Chapter 4
Whispers of Salvation
In the sterile quiet of his hospital room, Malachi overhears a hushed conversation between nurses. They speak of Father Vito, a reclusive priest known for his unusual abilities—specifically, his talent for banishing dark entities. A spark ignites within Malachi’s despairing heart. Could this be his salvation? The thought of an exorcism, once absurd, now feels like his only lifeline. He clings to the name, Father Vito, repeating it like a mantra. He knows he must find this priest, convince him to intervene. The alternative is unthinkable: a slow, brutal death at the hands of a demon fueled by his own deceit. He resolves to do whatever it takes to locate Father Vito, his dwindling strength fueled by a desperate, nascent hope.
The antiseptic tang of the hospital room clung to Malachi like a second skin, a stark contrast to the cloying scent of cheap perfume and desperation that usually accompanied his nights. White sheets, starched and unforgiving, were his only companions now, along with the dull throb that had become a permanent resident in his skull, his ribs, his very soul. He traced the edges of a bruise blooming on his forearm, a constellation of violet and yellow against his skin. Another night. Another visit. Another descent into oblivion at precisely 2:00 AM.
He’d lost count of the hospital stays. The doctors, bless their bewildered hearts, had exhausted their theories. “Advanced allergic reaction,” one had suggested, his brow furrowed with a perplexity that mirrored Malachi’s own churning fear. “Unexplained internal trauma,” another had offered, his voice laced with a fatalism Malachi was beginning to share. They patched him up, sent him home with prescriptions for painkillers that barely dulled the phantom ache, and warned him against strenuous activity. Strenuous activity. As if the mere act of breathing didn’t feel like an Herculean effort under the shadow of Alexis’s impending arrival.
The door to his room creaked open, admitting a sliver of hallway light and the hushed murmur of two nurses. Malachi feigned sleep, his ears straining to catch their words. He’d learned to listen, to glean any scrap of information that might offer an escape from this self-made purgatory.
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