Faith: The Unholy Trinity Oneshots

𝙐 𝙉 𝙁 𝙊 𝙍 𝙂 𝙄 𝙑 𝘼 𝘽 𝙇 𝙀

[WARNINGS: VERY VERY SAD STUFF GOING ON]
[2043 WORDS]
[JOHN WARD, AMY MARTIN (SORTA)]
[ANGST]

OCTOBER 31, 1987
THE PROFANE SABBATH

John jolted out of his nightmare, sitting up and panting. Cold sweat drenched his shirt and forehead, his body feeling uncomfortably hot. It was still dark outside, rain pattering on the roof harshly and thunder following cracks of lightning. The man sighed once he was sure he was safe, laying back down. He laid there for a while, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling. Finally, he groaned and got out of bed. He slowly got changed, feeling unnaturally sluggish after last night's events. His mind was filled to the brim with guilt. Father Garcia asked him to investigate a daycare where children had been reported to act strange, where many police officers held it under siege. John didn't try to sneak in, or ask what was going on, or anything useful. He just... ran. Like a damn coward.

John flinched as thunder boomed again, and he was back to reality. He was at the threshold between his bedroom and the rest of his house, doorknob in his hand. He took a deep breath, then finally opened the door and walked out. As he passed the door furthest from his bedroom, he stopped. John looked at the door; that dreaded, damned door. His heart was pulling him inside. He sighed.

"Maybe..." he mumbled to himself, throat dry, "Maybe I should check in there, just one last time."

He remembered throwing the key into the basement after locking the door... as well as the ensuing mental breakdown.

John walked out of the hallway, then towards the kitchen. There was a sudden knock at the door, which startled him.

Someone's at the door. He thought.

John turned and slowly, cautiously, walked to the door. He looked through the peephole, and was terrified of what he saw on the other side. Three cultists stood there, only illuminated by the occasional flashes of lightning. They just stood there, smiling at him. The priest stumbled back, breathing hitched. He turned and ran into the kitchen, stopping short and chills rushing down his spine. In the backyard were six cultists, all standing around a star-shaped hole in the ground. Blood trialed inside, and the priest felt sick to his stomach. He hurriedly mumbled Latin and performed the cross over his chest, as if that could save his soul, then rushed down the basement stairs. He flicked on the light switch, immediately spotting the golden key laying towards the back wall. He speed-walked over to it, picking it up and shakily putting it in his pocket.

John turned back around, only to see a huge, red centipede creature with a mangled, humanoid face skittering down the stairs. He was frozen to the spot for a moment, allowing it to crawl closer to him. He finally moved, running around the demon until he made it back to the stairs. It was slow, making it hard to catch up to him. He sprinted up the stairs, landing back in his kitchen. The priest didn't skip a beat, running into the living room, only to pause there. The cultists at his front door now stood at his windows, rusty scissors raised and hitting against the glass. The material cracked -- it was holding, but wouldn't for long.

John was quick to run into the hall, pulling out the key and hurriedly unlocking the door to the damned room. Once he managed to do so, he rushed into he room and slammed the door shut behind him, locking the door to be sure no one could come after him. The man sighed, adrenaline leaving his body. Everything had suddenly gone quiet -- the rain, the thunder, the cultists -- and he hesitantly looked towards the back wall.

Standing there, dress torn and hair draped over her face, was AMY.

John slowly walked towards her, legs shaking and threatening to give out under his body. His legs would eventually fail him, and they buckled under his weight, forcing him to sit back on his legs. The man looked up at AMY, tears gathering in his eyes. He wasn't sad, or overwhelmed with emotion; he was just tired. Tired of the fear, tired of the constant reminders and nightmares and paranoia. He just wanted it all to end.