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The church congregation listened attentively to the preacher at the altar, their ears absorbed every word, their eyes fixated to his passionate gestures.
“To seek an ungodly power is to seek a greatness far beyond what we are destined for. Who are we to surpass not only our fellow humans, but our own creators? We are all created as equals, I am just as mortal as you are, even the leaders of our country have to kneel before the godly powers.”
His voice echoed through the church, and he smiled down at the gathered believers in the pews.
Pariston Hill was an accredited pastor, well recognized within his community, and a giant fraud.
As the collection baskets were passed around with the satisfying sound of clinking money, the man fidgeted with the high collar of his pastors uniform. It was a rather unflattering, uncomfortable uniform, in a matte black with a simple golden cross hanging from his neck, nothing he would wear in his free time by choice, but a small price to pay to appear humble to his community.
The altar servers returned with the baskets, filled to their brims with coins and papers. Money wasn’t everything, of course, but it certainly helped to ensure the position of the church, and by extension Pariston, as a powerful presence.
“Let us join in prayer.”
The congregation fell to their knees and recited the usual closing prayer, something the pastor himself only mouthed along to as he thought about how uncomfortable and cold those kneeling benches looked.
“Amen~. May you all go in peace.”
The church had emptied at a trickling pace, a couple of old ladies stayed after the service to thank Pariston, the altar servers took their time getting everything cleaned up, and the elderly man responsible for playing the church organ insisted to play three more songs before leaving.
But then it was finally empty.
Pariston locked the large entrance doors with a wooden bar, cutting off the cold breeze from outside. He let out an exasperated sigh, loosened his collar, and ran a hand through his blonde hair.
The collection baskets from this mass were not as bountiful as the last, and the pews were not yet entirely filled.
“Not everyone will turn into a believer just through spoken word and prayer.” He lightly laughed to himself in the cold hall.
Behind the altar, a box filled with red candles, a leatherbound book, and a silver knife could be seen. The Pastor picked it up, examined its contents, and took it with him to the rounded off area behind the altar. Under the light of a stained-glass window, he carefully started to arrange the candles in a rounded formation, double checked before lighting each one.
The leatherbound book, lacking any inscription on its cover or spine, lay heavy in his hands. He kneeled before the formation.
Pariston Hill learned early of the churches beliefs, learned to believe in a higher, inherently good power.
But he also learned to believe that everything inherently good has to have its counterpart.
A power, unlimited in its reach and separated from all morals and goodness that humanity may cling onto.
Where he teaches the people of messengers of God, how you shall not fear them, the beautiful angel creatures; He was learning about the servants of evil, beings that feed of your fear, disarming demons.
The silver knife cut effortlessly through his palm, and droplets of blood started to pool together in the centre of the candle formation.
“As he clothed himself with cursing like as with a garment, so let it come into his bowels like water, and like oil into his bones.” The candles flickered lightly.
“Wealth and riches are in his house, and his righteousness endureth for ever.”
A stronger wind picked up in the empty church, and he had to concentrate as to not let his voice waver.
“Take upon this offering, and grant what is sought.”
With one sharp gust of wind, all candles were blown out, and Pariston was wrapped in darkness. There was no sound, only the smell of smoke and cold, moist air that clung to his skin.
He dared not to move, not even to let out the breath he was holding onto.
Did he fail? Was he making a fool of himself? Was there no truth to the beliefs that had been taught to him for all these years?
There was a single clap.
All candles flickered back to life. Within their warm light, a figure stood.
A man of medium height, clothed in a mockery of a priest’s cassock. It was torn and ripped on its edges, and the black cloth was covered in red writing, an incomprehensible language. From the torn edges at the bottom, a black liquid was steadily dropping on the floor. The top buttons and collars had been undone, revealing a toned chest, covered as well in the strange black substance.
He had a sharp face, black hair that messily stood in all directions, and two sharp horns protruded from his forehead.
The nauseating smell of sulphur and rust filled Pariston nostrils.
The man- no, creature, looked around for a few seconds, before his eyes focused on the pastor. A mocking smile formed on his lips, revealing sharp teeth.
“Isn’t this a bit hypocritical?”
“Is that something you care about?” Pariston hated being talked down to, though he also was too unsure to stand up.
“What’s your desire, child of god?”
“Power. To have command over every sheep that comes to my church.”
The demon laughed and knelt down towards Pariston. He put a stained hand on the man’s chin, tilting it around a bit as if to appraise him. “And what do you offer in return?”
“What could a demon desire?”
“Your kind is not exactly one to ask for a first born, is it?” The man laughed. “I don’t care about your earthly possessions or the faint shimmer of a mortal soul you carry. Does such a boring guy deserve my help?”
“My recitations may be a little rusty, perhaps I should try my luck summoning someone useful.”
“There are no do-overs for opening a portal to the underworld.”
Pariston tried to appear relaxed, though it got harder and harder as the temperature rose and it felt like even his lungs were filling with a thick liquid, threatening to suffocate him.
As the candles flickered once again, close to being blown out, the pastor grabbed the hand that had been fixed to his jaw. “If I can’t offer you any of my possessions or myself, I can at least offer you a show. I have big plans; I just need a little boost in power for them to be set into motion. If you grant me yours, you will have front seat rows, and I promise not to bore you.”
The demon licked his lips in thought. “Bold. But I will agree; on the one condition, that if I start to get bored of you, I will take back all my powers and gifts I have previously donated and leave you to struggle with the fallout.”
“Deal.”
The creature leapt forward and united their lips in a kiss that tasted of blood, dirt, and grime. His sharp teeth bit a bruise into Paristons lips, and though he had no way to tell, he felt like a vile contract had been engraved into his heart.
He pulled away with a cough, spitting up blood and bile onto the floor.
As he looked up again, out of breath and energy, all candles had been blown out, and only the light shining through the stained-glass windows remained. There was no trace of the other man, nor any evidence that he had ever been there in the first place.
But Pariston could feel a gaze fixed upon him from the empty space.
With the sleeve of his coat, he wiped the corners of his mouth clean, bowed, and whispered within the empty hall, “Enjoy the show.”