I have to pass this in order to make it through my probationary period. Three-Hundred years have been leading to this moment. It's been hard, but tonight, I finally get my little slice of Hell, right down there between paedophilia and house music. My own patch of brimstone, where I can torture and sodomise all who dare pass by.
Possession. The final step. A twelve-year-old girl, on the cusp of puberty, part of a God fearing family, all crucifixes and rosary beads, that kind of shit.
So, here I am, in the sweltering heat of Alabama, just outside Birmingham, squeezing myself up the anus of one, Abigail Crenshaw. In truth, I've been attempting to possess her fully for the past few weeks. It's a lengthy process, you see.
I've been making poor Abigail do things over this past month, things that she would never normally do, things that nobody would ever do. You have to break down every barrier. Physical, emotional, and mental. I whispered things into her ear, raspy and putrid, poisoning her mind. I distorted her view of reality, gave her a glimpse of the evil lurking in the darkness. On a particularly good day, a Sunday, I made her believe that Father Malone was trying to get her to perform fellatio on him. She screeched from the front pew, the rest of the church congregation looking on in horror.
Soon I had her hanging upside down from the ceiling, eating spiders in the corner of her room and scratching the walls until her fingernails broke and bled. I got her to kill the family dog and eat its bloody flesh.
Now, she's ready. I squeeze myself into her tight little ass and I swell inside her. Her bones crack, her blood boils, her heart strains against this alien entity. Her body knows something is wrong and it's trying to dispel me as if I'm nothing but the common cold. Pitiful wretch.
They've tied poor Abigail to the bed. They're waiting on Father Malone. I'm inside, twisting and writhing, filling her completely. I've already performed a few party tricks for his arrival. Projectile vomiting. The three-hundred and sixty degree head turn. The mutilation of the sexual organs.
The guys are watching me now, marking me. Zaqiel. Batariel. Nelchael. Rosier.
Lucifer. He's tapping his wrist and telling me to hurry up.
'I have a three o'clock with Whitney Houston,' he yawns.
I'm nearly there, fully formed. I can feel the tickle of her uvula, the swell of her tiny breasts. Father Malone steps into the room, Bible ready. I can feel myself relaxing, sniffing through her nostrils, tasting blood in her mouth. Then he throws it at me. Fucking holy water.
Let me tell you, that shit fucking hurts. Then he starts ranting off in Latin. His monotonous rambling stabs through Abigail's peachy ears and pierces me to my core.
'In nomine Patris , iubeo. . .'
It's like red-hot barbed wire has been wrapped around her body, getting tighter, squeezing me out. I try to fight it, scream obscenities, put him off, break him.
'You're mother loves demon cock! You filthy kiddyfiddler! You will burn in hell! Hasta la vista, baby!'
It's futile. Abigail's sweaty ring-piece lets rip, and I'm the follow through, tumbling between the cracks of the earth, and into the fiery chasm below.
