5

 I placed the dead head on the altar, just above Peter's neck.

"Lord!" I shouted, raising the axe. "Look upon your faithful servant, and let your will be done on earth as in heaven!"

The axe came down with a whistle, cleaving the mutilated skull in two halves, which rolled to opposite sides of the dungeon.

At this sight, Eva lost all her courage. She screamed piercingly, as if she hadn't yet accustomed herself to the sight of her husband's mutilated corpse.

I raised the axe again and struck it with all my might, severing the neck and part of the sternum. I was surprised by the ease with which the old, long-unsharpened weapon dealt with the corpse's muscles and bones.

It was the Lord who gave me strength, I thought with conviction, taking another swing. Euphoria slowly overtook me. I felt light, like I had felt in childhood when I drank my first glass of vodka. Only now the pleasure was a hundred times stronger.

"Stop!" Eve screamed, thrashing in her bonds. "I beg you, stop!

" "You wanted to sacrifice me to Satan," I replied, continuing my work. "But the Lord saved me.

" "I had to. Do you hear me?! He forced me to do it. I didn't want to end up on the altar!

She was lying, I was sure of it. They all lie when they see what awaits them.

" "You're a witch, and you'll die for it," I gasped. I was almost finished with the man. One, maybe two strokes left. Then I'll move on to the woman. It'll be more interesting with her.

The sanctuary was filled with the stench of blood and filth that had spilled from the split entrails. I believed it pleased the divine nostrils, as it had in the days when the Jews, obedient to his will, slaughtered the pagan Canaanites.

"Listen, I'll tell you what you want. We'll call the police." If you kill me without hearing what I have to say, the other members of the community will go unpunished. What do you say to that?

I cared little for others. What mattered was what the Lord wanted—and he wanted revenge here and now. However, I decided to give her false hope. Just for fun.

"Speak," I turned to her.

I must have looked terrible—bloody and stinking. The terror etched on Eve's face made her as ugly as her filthy soul.

She overcame herself and looked me in the eye.

"Ferdinand had a brother, Lucian. After the death of their father, Simon, the Great High Priest, he became the Heir to the Mystery. In each generation, one child was sacrificed, the other raised to be High Priest. Our power is linked to the Firstborn, Ferdinand. This house was built from a tree planted on his grave. Adepts draw knowledge and power here...

" "But why me?" Even if you sacrificed me, you would not have a second child, an Heir, as you call him...

She hesitated, as if in a quandary.

"I'm pregnant," she confessed.

"What? But..." "

That's why I went to Warsaw. I wanted to be sure. I was supposed to tell you today.

Enough! She tried to dissuade me from fulfilling my mission. She played on my feelings. She lied!"

Anger, fueled by hard work, flared anew in my heart. Furiously, I slammed my axe into the man's groin, ultimately splitting him in two. "

Now it's your turn," I muttered, dragging the mangled remains toward the other side of the altar.

But I was destined for nothing.

Suddenly, all the torches went out, and the dungeon was plunged into total darkness.

Ewa screamed horribly.

Disoriented, I dropped the axe. The blade clattered mournfully against the rock.

"He's coming," Ewa sobbed. "He'll kill us." "

Shut up," I hushed her. The sound I'd only just heard as a barely audible whisper now resembled the hissing of gas escaping from open valves.

A moment later, I caught its scent. It resembled smoke rising from a spit, the stench of burning fat. It grew stronger with each passing moment, until breathing became impossible. I yearned to escape the Sanctuary, regardless of the consequences.

Ewa finally fell silent, likely fainting. I briefly considered taking her with me and bringing her to justice at another time. But I guessed that whatever was coming would take care of her best.

Coughing and tearing up, I headed for the exit when a flame shot from the center of the altar and began to consume the smoke. The flame quickly grew into a column of flame that filled the space between the two halves of the corpse. The blood and slimy entrails that had lingered on that part of the altar instantly evaporated upon contact with the flame.

In that same instant, I felt an overwhelming desire to throw myself into the flames. Their shimmering glow tempted me, the heat radiating from them enticed me. They were like Abraham's bosom, where all the righteous long to rest.

And yet you are righteous.

A fearless warrior.

An obedient servant.

A child.

Fascinated, I moved toward the wall of fire. I felt loved, respected, saved...

Suddenly, a woman's shrill laughter, an expression of pure madness, rent the air. It brutally pierced my soul, sullying the sanctity of my infatuation with its presence.

I turned and ran to Eve. With a hard blow to the jaw, I knocked her unconscious. I pulled a knife from my cassock pocket and cut the ropes at her wrists. Like a sack of straw, she slid to the ground. With considerable effort, I lifted her up and staggered toward the door.

The fire screamed after me with love, despair, anger, hatred...

And I ran. I ran.

It was almost over.

I left Ewa unconscious in my room. In the garage, I found a canister of gasoline, a pack of nails, and a hammer. I poured the gasoline in every room on the ground floor and set it on fire. I nailed up the door and window—just in case I was afraid of death when she looked me in the eye from between the cleansing flames.

Ewa was still asleep. She looked like a small child. If she didn't accept her fate, I'd have to kill her.

Surely you wouldn't mind?

Heat bulged the walls of the room. We still had a moment left.

Ferdynand had just stopped smiling. He was furious with me.

Are you too?

But my greatest crime is that a blasphemous thought occurred to me. What if Piotrek was wrong? What if we hadn't isolated your dark side at all, and it still benefits from your shared omnipotence?

Because if he was right, then who did I meet in the basement?

A wall had cracked. Flames were consuming the air.

I remember no more sins. I sincerely regret them, and I ask your forgiveness.

Whoever you are...

4

 Peter and Eva had no right to live. It was God's will, and fulfilling it was now my duty. I didn't hide the fact that the sight of my enemy lying lifeless in a pool of blood gave me great pleasure. "It was out of zeal in God's service," I told myself. Something compelled me to desecrate the corpse in some way. However, I restrained myself and went to pack.

I wasn't particularly surprised by the change in little Ferdinand's appearance. On his delicate, childish neck was a terrible, bloody wound, inflicted by my knife. The boy's face expressed regret, as if his mother hadn't wanted to buy him his favorite lollipop at the supermarket.

"You shouldn't have started," I grumbled, amused by his scowl.

I gathered the few things I had brought with me: some underwear, a few black shirts to wear under his clerical collar, a cassock, a breviary, a book on "The Imitation of Christ," and a Bible whose spine felt damp and sticky.

"That's not true," I muttered, nervously opening the Bible to the previously opened page. I read the few verses that caught my eye. A sign, I thought with shock. The Lord had given me a sign of what to do. I closed the Bible, gently placed it in my backpack, and wiped my bloody fingers on my pants. I smiled happily.

I slung the backpack over my shoulder and took one last look at the hated image of the demon. The bloodstain had almost disappeared from his neck. Instead, a wide, vengeful smile spread across his lips, revealing sharp, yellow fangs.

"God, he's bringing him back!" I screamed, and ran downstairs to the living room.

Peter seemed still dead, though his neck wound had visibly diminished.

My first instinct was to drown him. I grabbed his limp feet, shod in his damned, brand-new slippers, and dragged the corpse toward the door leading to the hallway. I was sweating like never before in my life, but within two minutes I found myself on the porch, in front of the front door.

Gasping for breath, I looked around. The world was enveloped in varying degrees of darkness. The sapphire, starry sky suddenly transformed into the jagged, impenetrable blackness of the treetops. Beside me, like a vast animal, the gray expanse of the lake slept restlessly.

I couldn't remember which path led to the beach. I only knew it was about twenty meters from the house. Dragging the body that far would be slow and arduous. It would take too long, and it might come back to life.

As if to confirm my words, the corpse stirred, letting out a deep sigh.

Terrified, I looked around. I searched for an axe or a scythe with which to cut off his damn head. But it was too dark to see anything. Near panic, I backed to the door and, with a trembling hand, fumbled for the light switch. A moment later, the porch was flooded with an ugly, yellowish light from a forty-watt bulb. I glanced around the porch again. In the left corner, against the wall, stood a rake. I went for it on legs that were starting to give out. They felt like rubber chewed by a battalion of Yankees.

The corpse moved again, this time more forcefully, as if someone had briefly plugged it into an electrical outlet.

Faster, faster! I energized myself, taking the rake into my numb hands. Lord Jesus Christ! If you want me to become an effective instrument in your divine hands, give me strength! You told the apostles to pray, asking for an increase in faith. Here I am, your priest, I beg you, increase my strength...

I leaned the rake against the wall of the house at a rather steep angle.

...faith and give me the strength to fulfill Your will!

With all my might, I struck the center of the handle with my sole, which broke in two. Fortunately, the fracture was not transverse, but at an acute angle. This gave me a sharpened stake. Thus armed, I approached the corpse to which Satan was fulfilling his obligations.

Peter's healthy eye was open, and the first sparks of returning life smoldered within it. This time, I wasn't curious if a second eye had grown beneath the bloody bandage. I leaned over the deceased (could I still call him that?) and raised my primitive weapon above my head, determined to send Peter to hell once and for all.

Most Holy Mother, you said to Jesus' disciples...

With all my might, I struck the wound on his neck, which left only a slight indentation. The sharp shard effortlessly pierced the skin and tissue, crushing the windpipe.

...so that they may do as he commands. Today, his faithful priest battles the forces of evil, Satan, whom you, Virgin of virgins...

The terrifying squeal of a slaughtered pig escaped Peter's lips, quickly turning into a hideous gurgle as blood from the torn arteries rushed into the throat, windpipe, and lungs.

...you crushed the head, according to the ancient prophecy. Obtain from your Son strength and courage for your unworthy servant, whose...

The resurrected worshiper of the Evil One fought fiercely for his life. He waved his arms wildly, like an inexperienced swimmer overcome with panic. Fortified by prayer, I leaned on the stake, kneeling on either side of the quivering body.

...the only desire is to faithfully and without murmuring fulfill the will of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God!

Piotr stopped struggling. His arms fell to his sides like rotting dead tree trunks. His legs ceased their fruitless kicking. The tremors stopped. His left eye once again took on a deathly glaze. "

Thank you, God!" I whispered, pulling the bloody stake from the neck of the second victim. This time I wanted to be sure he wouldn't come back to life. I placed the stake against his dead eye and pushed with all my strength. The bone cracked, and the stake sank into his brain. I pulled it from the gray goo and inserted it between his parted lips. I repeated the thrust again, and again, until I was sure the sharpened end of the stake rested against the rough boards.

Better this way. I rose from my knees and retreated to the depths of the veranda. Dawn was breaking. The stars faded and disappeared behind a blanket of gray that, like a worn canvas curtain, separated the earth from the cosmic spectacle. The sun, the tireless master of ceremonies, was about to rise, to announce a new act in the eternal drama of existence.

"When the morning dawns, the earth and the sea are yours. All life sings to you, praise be to you, great God."

I reverently folded my bloody hands and began my prayer to begin the day. A light breeze arose over the lake, pushing the last shreds of fog toward the forest. Individual trees slowly emerged from the dark mass, returning to their unremarkable appearance.

Mindful of the work ahead, I abandoned prayer and contemplation of the beauty of creation. The Church Fathers taught that work could glorify God just as well as prayer. This was especially true as I staggered with exhaustion, and the negative vibrations that had intensified recently sapped my will and clouded my thoughts.

First, a bath, I decided. I was literally drenched in blood. My pants and shirt were stiff, as if someone had sewn them from cardboard and painted them with red oil paint.

I wanted to prepare myself as best I could for Ewa's return.

Around

noon, I heard the roar of her car engine.

The sun was beating down mercilessly, so after completing the necessary preparations, I put on my cassock and spent the entire morning in the living room, alternating between dozing and praying the rosary. I wanted to say Mass in one of the rooms on the ground floor, which I had converted into a makeshift chapel, but unfortunately, the need for sleep proved stronger. Now there was no time.

"Hey, are you there?" I heard her sensual voice coming from the veranda. "What are those bedroom carpets doing here? Have you lost your mind?" She was clearly angry. "

I'm here!" I shouted.

A moment later, she appeared in the living room doorway: beautiful, sweaty, and nervous. She wore a short, strapless gray dress that accentuated her shapely figure. Her long blond hair was tied back in a ponytail with a green hairband. She exuded eroticism, and even a staunch celibate like me couldn't help but be captivated by her charm. Too bad, I thought. A damn shame...

"Where is..." she asked, looking around the living room. A huge, dark stain on the carpet beneath my feet caught her attention. "What is this?"

"My husband is waiting for you in the sanctuary. And this is his blood." Before

she could process the words, I pulled the pistol from behind my back and fired. The tranquilizer bullet struck her in the diaphragm. Eve groaned and collapsed to the floor. The sanctuary was pleasantly cool. A dozen torches planted along the damp, roughly carved rock walls provided enough light to rob the place of some of its sepulchral atmosphere. I didn't like gloomy atmospheres. The Lord said that what they whisper in the dark will be heard in the light. I tied Eve to an iron hook driven into one of the sanctuary's walls. Peter, or rather what was left of him, lay naked on the stone altar, in the position his ancestors had placed Ferdinand. I stuck the severed head on the other hook, on the opposite side of the dungeon. From the pocket of my cassock, I took a small traveling stole. I humbly kissed it and placed it around my neck. Finally, I made the sign of the cross. Eva was conscious. She looked at me with hatred and terror. It was difficult for me to judge which emotion predominated. Besides, I didn't care. "Eva," I began, "we are gathered here so that God's will may be fulfilled, his holy wrath may be revealed upon you who have sinned..." She spat in my direction. " You have given your souls to Satan, you have desecrated the baptism with which you were marked, for the salvation of immortal souls." You sealed your vile covenant with the blood of innocent children, parodying the covenant made by our forefather Abraham with God. Your guilt is undeniable. And this is the punishment the Lord himself inflicts upon you. I reached into my cassock pocket and pulled out the Bible. I opened it to the marked page and began reading. -From the book of Jeremiah, chapter 34, verse 18: "And I will deal with the men who transgress my covenant, who have not fulfilled the terms of the covenant made before me, as with the calf which they cut in two to pass between them." Amen. So be it. With a gesture honed by years of practice, I raised the open book to my lips, kissed it gently, closed it, and put it in my pocket. Then I went to the altar and, in one hand, grasped a huge axe, its blade uneven, chipped from blows against the stone, reflecting the torchlight. With my free hand, I removed the traitor's severed head from the hook. For a moment, I recalled the soldier from numerous religious paintings, holding the freshly severed head of John the Baptist. I smiled at the thought. A better comparison would be Judith and Holofernes. After all, good always triumphs over evil...

3

You worship Satan!" I exploded. "Ferdinand was sacrificed to a demon by his own father!" I saw it!

A look of understanding spread across Piotrek's swollen face. "

We worship God, Tomek. Unlike you Christians. And, no offense, we do it better."

His impudence left me completely stunned for a moment. Then rage filled me with its corrosive content.

"What are you talking about!" I screamed. "This man cold-bloodedly cut his three-year-old son in half, wallowed in his blood and entrails like a whore in a herbal bath, summoning something disgusting that emerged from the darkness, and you say God prefers this to the Eucharist?!"

I took a step toward him, heedless of the danger. I pointed my finger at him, like a prosecutor in court.

"Or maybe you also killed a child as a sacrifice to your monstrous God?" "I said.

He shuddered. I must have hit a nerve.

"Listen, priest," his voice lost some of its gentleness. "You carry within you the pride of your church, so I don't know if you'll understand me, but I'll try.

You claim my God is monstrous, but it was you who made him into a true monster. In a fit of unimaginable pride, one that Lucifer himself would envy, you forced him through the sieve of your own morality. What got through, you deemed good and beautiful, and called God; what remained at the bottom, you rejected with disgust as satanic. You vivisected the divine nature, taking with you only the shadow of the Creator.

But God cannot be divided like the carcass of a pig. Precisely because you constantly despise and teach hatred that part of the divine nature that doesn't fit your neurotic notions, you drag it along like a hump you refuse to acknowledge." Countless crimes committed in the name of Jesus, the Crusades, religious wars... Your holy theologians delighted in overseeing the work of the Holy Inquisition, feasting on the groans of tortured children of God...

I interrupted him, shocked by the perversity of his argument. "

You're talking nonsense, Satanist. Knowing God is a constant process in which He reveals Himself to us. The inspired writers of the Old Testament moved away from the concept of God as the author of good and evil, towards knowing the good Father, who in Jesus Christ revealed Himself as Love!"

"That's your mistake," Piotrek retorted. "Over time, you turned the true, Almighty God into the very idea of what you understood by the concept of goodness and perfection. What you didn't like about him, you considered personal evil. However, since there can't be two Gods, you reached for the religions of more culturally developed nations and borrowed Satan, a treacherous creature who brought evil and misfortune into the world. You went further than the dualists, who considered so-called evil also a divine element, though separate from the good element.

" "Don't you see the primitiveness of this idea?" he continued. "In the Old Covenant, there was the serpent and the foolish Eve; in the New, we have the devil and demons, who delight in paralytics and pigs, and an even more foolish Judas." Even today, you consider the demon something infinitely primitive and dull, an imbecile who possesses a person, curses, curses, and with an animalistic cry abandons his host out of fear of Jesus' power.

"God is love."

Peter touched the bloody bandage on his face.

"God is everything. The power of love and killing. The Church teaches that God can be known by contemplating his work. Unfortunately, you are not concerned with knowing the full truth. Even a child sees the beauty of nature, even in its ruthless struggle for existence. For you, it is a consequence of original sin; for us, it is an inalienable part of the whole. The true God does not have to be a perfect, pacifist feeling, like your sick view of the world.

You spoke of Jesus. He too resorted to violence, but in a wrong way. As the Son of God and Lord of history, he could do anything, which is why he made others his killers and himself his victim. Wasn't Saint Francis, who deserved the stigmata, a masochist like his Master? He tortured his body, cut himself, refused food, avoided hygiene, and this finally killed him...

By the way, we share the same logic. God the Father delivers his Son into the hands of torturers, in other words, he kills him, using the hands of others. Simon kills his son Ferdinand with his own hands, wanting to honor that part of God's inseparable nature that you have made degenerate and filthy. God the Father kills a child for the salvation of the world—Simon murders his son so that God might be appeased. Jesus rises from the dead; Ferdinand is devoured by the monster you created, Cain, brought to life by your selective, false love.

"Enough!" I shouted, covering my ears. "I can't listen to this! I loved you like a brother, Peter. Today I regret saving you. How can you be so stupid?!"

Piotr smiled understandingly. A trickle of blood seeped from beneath the bandage, but he seemed oblivious. He spoke calmly, with conviction.

"I still love you. Ever since you first visited me at home, when you promised me undying friendship and care, I've considered you a brother. I was even happy when you became a priest—I saw the happiness in your eyes, and that was the most important thing to me.

I lost all desire to talk. That man disgusted me. He was a liar, a cynical monster, a blasphemer who attacked my love for God, who wanted to take away my faith. I thought of all the years we shared a deep friendship. I recalled all the confidences and his advice, which I tried to put into practice. A deep sadness overwhelmed me. Unwanted tears welled in my eyes.

"Our friendship was the worst mistake of my life," I said. "Fortunately, it's over. I'm going to pack my things and leave immediately. I'll inform the police in Warsaw. Who knows what horrors you're hiding in the basement of your house..." "

I'm sorry, but that's impossible," Piotrek replied, pulling his hand from his pocket. He held a small-caliber pistol in it. "The Lord has other plans for you."

"Plans?" I shouted. "What plans could the devil possibly have for me?"

Piotrek shook his head in resignation. He had clearly lost hope of explaining the doctrine of his faith to me.

"As you well know, Ewa and I cannot have children. The Lord is demanding: He gives us everything we ask of Him, but He categorically demands His sacrifice. You know, let's count like Jews," he tried to joke, but his left eye was anything but amused. His gaze held deep sadness and absolute determination. "This should have been our son... But the Lord made an exception. We love you like a brother. You're thirty-three years old... Christ's Age, as you priests speak among themselves. The Lord has a sense of humor, so..."

"You want to sacrifice me," I finished for him. I was terrified.

"It was supposed to be completely different... but, yes.

The decision was made. I, too, had made my decision."

"So why are you aiming at me? You can shoot me.

" "It's a tranquilizer gun. The ceremony will take place tomorrow, when Ewa returns from Warsaw. Don't take this personally. Balance must be maintained..."

I beat him by a second. As he squeezed the trigger, I performed a feint I'd learned in boxing school, simultaneously swinging a Scout's fin knife, which I kept hidden in my shirt sleeve. Everyone knew about my boxing aspirations; no one knew about the hours of knife-throwing training. It was my second hobby, one I never gave up. I was convinced that one day this skill would save my life..."

A bullet grazed my left shoulder. A wave of weakness immediately washed over me. I felt like a passenger sucked out of a damaged plane. I felt as if I were in a complete vacuum: I couldn't draw air into my lungs, and I had lost complete control of my body. As I fell to the floor, I saw in passing that the knife had ended its flight in the thin neck of my former friend. Then I lost consciousness. I woke up several hours later, sore and disoriented.

The first thing I noticed in the dim light of the dying candles were the intricate patterns decorating the fluffy carpet that had cushioned my fall. The second thing was the soles of Piotr's black slippers—they were clean, as if he'd never worn them. I was reminded of hundreds of slippers fresh from the store, adorning the feet of grandfathers, fathers, husbands laid in coffins... The sight invariably evoked in me a feeling of disorientation and the absurdity of life, lending a tinge of uncertainty to the ritual words of prayer. The men were being fitted with new shoes, even though they wouldn't be going anywhere in them. I staggered to my feet. Dear Piotr wouldn't be going anywhere either, I thought, glancing at the bloody handle of the knife. The rest was lodged deep in his windpipe. I approached the corpse, suppressing my disgust. I kicked the gun with my toes; it had fallen from his delicate hand. I tried not to step in the pool of dried blood that flowed profusely from the wound, creating a vast, dark halo around the corpse's head. I had to satisfy my sudden curiosity. To do so, I pulled a tissue from my pants pocket and wiped the blood from the knife handle. With a decisive jerk, I pulled the blade from the dead man's throat and then pry open the bandage on his right cheek. I saw livid, swollen flesh surrounding a sunken eyelid, from under which flowed a stream of disgusting fluid—a mixture of blood, pus, and tears—ending its brief course in the livid mouth, frozen in a speechless cry of surprise. In the flickering candlelight, the corpse seemed to weep over its fate. "As life, so death," I whispered in response to this thought. Jesus had commanded the women of Jerusalem to weep over the fate of their children, who were drawing down upon themselves the wrath of a just God. The man whose name I wanted to erase from memory deserved, like no other, God's wrath, of which I was merely the executor. I felt no regret or remorse. When I threw the knife at my only friend, I was already a changed man. I understood that God had placed me in his path many years ago, not to save a miserable, satanic life, but to deal definitively with the filth that desecrated His holy name. 

2

 woke up just before nine, sore and tired from the uncomfortable position. I washed my face in the tiny bathroom adjacent to my bedroom and went downstairs for breakfast.

The kitchen, bathed in the morning sun, smelled of fried bacon and good coffee. Piotr sat at the table, eating scrambled eggs. Ewa was pouring espresso coffee into a travel thermos.

"I have to go to Warsaw for a few days," she said. "The hospital called. The patient I operated on had a seizure last night."

I nodded, indicating I'd accepted the message. Such situations were not negotiable.

"Have a good trip," I replied.

"Thank you." Ewa kissed Piotr on the cheek and waved goodbye. "Take care, guys. And remember: no orgies. This is a decent house."

She left the house. A moment later, we heard the roar of her BMW's engine.

We were alone.

I poured myself a cup of coffee. I didn't feel like doing anything else. My friend looked at my empty plate in surprise.

"I'm not hungry," I explained.

"Is something wrong?

" "No, nothing," I lied.

Piotr put his plate in the sink.

"So what are we planning for today?" he asked. "Here's a unique opportunity for two middle-aged men to embark on an adventure that reeks of perversion."

"Speak for yourself, old man. I'm still a priest with milk under my nose."

"Soon. Rumor has it they're preparing quite a parish for you.

" "May you prove to be a herald of good news, Brother Piotr. The Holy Spirit often speaks through the mouths of God-fearing elders. "

Piotr looked offended.

"Blessed elders? I'm not a bishop, Father Tomasz. I milk bishops who enjoy luxury cars!"

I laughed at his joke.

"I feel like I'm missing out on this opportunity for some serious debauchery," I returned to the topic. "As the Lord Jesus says, 'The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.' I'm going to lounge on the couch with a beer in my hand.

" "Let's get to it!" Piotrek shouted, opening the door. "Ladies and cassocks

first." "Altar boys first, then the celebrant," I retorted. "Besides, go alone. I have to say matins. I'll join you in a few minutes."

I reluctantly thought of returning to the stuffy room and the dead boy who lived there. "

Servants not best men," I groaned inwardly and left the kitchen.

*

"Whose photograph is hanging in my room?" I asked Piotrek as we basked by the lakeside.

"What?

" "The big one, of a little boy." "

That's Ferdynand, my great-grandfather's twin brother. He was three when he died of pneumonia."

Yet I was right. The child was photographed just before his death.

"Tell me about him."

Piotr sat down. He didn't seem thrilled by my request. Suddenly, I regretted bringing it up. "

If you don't want to..."

"No, fine. No problem. In my family, children are especially desired and loved. They are considered a sign of God's blessing. For generations, we have cared for their health and upbringing, striving to create for them, for the first dozen or so years of life, a true paradise on earth. Thanks to this, our family has always been united and strong in all circumstances.

Unfortunately, even the greatest love is helpless against illnesses for which there is no cure. Ferdinand, my great-grandfather's beloved brother, was the first and, to date, only member of our family to die as a child.

I realized my tactlessness, and a flush of shame spread like boiling water across my face. Although several years had passed since their wedding, Piotr and Ewa were unable to have children. Now, because of my curiosity, my friend was opening up his wounds that would never heal.

"There's a legend," he continued, "that when Ferdinand died, Szymon, his father, buried him in the garden. He planted an oak tree on his grave. On his fortieth birthday, my great-grandfather cut down the massive tree that had been feeding on his brother's flesh and built this house from it. Whenever we're in it, we feel Ferdinand's closeness, protecting us from misfortune. On the other hand, the child doesn't feel lonely six feet underground because we keep him company. Romantic, isn't it?" "

So he can hear us now?" The thought sent shivers down my spine.

"You live and then you rot," the child in the photo said yesterday.

"I don't know if he hears. He definitely sees. Haven't you noticed that in every room of this house there's a picture of Ferdinand?"

"No."

"This is his house, Tomek. A body inhabited by the immortal soul of a small child

The day passed, as planned, in laziness. For lunch, we ate tasteless pizza heated in the microwave. For dinner, we drank three beers each—we didn't feel like eating more.

Even though we talked practically nonstop, my thoughts drifted to the story I'd heard that morning. If it weren't for the experiences of the past 24 hours, the legend of a house haunted by a three-year-old would have been laughable to me. Yet I couldn't dismiss the vividness of the vision from the pier, much less forget the feeling that I was mentally conversing with a being emanating evil. A three-year-old can't be evil unless possessed, I told myself. Nothing in Piotr's story suggests that. On the contrary, it's full of love and suffering over the loss of a child.

Yet deep in my subconscious, I preferred dealing with an evil spirit, as it would prove I wasn't mentally ill.

Around ten o'clock, I said goodbye to Piotr and went to my room. I turned on the light, opened the window, and began the Liturgy of the Hours. All the while, I was careful not to look at Ferdinand's picture. As I recited the psalms, I imagined the child in the picture smiling contemptuously, baring his wolfish fangs. His dark eyes swelled red, hot, bloody tears streamed down his cheeks, and when they touched his thin lips, a forked, serpentine tongue emerged from between them and greedily licked the crimson drops, in a sudden surge of thirst... "

From the depths, I cry to You, O Lord. Lord, incline Your ear to the voice of my supplication!" I recited, clinging to the words of the psalm as if it were a lifeline. God, free me from this fear! God, save me from madness! Mother of Jesus, save me!

"Look at me."

What?

"Look!"

I obediently raised my head and looked at the photograph. A five-year-old child smiled fondly at me.

"Calm down!" I commanded myself. "A thirty-three-year-old man shouldn't be acting like a brat after watching 'Dracula.' What's gotten into you?!

I put down my breviary without finishing my prayer. For the next few minutes, I tormented myself with the most inventive insults. Finally, panic slowly gave way to anger born of humiliation.

I raised my head, looked at the photo, and smiled venomously.

"What the fuck is going on here?" I asked in a whisper. "Ghosts, corpses, and God knows what else won't turn me into a freak. This world is in the hands of providence, which I serve. I'm a shitty Jedi knight, fighting on the right side of the force. I don't have to be afraid of a kid whose little soul plays football with angels in heavenly pastures."

I rose from my chair and approached the photograph. The child's eyes, hidden in the shadows, were roughly level with mine.

"You're not answering?" I sneered. "Ferdynand, I'm talking to you. Answer me or leave me alone once and for all!"

I felt much better. Anger worked like the best medicine. A pinch of vulgarity improved its flavor. I thought with embarrassment of my recent panic attacks. I imagined a bald psychiatrist with the obligatory long beard, sans mustache, talking to a colleague on whom he had an unrequited crush. "You know, Zofia (I think that was the right name for a mental health doctor), I'm dealing with an exceptionally interesting case of neurosis. A priest experiences anxiety attacks when he sees a photo of a young child. He imagines that the photo emanates pure evil, the source of which is Satan himself." Zofia replies, stirring the tea she'd just sweetened with a teaspoon of sugar in an ugly, battered mug: "But Zbigniew (I hate that name!), this is perfect material for an article in one of those medical journals..." "

I won't give up," I muttered.

I lay down on the bed and stared at the hated photograph. For the first time in my life, I experienced a panic attack of such intensity. My heart was racing, sweat clinging to my heated body like a disgusting jumpsuit. The air tasted like ashes from a extinguished fire.

I tried to gather my thoughts. The idea that a small child could be possessed had been exploited quite well in "The Exorcist." Oscar Wilde described the living image in "The Picture of Dorian Gray." These were works of human imagination. I didn't think it appropriate to produce a third: some Hollywood-style blend of the two. The little boy had died of pneumonia many years ago. Its evocative image impacts my subconscious, provoking states of anxiety. End of story. And yet, as a priest, I was accustomed to dealing with death in all its stages: from agony to funerals and occasional masses for the deceased.

No matter how hard I tried to rationalize my experiences, I couldn't shake the feeling of evil emanating from the photograph. It filled the room like car exhaust—it was impossible to breathe without feeling its suffocating presence.

It's not true, I told myself. It's not true.

Suddenly, a solution so simple occurred to me that I laughed. If the child's photograph was the catalyst for my fears, why the hell don't I remove it from the room? It didn't matter that it would be a failure of sorts. I'll put this thing in another, distant room and be done with it.

I got out of bed and approached the photograph again. Little Ferdynand was looking at me defiantly.

"You wouldn't dare."

And it was.

With a decisive gesture, I grabbed the wooden frames and yanked them toward me.

What happened in the next few seconds nearly killed me.

The portrait didn't even move, and I realized it was permanently affixed to the wall. At that same moment, my mind was filled with bloody images.

A tall man, clad in dark robes, clutches a broad-bladed axe in his hand...

A young boy lies naked on a stone block. His arms and legs, spread wide, are tied to metal hoops at the four corners of this primitive altar...

With horror, I recognize the victim—it's Ferdinand!

The child is intoxicated by something: he smiles stupidly at his executioner. His lips whisper words, drowned out by the monotonous, somber chant that fills the dark dungeon with its ominous melody...

As if in a trance, I watch Ferdinand's mouth. I try to understand what he's saying. For some reason, it seems incredibly important. The executioner draws closer. He leans slightly over the child and speaks to him. The boy smiles and responds. Finally, I manage to make out one word...

"Daddy..."

The singing fades. The hooded man raises the axe high above his head. I hear the whistle of metal cutting through the air. The blade plunges into the child's body, slicing it from the crown to the diaphragm.

The murderer pulls the axe from the twitching body of his victim. The blade rises again, scattering droplets of blood and pieces of brain like a ghostly stoup.

Another blow cleaves Ferdinand in two. Hands grasp the ropes and pull the two halves of the tiny corpse apart a few dozen centimeters.

The air fills with the smell of blood and excrement.

The executioner climbs onto the altar between the legs of the murdered boy. His hands, knees, and feet are sloshing in congealing blood. The man, kneeling, extends his hands in a pleading gesture to someone unseen on the other side of the altar.

The darkness in that place thickens, taking on a homogenous form.

An invisible choir resumes its somber chant, enriched with a note of triumph.

Suddenly, the torches fade, and the dungeon is plunged into utter darkness.

The somber song ends halfway.

The only sound I hear is the munching of food, accompanying the hurried feast...

The vision ended. I dropped the cursed photograph and took a step back. I trembled as if during a final attack of malaria. The scenes of ritual murder that had haunted my mind were still there in all their horror. But it was not so much the sight of the dismembered corpse that terrified me, but rather the mysterious figure that emerged from the darkness.

It was Satan, I thought. The ruler of hell. A fallen angel. A liar and a killer. The father of all evil.

What I saw was a covenant rite. A criminal parody of Abraham's sacrifice to God. The patriarch, as the Bible tells us, cut the sacrificial animals in two and then walked between them. He then encountered the Lord, who promised that his numerous descendants would populate the promised land.

I took the pocket edition of the Millennium Bible from my backpack, which I never parted with. I easily found Genesis, chapter 15, verse 9:

"Then the Lord said, 'Choose for me a three-year-old heifer, a three-year-old female goat, a three-year-old ram, a turtledove, and a young pigeon.'" When he had chosen all these, Abraham cut them in half lengthwise and placed the halves opposite each other. (...) And when the sun had set and it was pitch dark, there appeared smoke like the rising of a furnace and fire like a flaming torch, and they passed between the halves. It was then that the Lord made a covenant with Abraham..."

In the ritual, in which I was a passive participant, Ferdinand's father went further and accomplished what Abraham had been unable to do—he sacrificed his son to summon Lucifer.

I finally understood the connection between Ferdinand's photograph and my recent experiences. The child had become Satan's property, his contact with the real world, with his followers.

"You're cursed!" I shouted. I threw the Bible at the portrait like a stone.

Despite the considerable force I exerted, the volume bounced off the glass covering the picture, harmlessly, as if it were a stone wall.

"Damn," I muttered in disappointment, picking up my breviary from the ground. I hit Ferdinand in the right eye, and for a moment I idiotically hoped I'd poked it out. Somewhere outside the window ,

the plaintive cry of an awakened bird echoed. I went down to the living room. Despite the late hour, I hoped to find my friend there. I was right. Piotr sat with his back to me in a deep armchair and seemed to be contemplating the forest landscape stretching out beyond the window, bathed in moonlight. Shadows, brought to life by the faint light of a few candles on a round, stylish table in the center of the room, crept across the stern faces of the ancestors whose portraits adorned the white-painted walls. Among them, the painted image of Ferdinand stood out for its size and beauty. "Why?" I asked, stopping at a safe distance. "Why did you lie to me?" Piotr turned slowly toward me. The right side of his pale face was obscured by a huge bandage, tinged red at eye level. "Jesus of Nazareth," I groaned inwardly. His right eye... " "I'm sorry." His tone was as pleasant and friendly as ever. "The story I told you wasn't far from the truth.

Inquisitor

 We met completely by accident.

I was walking home from practice one autumn afternoon. A cold rain was falling, and the wind was blowing sideways, rendering my umbrella completely useless. Although I loved autumn, this time I was far from enjoying the sight of gloomy, heavy clouds and cascading golden leaves at the mercy of the fickle wind. I got another bad grade in math, and the coach said if I didn't improve, he'd have to kick me off the team. "According to your teacher, boxing knocks your brains out," he said. "He says the more you box, the worse you learn. You have to prove it's a load of rubbish, or I'll be forced to kick you off the team." I was angry with the teacher for his stupidity; I hated the coach for his cowardice. Boxing was everything to me: it helped me survive the hell of a house ruled by a tyrannical drunk. What if I didn't get a C? No one cared that I was good at boxing, and I simply couldn't understand math. What a shitty world...

I turned onto the alley leading to the apartment building where I lived when I heard a groan. I stopped and looked around carefully. The voice came from behind a half-ruined dumpster. I cautiously took a few steps and saw two boys I didn't recognize, bullying a third, much younger one.

I stopped. My heart started beating faster.

One of the attackers kicked the victim in the stomach.

Could he help the kid?

The second, taller one, corrected him with a kick to the hip.

It's none of my business. The

shorter one kicked the boy in the kidneys, making him scream horribly.

They'll kill him.

"Kick his face!" the shorter one shouted.

I ran over. I punched the taller one in the back of the head with all my might. He fell flat on his face without a moan. The shorter one managed to get into a defensive stance. His blue eyes blazed with hatred. I feinted, and he fell for it. A right hook caught him in the jaw. I'd always dreamed of that kind of punch in the ring. I heard the crack of bone cracking. The bandit slumped to the sidewalk, like a puppet suddenly stripped of its strings. I was amazed at my own strength.

The sight of my fallen opponents brought me pleasure. At the same time, I felt a pang of dissatisfaction. I regretted that everything had been so easy. I wanted to fight, to inflict pain, to see the fear in the eyes of my defeated foes!

I shook these thoughts away like a dog emerging from a puddle of dirty water. I knelt beside the beaten boy. He was alive, though unconscious. I made sure he didn't choke on the vomit and blood that flowed freely from his parted mouth, then ran for help.

The doctors said I had likely saved his life.

I knew it for sure. Despite this, I was plagued by guilt for months. My initial hesitation could have cost the boy his life. It was one of the many reasons I came to love him like a brother.

Piotrek

was recovering quickly.

Three weeks after that fateful evening, his mother called me with an invitation.

"Piotrek is waiting for you," she said. "Come over for dinner."

I bought a box of Wedel chocolates and went.

His parents were wealthy. They lived in their own single-family home in the wealthy neighborhood known as "Złodziejowice." His father, an engineer, worked for a large construction company. His mother was a doctor.

I entered a large room whose blue-painted walls were decorated with dozens of car magazine folders. No rock bands or African-American basketball stars—only cars. I even recognized a few: a Volkswagen Golf, a Ferrari, a BMW...

Piotrek lay in a bed—twice the size of my bunk. In the light of the nightstand lamp on his desk, he looked quite good. The swelling had gone down from his thin face. Only dark spots—remnants of massive bruises on his cheeks and temples—reminded me of his brush with death. By some miracle, his thin, pale lips remained untouched.

"Hi," I said, unsure of his reaction.

He smiled. Mischievous sparks played in his brown, gold-flecked irises. This is a man who has learned the fragile value of life, I thought. I was delighted that I had been given the honor of saving these sparks from a definitive blackout. Life is the highest value, inviolable, sacred. Suddenly, the resentment against the coach for removing me from the team vanished from my heart. Looking at Piotrek's thin, battered body, I realized the absurdity of sports based on brutality and the infliction of pain. The warrior spirit had left me, and I wasn't at all sorry. Life—I sighed silently—a wonderful life...

He beckoned me over with a gesture of his hand, trembling with exertion.

I walked over to the bed and sat on a low stool. It smelled of hospital and fresh, starched sheets. Emotion gripped my throat, bringing tears to my eyes. Piotr took my right hand and placed it against his cheek, which was as warm and delicate as a hot water bottle wrapped in silk.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"I will always defend you."

*

In my second year of studies, I felt a calling. A few months later, I entered the seminary, and after six years of study, I was ordained a priest.

It started innocently. I was increasingly enjoying the atmosphere of the church I went to every Sunday to please my girlfriend. Sex with Iwona and analyzing Plato's "Dialogues," which we studied during our exercises, were giving me less and less pleasure. Finally, the time came when I considered any day I couldn't attend Mass a lost cause. Monthly confession left me in a deep moral quandary. I couldn't honor God and Mammon. I proposed to Iwona a life of chastity until marriage. After a week, she left. A priest I knew convinced me that this was a clear sign of God's will. My studies were getting worse and worse, and I prayed more and more often. I read the entire Bible twice, attended Ignatian and vocational retreats with the Franciscans, Dominicans, and Divine Word Missionaries. I fell in love with God, and like an Olympic torch, I burned with the desire to enter his service. There wasn't much exaltation involved; There was determination and perseverance in following his path.

Piotr accepted my decision with joy. Not because he deeply believed. Five minutes of conversation was enough for him. He knew I had found my path to happiness.

For six years, he visited me at the Seminary, sharing his successes and failures.

"You know what?" he told me once. "This brainwashing is doing you a world of good. I've never felt your closeness as strongly as it did during these visits.

God was changing me.

" On the eve of his diaconate ordination, Piotr brought a tall, very pretty blonde with a sincere, modest gaze to the meeting.

"This is Ewa," he said. "My fiancée.

They waited a whole year to get married. Two weddings a week apart. It was the most beautiful time of my life.

" *

"Come swim!" Ewa waved encouragingly at me. She stood waist-deep in the warm water of the lake. The afternoon sun reflected off its shimmering surface, as if off a million shards of glass.

I put down my breviary and took off my glasses.

My friend's wife looked like Venus emerging from the depths of the sea. Lucky, I thought. He has a beautiful, intelligent companion, a satisfying job, and a lot of money. I encountered too many unfortunates every day in my pastoral ministry not to appreciate my friend's good fortune. Thank you, God! Watch over them.

I walked over to the pier where she was bathing.

"I don't like water," I said.

She didn't insist. That's what I liked about her and Piotr. They knew when to give in so as not to offend the other person. I truly hated water. A dozen or so years ago, while bathing in a river, I brushed against the floating corpse of a drowned man. His bloated, eyeless face sometimes appears in my dreams. His pale mouth opens in a grimace of infinite suffering, vomiting a thick liquid the color of congealing blood. Suddenly, the river, full of disgusting mucus exuded from the drowned man's rotting body, surges and spills out of its bed. I try to escape, but my legs fail me. Terrified, I trudge toward the shore, which becomes more distant, unreachable with each passing second. The water rises quickly. In a moment, it reaches my chest, shoulders, neck. Then I hear someone say my name.

"Tomek."

I know it's the drowned man.

I turn around.

I recognize my father's face, smiling vengefully.

I start screaming, and at that moment, a disgusting liquid fills my mouth. I swallow it reflexively, feeling its unique taste – it's blood. And not just any blood. It's my mother's blood.

It tastes delicious…

"Jesus, help me!" I whispered, trying to free myself from the terrible memory. "I am your priest, the confidant of your secrets. Why are these nightmares destroying my soul?

For the first time, I was experiencing my nightmare in broad daylight.

" "Is everything alright?" Ewa asked, concerned.

"Yes."

I prayed with all my strength that my answer would be true.

What if it wasn't?

The two of us sat at a round table. Piotrek was watching over the last sausages grilling.

Dusk brought a little refreshment to the weary nature. A light breeze blew from the lake. Frogs and crickets entered their daily competition for the loudest rendition of the summer overture. Ewa lit the candles.

"I feel good with you," I confessed.

"And we're happy with you," Piotr replied. "Even if we're spending this vacation differently than usual."

"But we're by the lake," I protested. "

That's true. However, it doesn't have the comforts you had in Mikołajki."

I poured myself some wine, got up from the table, and walked over to the wooden veranda wall. I looked at the lake waters, which rippled under the harsh caresses of the increasingly strong wind.

"To hell with comforts," I said. "This is your home, Piotr. The home of your ancestors. Everything in it speaks of your identity, based on the history of your family. Although we've been friends for many years, I've never been here. I don't care about a hotel and its comforts. After all, I'm a priest, and for us, luxury is a sin. Apparently, God wanted us to spend our vacation in the cottage built by your great-grandfather."

"You're right," Eve interjected. "You can't escape fate."

"And so the first day passed. And God saw that what he created was good," Peter joked, dousing the glowing embers of the grill with water from a bottle.

"Did you know that for saying those words in the Middle Ages you would have been severely punished. Maybe even killed?" I teased him.

"Oh, no!" He feigned horror. "Father Inquisitor, I didn't mean to!" "

Too late, you wicked one. Here's the fire, here's the axe." I grabbed the axe lying on the wooden floor of the gazebo by the grill, and then gave chase.

"Eve, my wife, help me!" Peter laughed, fleeing around the table.

Eva grabbed a white napkin from the table. She ran to her husband and threw it over his head.

"He's mine, mine!" "Danuska from "The Teutonic Knights" shouted in a high-pitched voice.

I lowered my weapon and sat down. All three of us roared with wild laughter until our stomachs ached.

I loved them. God, how I loved them! They were the true family I never had. The beaten-to-the-point boy I saved from death grew up to become an auto industry tycoon, but the feeling of friendship that bound us remained as strong and fierce as it had been then. I was ready to give my life for him, and I knew he wouldn't begrudge me his. His marriage to Ewa hadn't changed anything. God had simply blessed me with a sister.

We cleaned up after dinner. They went outside, hugging each other and giggling like teenagers. I went to my room with my breviary in hand.

I occupied a small room with wood-paneled walls and a low ceiling, from which an old-fashioned chandelier hung forlornly. The single window overlooked the lake, covered in a silver tapestry of moonlight. I opened it a crack, allowing the cool breeze of the Masurian night to settle into my bedroom.

The room was very sparsely furnished, which suited me. It consisted of a double bed covered with a red quilt, a small table with a night lamp attached with a nail, a wooden two-door wardrobe, and a single chair. Opposite the bed, next to the wardrobe, hung a large photograph in a dark wooden frame, depicting the bust of a young boy.

I sat down in the chair and opened my breviary.

"God, come to my aid! Lord, make haste to help me!" I crossed myself in rhythm with the words.

I didn't feel threatened. I didn't need rescue. I was surrounded by loving people; Mother Church cared for me. As a priest, I pleaded for help on behalf of those who, somewhere in the world, were oppressed, raped, killed, losing their faith, dying without reconciling with God. I was their advocate, their last resort. By God's will, my prayer possessed immense power, so I approached it responsibly. The Church, which prays through its priests, is the mystical body of the Savior. I am the Savior...

I finished my prayer and lay down on the bed. The mattress was too hard for my liking. I ignored this slight discomfort and, closing my eyes, sank into a relaxing emptiness devoid of thoughts and images.

Something compelled me to open my eyes. I looked at the photo hanging on the opposite wall. The little boy, whose bust had been immortalized in the black-and-white photo, was very handsome. Thick, blond hair in unruly curls framed a delicate face with the regular features of a baroque cherub. His neck and slight shoulders were exposed, as if the boy had been stripped to the waist for a photograph. This heightened the impression of the child's unearthly beauty.

Yet, something about the photo was jarring, deeply unsettling. It took me a few seconds to figure out the source of my negative impression. The boy's figure was enclosed in a bright oval, the rest of the space enclosed by wooden frames was filled with blackness.

The photograph was taken in the style used for tombstone photographs!

The child's small mouth expressed a barely perceptible mockery. His shadowed eyes were stern.

"A revelation to me too," the boy seemed to say. "Of course I'm a corpse. You will be one too."

Jesus is the Resurrection and the Life. Whoever believes in Him will live forever, I replied.

"The apricots chime. Persian fairy tales in a Judeo-Christian version. You live, and then you rot."

I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy universal Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life eternal. Amen, you brat. AMEN!!!

What am I doing?! I was terrified. Every priest, sooner or later, goes through a crisis of faith. But to talk to an image?! I remembered an episode from a few hours earlier. Could this be the beginning of an illness?

I felt nauseous and jumped out of bed.

I'm not crazy, I told myself. I'm not crazy! It's this damn heat. I might even have suffered a sunstroke... In September, I was supposed to get my own parish. Finally, after seven years of serving other priests, I had a chance to stand my ground. If I ended up in the hospital, everything would be prolonged. And what if they diagnosed me with mental illness? No more dreams of a parish. I'd end up a resident, a perpetual wanderer. There's no sentiment in the Church. What counts are connections and clout. Even if the bishop gave me a second chance, I'd have to wait years for it.

I knelt down, leaning against the bed. From my pocket, I pulled the rosary, a gift from Peter. I crossed myself hastily and began to pray. Reciting dozens of the Angelic Salutation, I begged the Mother of Jesus for help and protection. The panic subsided slowly, like a toothache after taking Panadol. At the end of the rosary, I fell asleep.

4

 Julia still lived, existed, was. She was increasingly fading away internally, feeling like a feather thrown into the wind, fluttering and landing wherever the magical force carried it. In her gray loneliness, she sought a moment of silence from her own thoughts. She wanted nothing, could do nothing. She didn't want to live, couldn't die. She stopped dreaming. The Demon was fading away. She knew she couldn't be with him anymore. She gave him time. His time, apparently, fate had willed it, she used to say. It didn't matter that she suffered. She had gotten used to it. Yet, she was dying inside. She knew that her love for the Demon was an escape from the world. She had always dreamed of a different kind of love. Because you always long for what you don't have. She had always had an abundance of love. Love surrounded her, filled her to the core, even killed her. You're probably wondering how love can kill. But it's possible.

You might ask why she ended up in the demon's arms. The answer is simple – he offered her what the world couldn't give. A different kind of love. A love that earthly people call madness, absurdity, some youthful excess. Some called her a madwoman, others an adolescent girl. Both were wrong, for Julia was simply a lost child entangled in the web of life. She never had a childhood, always firmly planted in the world, knowing what was right and wrong. They taught her to live without the shadow of a shadow. She was meant to be for others, for the glory and comfort of her parents. How pathetic those words sound in her ears now, as she stares sightlessly at the page of the book, strewn with a black dusting of stamps. Only one thing puzzles her: where do those tears come from? It doesn't hurt anymore. Or maybe it hurts even more than before? Maybe now she's still feeling that tiny thorn that appeared with her trial? Maybe now she feels even worse than before. Maybe now she cries at night. She feels angry at herself, hates herself, wants to disappear.

You ask why? Maybe she simply feels like she's failed, that she hasn't proven to be as strong as she thought. That she's become an insignificant part of the so-called family atom. Maybe that's why she feels empty, useless. Lonely, even though so many people are there for her. Loneliness eats Julie from the inside. Sometimes on a dark night, she lies upright in her cozy bed, stares at the ceiling with wide eyes, and sobs with invisible tears. She sobs silently, in her mind. Why not for real? Because she can't anymore. Her eyes are clouding over. She no longer sees the happiness around her. Though she notices them around others as a haze emanating from the surrounding crowd. She's still alive, yet only in body, halfway.

She hears music, and a sudden noise rips her from her reverie. Julia is there again, pretending to be alive and well. But only she knows how it really is.

3

 Julia stood gazing at the setting sun, its rays casting red and purple streaks across the clouds. Standing on the mountain's ridge, her thoughts returned to what had happened over the past six months. True, not much of that had been glorious, and even less had been amusing. And yet she wouldn't change it for thousands of days of happiness, hundreds of smiles, thousands of praises, millions of kind words and gestures.

She sat cross-legged, staring at the sunset. Even though the cold wind pierced her, she didn't flee. She sat motionless, staring into the distance with unseeing eyes. How long ago it had been. How long since she'd seen the demon. And yet she still felt him close to her. She could have been with him now. She had even done what he asked of her. And yet, to no avail. Three months ago. Three long months ago, her vacation had begun. A vacation like no other. Without the demon, she had endured three more. Three that seemed like an eternity. She lived, she was, she existed. And yet her soul was withering. She felt increasing fatigue, increasing despair, sadness, and even anger. Anger at herself for having acted so foolishly. For having renounced love. That love that is for the few and that only a few can understand. Well, the finish line was a few steps away. But those steps were seven miles. The demon was gone. His hunched figure and sad hazel eyes haunted her in her dreams. Yet it wasn't him, it was his illusion. He left her alone. He knew she had already made her decision. Rejected, he couldn't influence her; such were the rules of his world. Only when consciously summoned in great despair could he be with her. Julia began to fall ill. True, not in body, but in soul. But how much more terrible is the illness of the soul than the body? The body can be cured, suffering can be endured, but the soul can never be cured; it can only be healed. To forget for a moment, so that some small detail can recall everything anew. That is the curse of humanity. Memory. Cruel and deceptive. He remembers everything that is bad, he doesn't remember everything that is good.

Julia was alive, but it was as if she were dead. She walked, ate, studied, and talked, but more often she ran away from people, more often she sat alone, lost in thought, with a sad face and tears in her eyes. What was she thinking about then? Only she knew. Probably about the demon. About the vanity of the world. The cruelty of people. And the hopeless situation she found herself in. She no longer wanted to be a good girl. She wanted to scream, she wanted to run as fast as she could, not to stop at anyone's request. She wanted to escape; this rush of escape made her fade before her eyes, making her want to disappear as quickly as possible, to be alone. Finally, she could no longer pretend to be the eternally content, purposeful Julia. She decided to be with the demon. She already knew that life without his visits was tasteless, that she couldn't cope with the grayness of everyday life, that she couldn't think logically without the knowledge that he would visit her in her dreams. She couldn't bear the thought of someone else already in love. She felt she had destroyed herself. She was tired of pretending, tired of playing the role she had created over the years. She wanted to escape, to escape the cage she had locked herself in. She wanted to, yet she didn't have the key, so she was left with only one solution: death. One dark and cold night, she took happiness pills that were supposed to make her dreams come true. But things turned out differently; they transported her there for only four wonderful days, followed by a series of gray weeks and months. Locked in her room, she wrote a few words, saying she was sorry for her grief, but that life would be easier without her, for she had changed so much that she could no longer play herself. She left for four wonderful days, four days of peace, four days of silence, four days that made up for those three gray months. She called to him. She fell asleep in his arms. For the first time in many nights. She felt warmth and joy. She was with him. They exchanged only a few words, yet it seemed to her that they had been talking forever. Because they had. They spoke telepathically. Their entire world turned brownish-blue. They saw nothing. They felt nothing but the happiness they derived from being together. The demon had changed in that time. His love for the Earthling had worn him down. Blue streaks had appeared in his raven-black hair. Those youthful sparks had vanished from his eyes. His muscles had become limp. But when he saw her, he was rejuvenated. He was sincere again, but at the same time, he was terrified. He was afraid it wouldn't work out, that she would leave at the last minute, that she would abandon him. He knew he wouldn't survive this again. That he would be miserable forever, that he would drown his sorrows in harming others. And yet, he had exposed himself. He arrived when he heard her soft whisper. After all, he had been with her the whole time. He had seen her sadness in the school hallway, as she sat hunched over, her face buried in her arms. He wanted to approach her. He wanted to, but the glassy shell held him back. Now that she had called him, nothing could stop him. He ran, despite warnings, rushed, despite prohibitions. Like a moth flying into a fire, knowing in advance that it would perish. Yet, when he was near her, he felt happy, and he knew he wouldn't change that.They sailed away for four days to his kingdom. Darkness enveloped them. A few stars dimly illuminated their world. Despite this, they were happier than ever. All the creatures living in the Valley of Darkness marveled at the change that had taken place in the Demon since Julia had come to live with him. He had stopped shrieking across the valley like a tornado. He no longer destroyed anything; he was filled with joy, so that every day there were wild celebrations, set to the rhythm of infernal music. Nymphs and demons danced in frenzied dances before them, and they, with eyes blinded to nothing but themselves, watched this creation.

However, their happiness didn't last long. In the hospital's sterility, their end was dawning. Throngs of people dressed in white coats tried to bring Julie back to life. Connected to an artificial life source, she breathed. Only occasionally, when with the Demon, did she feel a pain in her throat. Such a connection with the reality she was returning to. And finally, that terrible day arrived. A great light spread throughout the Valley of Darkness. White hands began to tear Julie from the Demon's embrace. She screamed and struggled, but to no avail. The Demon could no longer hold her. This invisible white force pulled her so tightly that she couldn't breathe. Suddenly, the gate through which Julia had disappeared closed. With a final glance, she caught sight of the Demon, who was gazing in her direction with a sad and ominous gaze. She saw him kneeling, his arms outstretched toward her, tears welling up in his eyes. He was screaming, and his cry of pain circled the Valley of Darkness at the speed of light. She closed her eyes to keep the tears from welling up. After all, she had promised the Demon she would never cry again. Suddenly, she opened them, blinded by a brightness. She felt immense pain; she couldn't say a word, but wanted to scream. She couldn't raise her arms, but wanted to struggle. She was so weak she couldn't even turn her head. Her entire body was convulsed with immense pain. She didn't know where she was. Her brain worked slowly, very slowly. After a brief moment, she realized she was far from the Demon. That the life forces of the Valley of Darkness had taken her! By sheer force of will, she turned her head away from the nurse who had come to her like an emissary from the world, asking if she was feeling alright and why she had done this. Julia glanced at the window, which revealed a fragment of a green tree. It reminded her of the moment with the demon. Tears welled in her eyes and she began to sob.

She turned her head and saw her parents. She felt nothing at the sight of them. Seeing her tears, they thought she regretted what she had done and that she loved them. But no, her soul was now hers alone, or rather, the Demon's. She was a walking body, without a soul. A burned-out wreck of a human being. She wanted to die. She wanted to be far away again, far from this earthly world, far from the people who loved her, whom she no longer wanted to know, and for whom she no longer felt anything. Finally, she was left alone. She wanted to rip out the tubes of life that sustained her reflexes. It failed; she was bound, like a prisoner of life. She wanted to scream, but through the tube she could say nothing. Finally, she fell asleep. She felt the Demon's presence. He held her hand. He stroked her face with his large hands. She wanted to escape with him, but she couldn't, and he couldn't do anything about it. A higher power was tearing them apart. Clearly, it wasn't their time yet. Julia nestled in his warmth. Yet with each successive drip, life seeped into her. She fell deeper and deeper into a deep sleep, and more and more she could be with the demon, as close as she had once been. Yes, she felt him, but only felt him. They communicated telepathically. Once, that had been enough for them, but now it wasn't. Now they were used to something better. With each passing day, she lost her mental strength, giving way to physical strength. Her body healed, but her soul was in the Valley of Darkness. Daily visits from her loved ones, and those not so close, made her want to die again.

Finally, she went to the house of broken souls. In the magical city of Krakow, she found beings just like her. Locked in the cage of everyday life, searching for a way to escape. Doomed to suffering and misfortune. She wanted to escape as quickly as possible, pretending to be healthy. But it wasn't like that. She still wanted to die. At night, she cried and dreamed of dying. That some great force would annihilate her. That she would finally be with Him in His Magical World. Only there did she feel happy. Only with Him, and only there, did she feel truly herself. She could give as much of herself as she wanted and take as much as she wanted. The entire land of Darkness was her home. She felt herself growing in strength and power there. How her soul was calling out. How she was herself again. She no longer wanted to be an Earthling again, she didn't want to feel the chains of everyday life tightening around her neck. She wanted to die again. At home, she dreamed of death. But she couldn't anymore. She put it off for six months. Half a magical year, when she would settle all her mundane matters and be able to kill herself again. This time, it worked. After all, it's her life and her decision what to do with it. No one can force that on her. Die. Fall asleep. Be where she wants to be again.

The Demon is with her every day. She feels his presence. But only in solitude can she feel deeper with him. So she flees from people. Disappears. Dying from within. She burns slowly with an ever-increasing hiss. With ever-increasing masochism. When she wants to escape, when she wants to die, when she already has the steel blade in her hand, the Demon stops her. He strokes her cheek, sings their song in his hoarse voice, and she sobs softly, closes her eyes, and sways to the rhythm of his deep voice. But when the Demon, summoned from the Valley of Darkness, departs, she takes the steel blade and cuts herself. Red lines appear one after another on her hand. She bleeds more and more. It hurts more and more. Yet this pain is bearable; one might even say it's salvation. It allows her to drown out, if only for a moment, the pain of her heart and soul. Julia is no longer sleeping; she prefers to meditate during this time. She talks to the demon then. She laughs, cries, and is alive.

Dawn has become her enemy. It brings her back to reality. She must live again. She must, but not for another half a year. Together with the Demon, they cross off the days on the Dream Board hanging on the wall of their fortress in the Valley of Darkness. A sudden rush of wind wakes Julie from her thoughts. She hears people screaming. She slowly rises from the ground. The wind lashes her face like a whip. Julia ignores it. She straightens. Looking straight into the setting sun, she blows hot kisses at the demon. Falling dew falls on her lips. She knows it's a sign from the demon, that her greetings have reached him. Satisfied, if a little lost in thought, she returns to pretend she's alive again. Another day lies before her. But what a day it is. Just the everyday life of a body without a soul.