A cold, bitter rain attacked the shoulders of Patrick Midnight. Despite the warmth of his thick trench coat, and despite the steaming cup of broth that he clutched desperately in his right hand, the special agent for the Society of Gentlemen Geographers still felt incurably damp.

And sick. Midnight felt terribly, dreadfully sick.

For the first time in years, the young and vigorous special agent could not stop his phlegm-covered lungs from coughing, nor could he heal his aching head. It felt worse than a cold, but not as bad as the Spanish flu, which had once put Lieutenant Midnight of the famed Yankee Division on the shelf for the entirety of January 1919.

Midnight put the warm broth to his lips and drank deeply. He looked across the rainswept campus and studied the object of his visit—Mortlake Hall. Or, rather, what would be Mortlake Hall.

The small, somewhat squat building had the face of a miniature cathedral, with a west end facade decorated with vaunting spires and a singular window made of stained glass. Spreading outward, Mortlake Hall contained red brick walls, and a domed roof made of white marble that matched its neighbors. The clash of the classical with the contemporary was intentional. The brilliant builder, Ralph Adams Cram, wanted to transcend the Gothic Revival style. However, the building was left half-finished due to a series of unfortunate and inexplicable tragedies. A small inferno gutted the interior; a contractor nearly died after falling from a third-floor scaffold (the worker claimed that he had been pushed by unseen hands); a rash of horrific nightmares afflicted everyone involved, even including Cram himself.

Worst of all, Mortlake’s troubles coincided with a pair of unsolved slayings in the usually tranquil town of Hanover, New Hampshire. All the weirdness was first noticed by the Society of Gentlemen Geographers, and a few days prior, a wheezing Midnight had been called upstairs from his thirteenth-floor office.

***

Stanley Hopkins, the newest member of the Society’s intelligence arm, greeted his old friend before he promptly blamed Midnight’s ailment on too many cigarettes and too little sleep. Midnight reminded the young pup that it was he who had rescued Hopkins from spiritual bondage in Sicily, and as such he, Midnight, deserved more kind and encouraging verbiage going forward.

“Sorry, pal,” Hopkins said while ensconced in his new fifteenth-floor office in New York. “Medical science is true, and you’re not as fit as you used to be.”

“And why is that? It’s not like I have any real time to rest in between cases anymore. If I’m not on a ‘mild’ somewhere in the Midwest, I’m preparing for yet another jaunt across the ocean to retrieve the Grand Duke of Worcester’s favorite Indian trinket.” Midnight growled at Hopkins like a wounded dog. “On top of all that, I still have to do the usual round of qualifications and paperwork.” Midnight held up an ink-stained finger for Hopkins to admire.

“Nothing worthwhile is easy,” Hopkins said with a wry smile. “Take comfort in the fact that you are our best man. Speaking of which…” Hopkins reached into his large desk and produced a batch of disorganized papers. The young scion of incredible wealth was not yet as professional or polished as some of the Society’s older hands.

Hopkins passed the papers to Midnight.

“There have been some strange goings-on at Dartmouth. We are interested in finding out more. To be blunt, one of our illustrious members is especially interested because he is a major donor with a plan to send his son there in the fall.”

Midnight skimmed through the papers and asked Hopkins to elaborate.

“It seems that things went belly-up when they started building a new facility called Mortlake Hall. The thing is supposed to be a large library that also houses classrooms, but in reality, it’s a vanity project for Cram. That’s all well and good, but the building seems cursed.”

“Cursed?”

“Workers are refusing to go to work anymore, and Cram has turned all his attention to new projects here in the city. Mortlake is doomed, and there’s someone in Hanover who claims that infernal forces are to blame. I’m sure that Reverend Blackstone is now paying attention.”

“Impudent cur,” Blackstone grumbled from the farthest depths of Midnight’s stomach. The ancestral shade did not suffer from the same malady as his charge, but Midnight’s lethargy bothered the ghost all the same. Blackstone could longer stand Midnight’s constant moping.

“What does our town contact say specifically?” Midnight asked.

“The man’s name is Reverend Thomas Wallingford. Appears to be a reputable academic as well as a practicing minister for the town’s Episcopal population.”

“A godly man,” Blackstone said with clear approval. He then insulted Midnight by comparing him to a deaf and dumb donkey, which earned a hearty laugh from Hopkins.

“Reverend Wallingford,” Hopkins continues “wrote to us a week ago in order to voice his suspicions about Mortlake. He claims that the building was at one point a sanctified church that then had to be de-sanctified in order to begin construction. In the process, Mortlake became an open gateway for all things malevolent.”

“According to Wallingford,” Midnight added.

“According to Wallingford,” Hopkins repeated.

“What about this?” Midnight held aloft two newspaper clippings. One headline blared: COED CRUSHED WITH AN AX. Another screamed: SECOND WOMAN MURDERED; CAMPUS RUMORS CLAIM WILD DOGS RUN AMOK.

“That is the most interesting and infuriating part of the whole mess, Pat. Although there’s nothing to connect to two in terms of physical evidence or even eyewitness accounts, all the misfortunes at Mortlake have coincided with a rash of crimes in the town. Please be aware that Hanover hasn’t had a burglary, let alone a murder in generations. Now, there have been two murders, including one where a girl was partially eaten. As for the dog bit, Dartmouth students and professors alike have been harassing the county police with nonstop sightings of wild dogs. Large dogs,” Hopkins emphasized. “Maybe wolves or coyotes, but strange nonetheless.”

“Too much all at once is the idea, right?” Midnight asked rhetorically.

“Yes, and if anyone is going to find a connection, it’s you. You are to meet Reverend Wallingford this weekend.”

Midnight coughed before wincing. Hopkins noticed this and decided to needle his friend one last time. “Look at the bright side, New Hampshire isn’t that far away, and I hear that the country air is good for the lungs.”

***

Midnight finished his cup of broth mere seconds before Reverend Wallingford surprised him by reaching out and touching his shoulder.

“Patrick Midnight, I presume?” The churchman was short and slender, with thin brown hair barely covering his bulbous skull. His smile was wide and friendly, and his green eyes had a feline’s intelligence with none of the cunning.

“Yes, and you must be Reverend Wallingford.” The two men shook hands. Wallingford’s grip was strong like steel. In fact, the minister’s grip partially crushed the sick man’s hand.

“Sorry about that,” Wallingford said. “I suffer sometimes from excessive enthusiasm.”

“I see.”

“Yes, and I must admit being a tad bit frightened. That awful edifice across from us is unadulterated evil.” Midnight followed Wallingford’s line of sight and stared at the remnants of Mortlake Hall.

“Yes, it is a foul place, Mr. Midnight. Even more rotten than you can imagine.”

“Not to be flippant, Reverend,” Midnight said while reaching for a fresh cigarette, “but I have seen quite a lot of wickedness in my time.”

Wallingford cast a pair of worried eyes at Midnight. The special agent interpreted the churchman’s morose countenance as a sign that he did not appreciate tobacco. Midnight put the cigarette away. This decision pleased Blackstone, too.

“I can only guess… given your line of work,” Wallingford intoned.

“About that. It’s rather unusual for a client of ours to know so much about me and the Society. Can’t say that I enjoy it.”

“And you’re wondering how and why I know so much,” Wallingford said.

“Something like that.”

Wallingford pointed towards Mortlake Hall with an outstretched finger. The slender index digit trembled between the rain drops. “I think that it is time that we enter.”

Wallingford was clearly afraid, and that made Midnight nervous. Nevertheless, he followed the reverend across the small quadrangle and stopped in front of the half-completed hall’s double doors. Wallingford pressed inward. The large oak doors groaned menacingly. They revealed an interior darkness that was almost impenetrable. Only the vague outline of a crucifix was visible. The icon of a crucified Jesus Christ lay prone on the dusty floor.

“My heavens,” Wallingford said, “can they sink any lower?” The churchman rushed inside and did his best to lift the crucifix up. Midnight offered the struggling man a hand, and eventually both men were able to prop the heavy object up against a workman’s bench.

“Our Lord was not on the floor when I was in here last. He was hanging in the proper place. I put him there.”

Midnight took a second to study the walls around him. Empty bookshelves and unvarnished pews surrounded a simple crossing. Behind this stood an altar, or rather a ghost of an altar with only the faded outline of a crucifix. For reasons that he could not articulate, the scene filled the special agent with unease. Reverend Blackstone felt much the same way; he responded by praying quietly to himself.

“Reverend Wallingford. You spoke earlier of ‘they,’ as in ‘can they sink any lower?’ Who are you talking about it?”

Wallingford let out a heavy, exasperated sigh. He looked and acted like a man in dire need of removing a hidden weight from his chest.

“I believe it is time to tell my story.” Wallingford invited Midnight to sit next to him on a pew. The special agent obliged.

“I wear a lot of hats at this college, Mr. Midnight. I am not only a minister to the faithful, but I am also a professor. I instruct my students in Christian theology and ethics. Sadly, my numbers have declined over the years, thus forcing me to…uhm…branch out.”

“When I was at Brown,” Midnight said, “Theology was mandatory.”

“Lot of good it did you,” Blackstone grumbled from the pit of Midnight’s stomach.

“Yes, Dartmouth was the same when I started. However, our last president fancied himself a progressive and enlightened man of science. As a result, Theology became an elective. I’m sad to say that students don’t attend Sunday services that much either.”

“That leaves you with quite a bit of time on your hands.”

“Quite a lot, I’m afraid. But I still have blessings to count, Mr. Midnight. You see, my first parish inspired in me a lifelong fascination with outré psychology. The diseased mind. Madness, to be blunt.”

“Where were you posted?”

“The Virgin Islands. They still belonged to the Kingdom of Denmark when I first arrived, and I was there when they were handed over to our government during the war. The islands are as Edenic as you might imagine, but such splendor obfuscates a demonic core. The same holds for the faith—the islanders may seem Christian, but their true religion is obeah. Those beautiful islands are full of witch doctors, spells, curses, and the like. A terrible malignancy that prays on the poor and vulnerable with ferocity. Many of my months were spent freeing one soul or another from the devil’s clutches, and more often than not it was a neighbor or even a blood relative that loosened the rebel angel in the first place.

“And these were true cases, mind you. The devil is quite real, Mr. Midnight. Oh yes; of that there is no doubt. However, not all my flock were troubled by demons or night terrors. I came to discover that many in my congregation suffered from disturbances in their brains. I would examine them in preparation for an exorcism, only to find that they suffered from schizophrenia, melancholia, or one of the many primal afflictions that Mr. Freud talks about.”

Midnight was temporarily taken aback by the depths of Wallingford’s learning. The churchman was conversant in not only ancient ideas, but also modern ones. To Midnight, this was impressive. To Blackstone, it was suspect.

“I learned down there that the line between organic madness and the supernatural is quite thin. This inspired me to make a full study of psychology and even criminology. I teach both. That is how I keep myself clothed and fed.”

“You’re a sort of Sherlock Holmes,” Midnight said in jest. “A detective for God.”

“I suppose I am,” Wallingford said with a slight chuckle. “I have helped a lot of students in that capacity. None have been more difficult or more profound than Mr. Van Voorhees. It was through him, or rather the entity possessing him, that I learned all about you and your Society.”

Midnight leaned in close and made sure his ears were fully perked. Outside, the sun had died and been replaced by a full moon. The rain continued and even grew in intensity.

“Mr. Van Voorhees is a sophomore,” Wallingford continued. “His family is wealthy, with many properties in the Hudson River Valley and in his native New Jersey. The wealth is as old as the country. The first Van Voorhees crossed the Delaware sometime in the 1640s. Besides their money, the Van Voorhees are also known for their black legends.”

“What kind of legends?”

“Whispers of witchcraft, idolatry, pacts with Lucifer. I believe that much of this stems from old political squabbles. The Van Voorhees name is no stranger to public office in New Jersey and New York, so it’s believable that pure mudslinging is the rationale behind many of these tawdry accusations. But young Steven Van Voorhees has led me to believe in the veracity of at least one rumor. There is a streak of abnormality in their line, Mr. Midnight. A dark curiosity that is as black as Faust’s. A true Van Voorhees man is a glutton for occulted knowledge.”

“What did Steven pursue?”

Wallingford looked around at the now completely dark hall. “There was a church here first. A Congregationalist church, I believe. But, when the congregants stopped coming, the church was sold off to the college. But before that transaction could be completed, the grounds had to be de-sanctified. I believe that Cram wants to reintroduce God here, but the malevolence stopped him. That malevolence consumed Steven Van Voorhees first.”

Midnight asked the man to say more.

“Last year, before construction started, Van Voorhees and other freshmen used this location to practice Spiritualism. Apparently, communicating with ghosts is popular with our ‘smart set.’ They imbibe illegal alcohol, engorge themselves on sandwiches, and playfully taunt the dead. That’s the game. Steven told me during one of our sessions that it was all light-hearted fun until the very last night. On that fateful evening, one of the party made contact with a ghost calling itself ‘Michael.’ This entity not only responded to their queries, but also spoke of events to come. It prophesied your arrival, and it informed the group all about the existence of your Society.”

Midnight swallowed hard. For the first time that night, he felt sweat form on his upper brow and lip.

“I believe that the entity wanted you and I to come here, Mr. Midnight.”

“You mean Michael the ghost?”

“No,” Wallingford said. “There is no ‘Michael.’ Steven and his ill-equipped friends contacted an elemental spirit. A demon. A monstrosity that found a home here the moment the church lost its sanctity. Infernal elements are like that—they love to possess and oppress what was once God’s.”

“I see,” Midnight said. “What happened to Steven?”

“The others backed away once the entity showed its fondness for young Van Voorhees. That night, it directed all its answers towards him. It told Steven that he was ‘the key’ and ‘the principal’ for some ill-defined events to come. This fed into the young man’s curiosity and vanity. He conversed with the entity well into the night, and well after his companions left him behind. Mr. Midnight, it is no exaggeration to say that Steven Van Voorhees greeted the sun the next morning as a spiritually corrupted individual. Possessed.”

A disturbing rumble emanated from the hall’s cloying gloom. To Midnight’s ears, it sounded like the creaking of an old door.

“What was that?” Wallingford exclaimed.

Midnight gently braced the churchman’s shoulders. “Did you attempt to remove the entity from Steven?”

“I did my best, Mr. Midnight. I prayed over the boy, night after night. I also subjected him to intense and rigorous counseling. It involved all the latest techniques and methods. I was making great progress until…”

“Until what?”

“Until the construction of this damned hall began to pick up. Steven went wild. He refused to see me, and when I had him involuntarily committed to the student hospital, he escaped. I do not know where he is now.”

Midnight eyed the churchman with a newfound anxiety. Wallingford was scared, and rightfully so. The wind and rain lashed against the windows, causing a flurry of discomforting sounds to flood the blackened room.

“Besides contacting you and your organization, I think the only thing left to do is to bless these grounds.” Wallingford reached into his coat and produced a Bible and cross. Tied around the cross was a small vial containing both holy water and salt. Wallingford presented the items to Midnight, who responded in kind by unholstering his .25 automatic. The churchman eyed him with confusion.

“You never know, reverend,” he said.

As if on cue, Midnight’s quip was answered by a ferocious break at the entrance. The hall’s doors cracked inwards, letting in a torrential flood of rainwater and damp leaves. Instinctually, Midnight leveled his pistol.

“What in the devil was that?” Wallingford asked without a hint of irony.

“Maybe the devil himself,” Midnight responded.

“Begin prayers, goodman!” Reverend Blackstone bellowed. The long-dead Puritan stood semi-corporeal next to Midnight. With a rapier gripped in one hand, the ancestral shade commanded his fellow minister to begin his blessing. Despite being forewarned about Midnight and the Society, Wallingford’s reaction made it clear that the demon had said nothing about Reverend Blackstone. Wallingford had to be physically prodded into action by the holy ghost.

“We lack time for dalliance, Goodman Wallingford,” Blackstone said. “Begin the blessing. Me and the lad will hold off whatever evil has entered.”

Midnight walked delicately through the pews. He bumped his knees and shins wherever he went, for the faint ambient light coming from the quadrangle outside failed to penetrate the sepulchral gloom of Mortlake Hall. The special agent felt blind—the absolute worst feeling in a room occupied by an unknown enemy.

“Stay steady, lad,” Blackstone whispered. “Satan is afoot.”

Midnight narrowed his eyes to slits. The eyes of a hunter; the eyes of a predator. The special agent continued to grope in the darkness without luck, but he began to sense the presence of an unwanted fourth. Subtly, a new smell entered Midnight’s nostrils. It was an earthy smell reminiscent of mud and slime and soaked fur. Midnight followed the smell back towards the center of the room. His finger tightened on the five-pound trigger. The special agent was ready to fire at the first thing that bumped in the night.

Yet, when the violence started, Midnight was too late.

A strangled cry broke the tense silence. Wallingford bleated with blood-coated lips. A heavy object rained down on his shoulder and nearly severed his arm from his shoulder. Midnight responded by firing several rounds in the direction of the screams. They were not accurate shots, but effective all the same.

“I’ve got the pest, as well!” Blackstone’s words reverberated in the room. Midnight raced towards the crossing area. There he found Blackstone standing over the wounded Wallingford. The churchman clutched his wounded arm. Dark blood poured out of a fearsome red gash that was the width of a dollar coin. The small light from Midnight’s lit match showed that Wallingford was in dire need of assistance.

Next to the wounded churchman lay an unknown man. This individual bled as well, with bullet holes and a single stab wound from Blackstone’s rapier rendering the man totally dead. Midnight struck a second match to study the dead man’s features. He was young, rakishly handsome, and blonde. In life, his pale blue eyes must have been fierce. His short beard was indicative of a wildness uncommon on a college campus. Said wildness was further emphasized by the coyote pelt he wore draped across his shoulders. Midnight knew that the slain figure was Steven Van Voorhees.

“There’s the killer of the two coeds,” Midnight said aloud. Blackstone agreed with the statement. The Puritan further added that Van Voorhees had committed his unspeakable crimes while under the thrall of some as-yet-unnamed demon. Midnight turned his attention back to Wallingford. He bent down and began to lift the churchman by his unmolested arm. In doing so, Midnight laid eyes on the bloodied Bible.

“The blessing,” the special agent gasped. “It’s incomplete.”

The large pool of blood underneath both Wallingford and Van Voorhees began to shift and move until draining away underneath the floorboards. Horror seized Midnight’s eyes as he watched the blood be sucked up by some unseen intelligence.

“Steel thyself, lad.” Blackstone’s words had a hard edge, indicating that the Puritan was afraid. “This accursed land is ready to present itself.”

Once the blood evaporated, the pews began to shake. The low rumbling quickly became a localized earthquake. Next, the unfinished altar collapsed and fractured into a tiny army of splinters. Midnight was forced to shield himself from the falling shrapnel. This caused his right arm to be speared multiple times over. New and fresh blood hit the already soiled floor.

“It needs more blood!” Blackstone shouted.

“What’s happening?” asked a confused Midnight.

“The entity. The damnable ‘Michael’ is trying to manifest. Must be a princely demon to require such much blood.”  Midnight scrambled to reload his .25 automatic. Blackstone, for his part, tightened the grip on his rapier.

The shaking came to a sudden halt, rendering Mortlake Hall as quiet and still as a tomb. Midnight stood up and began pacing. He knew that something was bound to happen, so he tightened his muscles in preparation for deadly action.

“You take the front; I’ll guard the rear,” the special agent ordered. Blackstone shot back a simple “Aye” as confirmation. Midnight’s first action was to shut the doors, while Blackstone moved the unconscious, but still alive Reverend Wallingford to a corner near what was left of the altar. Then, Blackstone retrieved the crucifix and held it aloft in his hands. Midnight smiled to himself when he noticed the Puritan wince at the sight and touch of the “popish” object. This brief distraction prevented Midnight from seeing what emerged from the darkness.

The special agent screamed. Looking down, he shook with terror upon seeing a black hound attached to his wrist. The dog’s teeth were discolored with his blood. Midnight placed the barrel of his small pistol on the dog’s skull and fired. The round was true but had no effect on the voracious dog.

“A hellhound,” barked Blackstone. The panicked Midnight started hitting the hellhound with the butt of his .25 automatic, and when this also failed to hurt the creature, the special agent responded in kind by attempting to bite his antagonist. Blackstone thrust his rapier into the creature’s sides, which only temporarily forced the hellhound to relinquish its hold on Midnight’s wounded arm.

The special agent nursed his bleeding wound, while the Puritan ghost uttered a commanding prayer. Once finished, Blackstone throw a large dose of Wallingford’s holy water at the spectral hound. The hellhound vanished into the night the moment the water hit its obsidian fur.

“There will be more attacks, lad,” Blackstone warned. Midnight did his best to fashion a bandage, but his movements were interrupted by a horde of magpies that attacked him and the Puritan. The hellacious birds pecked at the special agent’s face, while Blackstone’s assailants targeted the hand that held the holy water.

“Keep fighting, lad!” Blackstone bellowed, as the demonic birds tried to rip out Midnight’s eyes. The special agent did his best to swat the birds away, but they kept coming like a never-ending army. Midnight seized the bottle of holy water and blindly flung the purifying liquid everywhere. This proved effective enough at deterring the magpies, who disappeared as quickly as the hellhound. However, the vial of holy water was now empty.

“You are wounded, and quite possibly delirious,” Blackstone said. “Therefore, I shall not be harsh on ye. But that was what the demon wanted.”

Midnight moved to ask for clarification but was silenced by the night’s final crash. This one was thunderous and sent Midnight back on his heels. Even the semi-corporeal Blackstone was affected. The Puritan dropped to his knees and struggled to enunciate a protective prayer. As Midnight’s multiple wounds bled onto the floor, they drained away with an unnatural immediacy. Likewise, parts of Blackstone’s essence—his ectoplasm—were similarly consumed by the thing unseen.

When the cacophony ended, a towering figure emerged at the front of the hall. Only an impenetrably black outline at first, the figure became visible thanks to some kind of red faerie light.

“My God in Heaven,” Blackstone whispered. For the first time ever, Midnight saw that his ancestral shade was numb with fear. The special agent was also terrified of what he saw. The large figure was two entities. The larger of the two had a man’s torso and legs, but the feet of a griffin or sphinx. It held in one hand a long golden trumpet. The other controlled a set of reigns that had the same color and consistency of a jungle serpent. Attached to these reigns was a species of brown bear much larger than a grizzly or Alaskan Kodiak. The bear’s eyes glowed crimson, and one look confirmed the diabolic character of the beast.

Worst of all was the larger figure’s face. Rather than human, it had a lion’s visage. The lion-headed demon brought the trumpet to its maw. The sound that it made nearly drove Midnight and Blackstone to madness. It was an eldritch sound of unspeakable blasphemy. Its closest equivalent was the tortured screams of the damned.

“What goes on here!” The voice interrupted the music of Perdition. Midnight removed his hands from his ears. He saw that the hall’s doors were once again open, and standing in the entrance were a pair of county police officers. Both officers had their guns drawn, and standing behind them were several wide-eyed college students. Midnight examined both his bloodied hands and the scene around him. Blackstone was no longer visible, and neither Wallingford nor Van Voorhees had moved in minutes. An exhausted Midnight no longer had the strength to protest. He sunk into the floorboards as the policemen closed in.

Midnight’s last image before unconsciousness was the barrel of a revolver aimed between his eyes.

***

A month after the incident at Mortlake Hall, and a month after Midnight was finally released from custody in Grafton County thanks to the diplomacy of the Society of Gentlemen Geographers, the special agent was forced to return to Dartmouth campus. Hopkins only got the injured and still sick Midnight to do so with a promise of prolonged medical leave afterwards.

It was once again rainy as Midnight surveyed what was left of Mortlake Hall. Cram’s decision to completely abandon the project had forced the college’s hand. Dartmouth was left with no option but to raze the structure entirely. Empty greenery was all that was left. Midnight admitted that the void was an eyesore. A preferable eyesore, to be sure.

“A reminder of my failure,” Blackstone grumbled. Although Midnight’s shared the Puritan’s dourness (he too preferred to forget all about that night at Mortlake Hall), the special agent believed that Blackstone judged himself too harshly.

“You’ve told me many times that we cannot defeat demons,” Midnight said. “We can only temporarily wound them.” The words were weak consolation.

“Aye, ‘tis true enough. But I saw a king of hell and failed to act with courage. A grave sin that God may never forgive.”

Midnight did his best to change the subject. “What I still cannot fathom is why a powerful demon came here. The Society did its research, and frankly they found nothing special about this town. Even poor Wallingford continues to spin wheels.” Midnight spared a moment to think about the churchman. Although confined to a wheelchair as an incurable invalid, Wallingford continued to counsel wayward students. Teaching was an altogether different matter, as the poor man found it nearly impossible to leave his home.

“A de-sanctified church is the answer,” Blackstone said. “Much as the black mass requires a defrocked priest, a de-sanctified church is the requirement for the raising of the most powerful demons. Wallingford’s supposition was right the entire time.”

“But Van Voorhees did not intentionally raise a demon.”

“That accursed lot meddled with ghosts, and in doing so they allowed a great malignancy into our world.” With that, Blackstone retreated to his black cloud of despair. The Puritan silently excoriated himself for doing so little against King Pursan—Lucifer’s diviner and the herald of the Anti-Christ. This despondency would last a long time.

In the interim, a limping and coughing Midnight strode forward towards where Mortlake Hall once stood. In one hand he clutched a container of salt; in the other he had a mixture of sage, holy water, and a relic made from cedar, pine, and cypress trees. With these, Midnight did his best to bless the grounds, thereby guarding against a future manifestation.

Blackstone watched his young charge with a sense of pride and foreboding. The sky above cracked. A flash of lightning erupted in the distance, followed by the day’s first downpour. The rain obscured Blackstone’s vision. He could not longer see Midnight; he could only hear him cough.