I CAN SEE YOU

CHAPTER 8: THE GATHERING OF FAITH

Father Joseph and Father Michael arrived in one late afternoon, their presence solemn and calm as they stepped through the doors of the Bell house. They carried with them the tools of their faith: vials of holy water, small heavy wooden crosses, Bibles worn from years of use, and, most importantly, a shared determination that emanated from both men like an aura. Father Gabriel was already waiting for them, his face shadowed with exhaustion. He'd been battling this presence alone for days, and relief mixed with dread in his gaze as he welcomed his fellow priests. The three men exchanged solemn nods, understanding the gravity of the task that lay ahead.

The Bell family was gathered in the living room, their faces pale and drawn. John Bell, looked worn, his shoulders hunched with the weight of sleepless nights and unending worry. Beside him was Lucy Bell with their boys, her eyes darting nervously between the priests, hope barely holding back the fear that had filled her heart since this nightmare began. In a hushed voice, Father Joseph greeted the family, his tone gentle but firm.

"We are here to help Betsy," he assured them, "but we will need your prayers and your strength as well. What we face here is dangerous; it will try to weaken our faith, but together, with God's power, we can stand firm."

They moved toward Betsy's room in a grim procession, each priest casting silent prayers as they approached. Inside, Betsy lay strapped to her bed, her wrists and ankles bound to prevent her from hurting herself or anyone else. Her once-vibrant eyes were now clouded, filled with a malice that wasn't hers. Her skin was pale and damp, her body writhing restlessly against the bindings. The air around her felt thick, charged with something unnatural and oppressive. The temperature in the room had dropped so low that their breath clouded in front of them, and a scent of decay lingered.

Father Gabriel stepped forward, holding his cross tightly. He took a deep breath and gestured to Father Joseph and Father Michael to join him on either side of the bed. They placed their hands on Betsy's shoulders, steadying her trembling form, and each priest took out a small bottle of holy water, pouring a few drops onto her forehead. The family watched from a safe distance, gathered just outside the door, their arms wrapped around one another in a mixture of fear and prayerful anticipation.

As Father Gabriel began the exorcism, his voice was steady and strong, the words ancient and powerful.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, we stand before you, Lord, seeking your protection, your guidance, and your light. By the intercession of the holy saints, may this spirit be banished from this place and from the body of your child, Betsy."

They continued, voices rising in unison, invoking the presence of saints and archangels. Each prayer, each phrase, seemed to cut through the darkness like a blade. Their voices merged into a harmonious chant, a tapestry of faith woven against the snarling presence that had taken hold of Betsy. Father Michael opened his Bible and began to read from the Gospel of Mark, his voice shaking but resolute as he recited verses of divine authority.

"Saint Michael, Archangel, defend us in battle," Father Joseph began, his voice almost a whisper at first but growing stronger with each word. "Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the devil; may God rebuke him, we humbly pray..."

As the prayer echoed around the room, Betsy's body jerked violently, and a guttural, mocking laugh erupted from her lips. Her eyes rolled back, and her voice-deep, unnatural, and twisted-began to mock them.

"You think these words mean anything to me?" the voice sneered, her mouth twisting into a dark smile that did not belong to Betsy. "Your faith is weak, your God... powerless."

Father Gabriel raised his cross higher, refusing to let the taunts shake his resolve. "In the name of Jesus Christ, I command you, spirit, to leave this child and be gone forever!"

The priests continued their prayers, the rhythm of their voices unwavering. Father Michael reached into his bag and took out a small, weathered book, flipping to a bookmarked page where the Prayer of Saint Benedict was written. His voice rose, carrying the strength of generations past as he spoke with unyielding faith.

"O Lord, I place myself in your protection and call upon you, Saint Benedict, in this hour of need. Shield us from the wickedness that seeks to destroy. May your divine presence break the chains of darkness and bring light back to this innocent child."

The chant grew louder, each priest's voice merging, forming a wave of power that filled the room, drowning out the malevolent whispers of the entity. The family, still huddled together, bowed their heads, each whispering their own prayers, willing their hearts to remain steady, no matter the horrors they heard from the room.

As the Prayer of Saint Benedict was spoken, Betsy's body stiffened. A low growl emerged from her throat, her face contorted with rage, veins darkening under her pale skin. Her mouth opened in a scream, but the sound was distorted, as if multiple voices were pouring out of her at once. Her eyes burned with a hatred that was as ancient as it was terrifying.

"Your words are nothing but air," the entity hissed, the voice filled with contempt. "She belongs to me! Her pain, her soul-all of it will feed my hunger."

Father Joseph took a step closer, undeterred. He placed his hand on Betsy's forehead, making the sign of the cross with holy water. "She is a child of God, and no darkness has the right to claim her. I cast you out, unclean spirit, in the name of Jesus Christ."

Betsy's body arched against the bed, her mouth stretching open in a silent scream as if some unseen force was pulling at her from within. Her body convulsed, then went still, her chest rising and falling as though she were struggling to breathe. The room felt like it was pulsing, shadows flickering at the edges of their vision, the oppressive darkness resisting every word they spoke.

Father Michael joined Father Joseph, raising his cross high as he continued the prayer. The words flowed from his lips like a weapon, each one a strike against the invisible force clinging to Betsy. The more they prayed, the more the entity raged, screaming obscenities, cursing the priests, mocking their God with twisted humor and venomous hatred. It was a battle of wills, of faith against malice, each word they spoke tightening the binds of holiness around the unclean spirit.

Betsy let out a final, blood-curdling scream, her body arching one last time before collapsing onto the bed, breathless and still. The silence that followed was deafening, as if the entire house were holding its breath, waiting. The priests, exhausted but unwavering, continued to pray softly, letting the words settle over Betsy like a protective veil.

They knew this battle was not yet over. The entity had been weakened, but it was not gone. The room was still dark, the air heavy with the lingering traces of malevolence. Father Gabriel looked at his fellow priests, their eyes meeting in silent.