s iron grip on her hair and mouth slackened instantly. His hand went limp. He collapsed heavily to the stone floor, falling like a discarded puppet with its strings severed. His heavy body hit the ground with a sickening thud.

Sara stumbled back, pressing her trembling hand against the bleeding cut on her neck. She stared in absolute horror at the priest on the ground. He didn't breathe. He didn't twitch. She looked at his face. His once-dark eyes had rolled all the way back into his skull. They were now terrifyingly white, blank, and dead.

The magic of the book had killed him in a fraction of a second.

She ripped her terrified gaze away from the lifeless body and crept cautiously toward the wooden rack. Her knees shook with every step. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps that echoed in the silence.

The phantom wind died down. The dark book now lay perfectly still.

But it wasn't empty.

From the abyssal depths of the black pages, two spots of light materialized. They grew brighter, piercing the gloom. A pair of glowing, sinister red eyes slowly emerged from the ink-black paper. They were not drawings. They were undeniably alive.

The crimson irises locked instantly onto hers.

The moment their gazes met, a physical jolt hit Sara’s brain. The red eyes penetrated her fragile mind with ruthless force. They stared directly into her naked, exposed soul. She felt an invisible force peel her open. It flipped her insides out like an exposed book on a table. Her thoughts, her terrors, her deepest memories—all laid bare and consumed by this hypnotic stare. She was powerless against the overwhelming pull.

She tried to look away. She tried to close her eyes. But the demonic presence held her captive.

Unable to endure the mind-shattering intensity, Sara’s mind surrendered.

Her legs gave out. She collapsed onto the stone floor, but she didn't feel the hard impact. She plunged deep into an endless, freezing mental darkness.

The library vanished. The dead priest faded away. There was only the pitch-black void and the biting, bone-deep cold.

Then, the shadows moved.

Terrifying phantom hands mercilessly reached out from the freezing void. They were cold, hard, and brutal. They grabbed her arms and pinned her down in the emptiness. More hands emerged from the dark. They tore at her clothes, ripping the fabric away until she was left bare in the freezing abyss.

The hands groped her skin. They squeezed her bare breasts with bruising, cruel force. They forced her thighs apart. Cold, formless fingers shoved directly into her cunt, violating her with brutal, relentless thrusts. She screamed in the void, thrashing against the invisible attackers, but the hands held her down, defiling her naked body over and over. They were filthy. They carried the exact same disgusting, animalistic intent that the dead priest had harbored, amplified a thousand times.

She couldn't breathe. She couldn't fight back. She was drowning in the violation.

Slowly, the freezing pitch-black darkness began to shift. A horrific crimson glow bled into the blackness, lighting up the void like a hellish fire.

The filthy, groping fingers and violating hands began to melt away. The phantom touches dissolved into the red light, leaving her raw, shaking, and exposed. The glowing light swallowed the dark. The melted hands transformed, opening up and stretching into a vast, terrifying sea of glaring red eyes, all staring relentlessly at her naked, shivering form.