The Chamber of Sins

“Where is Lefebvre now?” Lionette asked.

“Vatican, Italy,” Dubois reported.

Miss Lionette nodded, and she sat in front of the computer. The screen came to life only to show a logo representing their Order - L'Arch. The Order had its roots in the eighteenth-century France along with the beginning of Christianity; its followers had spread worldwide to combat the evil forces.

The woman had taken a vow of faith to serve the Order since she was fourteen. The youngest member in the Order’s history, she had to combine her private life with her job, concealed from her family and acquaintances. Her current job as a House Manager for the Midwinters was convenient, as she could get in touch with important large groups of people and have excellent intel about what was happening in the city. The number of possessed people had been increasing so much since last month that it had her alarmed. The Community Church was their ally in the extermination of the hell creatures. Unfortunately, something started attracting the evil in their town as the holy Church’s representative reported a rise of cases.

She typed her password in the popping window, and a world map appeared. Shropshire county map popped up as she introduced its name.

“Dubois!” she exclaimed, her eyes bulging. “Call the others. An Angel has fallen.”

While Dubois was teleconferencing with his colleagues, Miss Lionette rushed to the Armory room. It is happening again. God help us all; she murmured. She went straight to an approximately 6ft high safe with the Order’s logo on - two angel wings enclosing two swords, housing a heart in flames in the middle. The woman opened the safe door and took a black velvet box out; an antique watch was lying comfortably inside, on a black cushion. She took it out with care and patted it with nostalgia.

Responding to her kindness, the artefact started glowing, spreading a warm, green light.

St Peter’s compass, she whispered. The oldest Christian artefact on Earth, the compass dated before the Ark of the Covenant. It was an unusual instrument of detection, helping the members of the Order to fight against the evil. She grabbed another artefact - a three-inch silver cross with a thin blade and a handle embedding a vial with angel tears, one of its kind, a perfect weapon against demons. She knew for sure that where there were angels, there were also demons.

Back in the room, her comrade reported, “They are coming tonight.”

“Good,” she said pleased, while printing the Shropshire map.

“There is a febrile activity around this area,” she showed Dubois as she circled the zone. It is strange. It looks like that is around the Midwinter property. As they were studying the map, Lionette’s phone rang.

“Yes?” She panicked, seeing the caller’s number. “I understand. I'll be there shortly.” Bye, she whispered after hanging up. “I have to go,” she communicated in a dull voice, “Tell the others we shall meet at midnight.”

Lionette slammed the acceleration to the maximum and counted the minutes until arriving at the Hospice. She passed by the reception in a hurry and reaching the second floor she rushed towards the first door to the right. Inside the room, the woman approached the bed and caressed the woman’s chalk-white hand; it was still soft. She squeezed the cotton cloth and dabbed it tenderly. The door creaked open, and she wiped away a rebellious tear as she lowered her chin to her chest.

“Hello, Clementine. Thank you for calling me. Another seizure?”

The woman came closer and put her hand on Lionette’s shoulder.

“It started three hours ago.” Clementine gulped for air. She then pointed at the opposite wall and added. “And she did that.” Lionette’s eyes widened, and she gasped powerlessly. She slowly put the patient’s hand on the sheet and stumbled to the wall. Someone had scribbled the whitewashed walls with distorted images of grotesque figures walking around people and stealing their souls. The central scene outlined a lyre emanating many imposing rays, letters of blood scribbled on everyone. Hundreds of deformed arms were reaching out to the lyre, trying to grasp it. Bloody bodies were crawling around it, some split in half, others headless. Angels with outstretched wings were flying overhead.

Lionette touched the frozen wall, a grimace appearing on her petrified face. She took out her phone and took some pictures.

The woman in the bed writhed and muttered something, and Lionette strode back. The defused light intensified the patient’s pallor, the wrinkles deeply dug in her skin. She was in her mid-thirties. Still, her body condition was not the best, her aerodynamic silhouette being one with the mattress, stubs piercing the subtle-grey colour sheets.

Just as a clown wig of an artificial light yellow, her fuzzy hair adorned her forehead like carpet tassels on the wooden floor. Her skin was pulled tight over her nose and chin, her eyes - deep abysses sunken in her skull. Dark red veins sprinkled the white of her eyes, and her pupils were deep black pits.

Her lips, two fainted lines burned by an inner fire, kept mumbling something. Finally, Lionette put her ear close to the woman’s mouth.

“Brothers and demons are here. We are lost. They are going to bring hell on Earth. Hell is here,” she cried, and her bony hand grabbed Lionette’s stiff collar with a titanic force. “You must find her! She is our redemption. Find her.” Fine foam invaded the corners of her mouth, and a milky mass sputtered between her craggy teeth. Her hand twitched, and a chipped nail cut superficially into Lionette’s face. The woman mooched into the hallway, leaving the nurse to calm the unleashed patient. Distressed and with tears in her eyes, she barely read the text message received on her phone.

At the mansion, Margo was sat at the kitchen table, dangling her feet in distress. She was watching the two women preparing breakfast. It smelled delicious, and she sighed at the thought of the mornings when Sister Mary would fry more bacon to give her an extra piece, and they would sit and talk about her future for hours. Sister Mary had planned to send her to the boarding school to become a reporter, and Margo loved imagining herself having enough money to buy a small cottage by the edge of a romantic village. Surrounded by blossoming trees in spring, the house would have a brick barbeque for those nights when the garden would be full of guests, mesmerising flowers in summer and a wooden swing to help her to relax during autumn afternoons.

Bored, she thought of Robert and his state. And then Derek popped into her mind. He had said she was requested in Heaven. Apparently, Margo was a vital soul, and she couldn’t wonder on Earth. If so, she said to herself. I could find who my parents are. I might ask Derek, and he would clarify why they didn’t want me.

Invigorated by the thought, she went to Robert’s room. The boy wasn’t there. A high-pitch sound vibrated in her body, making it implode. Her eyes widened, only to see particles of her body flooding in the thin air for a split second. “What is happening to me?” she cried.

Dark red shadows were dancing in the middle of the room, creating a powerful vortex attracting her. Margo felt her body shredded in the air, only to regain its form seconds later. The process repeated. The vortex became stronger and stronger, grabbing everything in the room on its way. Margo started feeling weak as her body was fading slowly.

A door opened in the distance, and Margo felt her body being pulled out from the vortex by a powerful force and thrown to the wall.