--- *** ---
--- The Following Night ---

Shortly after the former sleazy jazz nightclub singer finished her shift in the mental hospital with escorting the security guards to lock up the ocean of hysterical inmates in their austerely, poorly furnished, subsequently she retired back to her austerely atmospheric office.

It has been a couple of hours since the middle-aged lady has beheld a wee inkling of the ambitious Monsignor's silhouette even motioning anatomic muscle past her honey brown poetic depths. The last interaction with the British compatriot was staged in the common room when the ambitious Monsignor paid a visit for awhile in the old, infernally dilapidating asylum to acknowledge himself about the condition and the utmost factors constructing its crucial existence of the mental institution such as staff members, inmates, supplies and so forth.

Furthermore, the Bostonian has kindheartedly arranged another coq-au-vin dinner night for Friday night the following week. Little did she know about her boss's blackout in one of your friends' house shortly after the ominously stealthy plotted idea wavering your and your friends' thoughts to sedate Timothy to hire other men of the cloth and nuns to exorcise him easier. The medley of scenarios melding the possibility of unconditional heartache and stark distress over the British aristocrat's absence for more than the usual somehow plagued her mind and consciousness.

While stepping beside the exquisitely lacquered pulpit to recite in murmur the evening prayer and knotting her orthodoxy spidery, marbled fingers to joint her brittle knuckles and bowing faintly her head, whereas pinching shut her flimsy eyelids, the grandiose old mental hospital's dully, lifelessly hoary walls didn't elaborate modicum of further, fiendishly mischievous noises apprehending to the background in general. The security guards who worked night shift at the moment frequent ghostwrote their figures gliding smoothly, warily in the profoundly empty, dim lit corridors.

In a long minute of sheerly refreshing prayer, the abruptness of series of politely meek, feather-soft raps daubing its fashioned mammoth, masculinely veiny hand into balled fist against the woode wooden material, catching off guard the middle-aged lady and tingling alarming tones into her petite, vulnerable ears.

"Oh! Goodness!" The pure impulse of the profane language conjugate in its brief response to the door rap wrenched broadly curtained the pious sister of the church's huge, glassily roundish honey brown optics narrowing at the battered window, showering its profusely nocturnal mantle of pitch-black darkness to stream through the walls and furniture with meager opacity of palish light. Solely the dim illumination of the artificial light divinely filtering the en-suite bedroom provided Judy with sufficient scale of light to saturate profusely the site's furniture and surroundings. Her flimsy heart raced.

In the interim, the blonde retreated plainly from her en-suite bedroom and diabolically ambling up to the office door as her classy elegant jet-black chunks docilely demure whispered against the cemented flooring, manifesting her petite, marbled hands to fix her conservatively wool, rigid wimple coiffing fashionably her halo ringlet of angelically velvet old Hollywood aureate tresses. An eerie flat line blurred each vague inkling pattern of vibrant glee or venomous upsetness, glinting her elderly attractive facial attributes.

"I need some help with that freaking platter." The childishly fleet patience of the former police officer petered out , whereas his front ivory, firm teeth to nip the raw spot of his bottom pale-pinkish lip to stifle a fiendishly reluctant, breathy gasp. The platter of scrumptious pumpkin soup pooling the bowls, paired with silver untouched spoons, plates of slices of caramel cheesecakes greasing smoothly the porcelain surface and forks. What a burden pressuring Frank's arms muscles!

"Just a second!" As soon as the pious sister of the church's elvish, femininely dainty hand perched on the doorknob and twisting it, thus she stepped aside to deliver generously sufficient space to the current visitor of her office whose series of humdrum heavy footsteps muttering against the concrete floor. "Good to see ya, Frank!" The rusty hoarseness of the former promiscuous jazz nightclub singer's snicker didn't vanish, tingling angelic anthems into the security guard's ears when he stepped inside presentably gracious and marching up warily the platter to the hardwood bureau to settle the entity of meals, while the office door was emphatically shut behind the very presences of the duo.

"It's always nice to see ya after finishing the dirty job with the loonies."

"I know! Happy Thanksgiving!" At the moment, the duo managed to seat against each other and share an adequate proximity and spearing each other with their potently vibrant, spellbinding gazes.

"Happy Thanksgiving to you too!" The haphazardness of the healthily raspy, vibrant snickers the pairing exchanged pitched the sternly atmospheric office that was perpetually transmuted into a dining room due to the medley of vibes kipping in the site. When Judy and Frank manifested to crook their fingers deftly around their silver, unused yet spoons to spoon their first bite of the pumpkin soup and then swig greedily peckish the very chunks and healthy liquid, mischievously tickling their tongues and oral caverns, the blatant multi-voiced slurs elaborate their soup-greased mouths. "The soup is brilliant."

"I love the soup, I've to admit!"

In a long minute of savouring each dish and babbling sweetly, amiably to one another, the pairing shared abundance of interesting, common even devilishly uncommon experiences through their daily dynamic roller coaster they were riding through almost every day.

"How odd that Monsignor guy has disappeared for hours!" The teasing rhetoric retaliation of the former policeman taunted mischievously the Bostonian to narrow her hazelish-brown big, roundish embers at him, ablaze with sheer skepticism due to the British compatriot's absence for hours though prone to believe his hectic daily schedule to visit other sites where his presence was obligation.

"He has to visit other places besides Briarcliff, Frank! Do ya remember he isn't just an ordinary priest?" Scooping a second bite of the mouth-wateringing, promising evening meal, the blonde grasped even tighter the silver spoon and registering her wet, strawberry-coloured tongue uneasily greedy to moisten her soup-greased oral slit.

"I have to second it though," Shortly after muffling a healthily inward, blatant belch with his other hand fashioned into balled fist and bulging its masculine callouses flimsily spiking his fist, brittle knuckles and fingers and a huskily sarcastic, ruefully sheepish chuckle clicking the roof of his mouth. "Though he is quite suspicious with his behaviour for almost a straight month. I bet after that possessed young man's exorcism, therefore the devil found his new home."

"Are ya leaning to believe that he is genuinely possessed by an evil spirit?"

"Due to my observations, I have to believe it."

"Me either." Maneuvering a woefully solemn nod in agreement, the middle-aged woman's spidery palish fingers toyed gingerly, childlikely playful with her spoon whilst her other hand's fingers clawed featherly-soft the desk. "There is something fishy in his behaviour and in general lately. We don't see that often each other lately." A heavy, jaded sigh snorted her tiny, flexible nostrils to course its oxygen, demonstrating the Bostonian's sheer frustration of being unable to halt the vile essence that was recently inhabiting Timothy to command him to the impossible. Unceasingly slowly but surely hazarding not only his very life and remarkable reputation, but also the other living beings' outstanding lives.

Even though a month ago the failed attempts of exorcism and bashing the vile essence out of the young man's frail skeleton not only in the company of Sister Jude, Timothy and Father Malachi, but also Dr. Thredson, subsequently after Jed passed away due to a relentless heart attack at young age, the aspiring Monsignor fainted and no longer his virtuous purity and innocence glimmered luminously its celestially glossy, aureate light to illuminate his benevolent nature. The scintillatingly grim vibes dashing each person that had close interactions with the British aristocrat urged them to assimilate and overthink rationally logical the dynamic roller coaster which the holy priest has being through for a handful of weeks especially with the catharsis of the apocalyptic saga or rather the nemesis of the purity, chastity and innocence.

In addition to the fishy demeanor ghostwriting the devotional man of the cloth's one of a kind character, the cusping domination between a protagonist and antagonist fiercely strong-willedly inflated significantly in the past few weeks, factly, the mental and physical dilemma of sobering his thoughts and commands emanating from the devil's sinisterly fiery impulse. At moments, the possessed holy man's demonstration of gentlemanly politeness and hospitability somehow leaked the prim impression strucking the people that fairly know him personally. Last but not least, he's committed homicide with suffocating Shelley after being a victim of mutiliation in Dr. Arden's office to equate the painless, ultimate demise and sedating numbness pronging her muscles, bones and cells, suffocated in tremendously virulent affliction and agony. Solely he knew that Shelley was murdered by his own bare hands instead of allowing the severe, virulent affliction and agony heinously painful consume her anatomy. Furthermore, the British aristocrat feared of losing his pearly treasured and trustworthy people that formed his friend circle that wasn't ginormous at all such as Mary Eunice, Jude and you mostly.

The truth eventually was articulating the lessened its frequency of interactions between the woman of the cloth and her boss, due to his tremendous, chaotic business lately which were either once daily or per a few days solely.

What it gravely distressed the middle-aged woman was the British aristocrat's no longer interest in her as something more than a friend and business partner luminously hazed her impure thoughts that incessantly apt to tandem the choir of gearing in her rich vortex of thoughts every night and furiously functioning reverie in much different realm. Much different world. Much different vision. Contrasting realms of absolute reality and amorously majestic reverie. Antagonists and protagonists unimaginably switching roles or improvising with the luxurious imagination of the prey of the daydream.

"Well, he's to be fairly busy lately. He's another business to do!"

"I know, I know," When Jude dumped the spoon in the meagerly empty bowl of pumpkin soup, thereafter her long, ghostly pale slim fingers yanked the fork and waltzing its grapple around the silver tiny entity, pronging a mouthful initial bite from the slice of caramel cheesecake and then munching continuously utmost, solemnly until it unceasingly frittered on multiple wee chunks playfully ticklish lurching on the beginning of her tongue. "I'm thinking we can call it a day off if he gets exorcised."

--- *** ---

--- A Few Hours Later or So ---

When the evening passed at snail's pace and bled into the magnificently blood-curdling midnight, a handful of significantly prominent events occurred shortly after the British compatriot's blackout. Your friends Frederic, Barb and Dana bidding the possessed aspiring Monsignor's ankles and wrists, in order to not flee inevitably bloodthirsty, obscenely sinful to join the ultimate freedom after a persistently stiff-necked physical and mental dilemma. Dana and Barb attending the nigh chapel to seek a handful of clergymen's word even their assistance to bash the vile spirit out of Timothy's frail skeleton that leaked his Achilles' Heel to fulfill an afflicitive damage of his very being and celestial character.

An abysmally sleepless, starless night awaited not only you and your buddies, but also Timothy along with the miniature group of holy men to perform the conjuration to eject the somberly excruciating uninvited guest tormenting unceasingly its own prey of possession.

An hour after the both older women's dimly evaluative promise to get back in the façade, subsequently Frederic rather preferred to finish his serving along with his third glass of scrumptiously insatiable, hedonistc claret to hydrate his tongue and oral caverns, longing for its cataract of intoxicatingly pleasurable red liquor diabolically titillate yet. In the interval, you were all alone in the guests' room to be on guard of the older gentleman, in fact, you didn't want anybody else than your both female friends to embrace the aftermaths of the chaotic mess if the possessed man of the cloth wasn't strictly supervised.

The scourge of contagiously sore, unthinkably unmistakable prejudices and concerns apocalyptically kept you awake even having no intentions of fleeing Dana's property and opting to kill your time off with an intriguing book from the Classic Literature to allow the luxurious cataract of elapsing seconds and minutes to submerge the patchy hollow of your constant inertness to bore your E/C depths into the motionlessly groggy, pallid complexion of Timothy.

Meanwhile, your E/C gemstones studiously impaled ruthlessly restless the twenty-fifth page of Killing a Mockingbird's very first book that caught your eye in first place once your stare scrolled through the initial pages and finding yourself bewitchingly, spellbindingly enamoured with the extraordinarily written composition and the ebony ink glinting its etch of each letter, each word, each sentence and each paragraph harpooning your peripheric eye.

"Gracious child, I was raveling a thread, wasn't even thinking about your father, but now that I am I'll say this: Atticus Finch is the same in his house as he is on the public streets. How'd you like some fresh poundcake to take home?" I liked it very much. Next morning when I awakened I found Jem and Dill in the back yard deep in conversation. When I joined them, as usual they said go away. "Will not. This yard's as much mine as it is yours, Jem Finch. I got just as much right to play in it as you have." Dill and Jem emerged from a brief huddle: "If you stay you've got to do what we tell you," Dill warned. "We-ll," I said, "who's so high and mighty all of a sudden?" "If you don't say you'll do what we tell you, we ain't gonna tell you anything," Dill continued. "You act like you grew ten inches in the night! All right, what is it?" Jem said placidly, "We are going to give a note to Boo Radley." The suddenness of a heavy, weary sigh abraded your fragile lungs, snorting quietly, surreptitiously the mouthful of refreshing oxygen through your wee, vulnerable nostrils, whereas your pensively pursed cherub lips chanted nonchalantly, eloquently a mellifluous low hum, megawattly trying to evade any distractions additionally.

"Y/N, I saw the car," All of a sudden, Frederic manifested to docilely open the notoriously creaky door, taunting you to starkly furrow your eyebrows to draw to the bridge of your nose and flicking up your E/C glassy, jaded gemstones to pierce his young-lookingly parchment face momentarily whilst your pristinely dexterous fingers hooked around the book's flimsy pages to spread broadly to your vision. "They are the priests with our girls Dana and Barb."

"We're supposed to get ready for the tough business with the conjuration and dealing with the demons!"

"I solemnly promise to not leave you on your on with that creepy ass demon taunting you until the girls and the priests' arrival." Dumping ajar opened the door idly, consequently the younger gentleman participated potently stubborn in your company as you both shared a seat on the edge of the double bed and you left shut the book.

"W-What did you say?" The profoundly husky, eerily appealing mutated divinely utmost within a few seconds, puncturing the groggy inquiry of the British aristocrat's sudden awakeness from his brief, beauty coma emulating to a cat nap of the faint with its crucial emanation of the wine's sedative effect.

"They're coming for you, Timothy! We'll make sure to keep your wits about your best and safety." The humdrum, rowdy symphony of footsteps emanating from the first floor's corridor pitched the background, keeping the older man's wits about the imminent method of his spiritual salvation. Exorcism.

"You nasty liars! You trapped me in a mad monstrosity!" Elaborating series of hysterically impulsive, ferocious writhes of his anatomy's muscles to register his protest and blatantly growling aggressively his emotional, half-heartedly cold-blooded pleas at the top of his lungs, throughout casting his scintillating brass, brash glare at you and Frederic.

"Calm down, Timothy! Please for the love of God!"

"Shut your foul mouth, you little slut!" During your attempts to soothingly comfort the older gentleman with cupping his face in the palms of your elvish, secure hands, he nipped ferociously one of your fists as you withdrew rapidly, whereas Frederic drapped a satin arm to soothe you on reflex and overwhelming panic painting your youthful, fresh facial attributes.

"Don't listen to that nasty lying demon! He's trying to provoke you."