The private plane landed on a secondary runway at the New York airport beneath a gray and opaque sky, as if the sun refused to shine upon the mission awaiting Cassian. The young exorcist stepped off the aircraft with a firm stride, his serene face reflecting a calm that contrasted with the weight of what he carried: a worn leather bag filled with sacred tools and the echo of Cardinal Ricci's words resonating in his mind. Barely had he set foot on the tarmac when a man was waiting for him next to a dusty jeep: an American priest with a weathered face, deep wrinkles carved by years of battling the invisible. He wore a simple clerical suit, but his eyes, hard as steel, betrayed that he was no ordinary parish priest.
"Cassian, I presume," said the priest, extending a rough hand. "I'm Father Daniel Hargrove. The Vatican informed me of your arrival. I didn't expect them to send someone so young, but I suppose Rome knows what it's doing."
Cassian shook his hand with a firm but calm grip, inclining his head slightly in respect.
"Father Hargrove," he replied in a deep, measured voice. "Age doesn't matter when evil doesn't rest. What do you have for me?"
Hargrove grunted, a sound that could have been a dry laugh or a sigh of exhaustion, and handed him a black dossier embossed with the Vatican seal.
"Get in the jeep. I'll explain on the way. There's no time to waste. West Virginia is a few hours away, and whatever's happening there isn't waiting for anyone."
Cassian settled into the backseat, opening the dossier as the engine roared to life and the vehicle began to move. The pages were filled with newspaper clippings, police reports, and handwritten notes in Latin. He flipped through the contents with precise fingers, stopping at a report detailing mass disappearances in a remote forest: bodies never found, witnesses mentioning "deformed figures" moving among the trees, and blood-curdling screams. He looked up at Hargrove, who was gripping the steering wheel tightly.
"How reliable are these reports?" Cassian asked, his tone calm but inquisitive. "I've seen exaggerations before. People confusing wolves with demons."
Hargrove glanced at him in the rearview mirror, his eyes narrowing.
"As reliable as hell itself, boy. We're not talking about superstitious peasants seeing shadows. There are cops who've quit after entering that forest, witnesses who swear they've seen things with faces that shouldn't exist. And then there's the smell… sulfur, some say. Others call it rot, but there are no bodies to explain it. What does that tell you?"
Cassian frowned slightly, touching the crucifix hanging from his neck.
"Sulfur means infernal presence. But the deformed figures… they could be corrupted men, not necessarily pure demons. Does the Vatican have any theories?"
"Oh, they've got theories, sure," Hargrove replied, turning the wheel onto a secondary road. "Some think it's a cult that got out of control, invocations that left something loose. Others say the forest has always been cursed, long before settlers arrived. I don't get into speculation. My job is to get you there and make sure you have what you need. But let me warn you, Cassian: this isn't like your exorcisms in Rome. There are no stone walls or blessed candles to hide behind here. It's pure chaos."
Cassian nodded slowly, returning to the dossier.
"I don't hide, Father. I face whatever comes. What else do you know about the victims? Any patterns?"
Hargrove hesitated, as if weighing his words.
"Young people, mostly. Hikers, students, folks who get lost on the trails and never come back. Some say the paths change on their own, that maps don't work. Others… well, others talk about traps. Wires across the trails, things that don't make sense in a wild forest. And then there are the screams. Not always human, if you catch my drift."
Cassian closed the dossier with a sharp snap, his expression unchanged.
"I understand. Traps and inhuman screams suggest something physical, but the sulfur and deformed faces point to something else. I'll need to see it for myself. How much farther?"
"About three hours if we don't stop," Hargrove said. "I'll drop you near an old gas station, the last stop before the forest. After that, you're on your own. Sure you're ready for this, kid? You don't look scared, but I've seen tough men break down in that place."
Cassian met his gaze with cold but calm eyes, a spark of steel glinting in them.
"I've been ready since they found me in Naples, Father. Evil doesn't scare me. It knows me, and I know it."
Hargrove let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.
"Well said. I hope that crucifix of yours is more than decoration."
As the jeep advanced along increasingly narrow roads, another drama unfolded in the mountains of West Virginia. Halley Smith and Rich Stoker, two college students, were climbing a cliff surrounded by twisted pines. Rich reached the top first, panting and smiling, but his joy was cut short when an invisible hand dragged him downward, his bloody body falling into the void before Halley's horrified eyes. She cut her rope and ran toward the car but tripped over a barbed wire that tightened like a living trap. A disfigured figure emerged from the trees and slit her throat with a swift motion, her blood staining the dry leaves.
Miles away, Chris Flynn, a medical student, was driving along a mountain road when a chemical spill forced him to detour. His car crashed into a Range Rover stopped in the middle of the road, belonging to a group of friends: Jessie Burlingame, Carly, Scott, Evan, and Francine. Tires punctured by a wire stretched between the trees left them stranded. As Chris, Jessie, Carly, and Scott decided to seek help, Evan and Francine stayed behind. Evan, curious, ventured into the forest after hearing a strange noise, only to be decapitated by Three Fingers, his head rolling into the bushes. Francine, searching for him, found his severed ear and fled, hiding behind a tree, her ragged breathing barely audible over the crunch of branches.
Hargrove's jeep finally arrived at an abandoned gas station, a dilapidated building with rusted cars piled up like forgotten graves. Cassian stepped out of the vehicle, adjusting his bag over his shoulder. Hargrove watched him from the driver's seat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
"This is where I leave you," the priest said. "That gas station is the last trace of civilization before the forest. There's an old man there, Maynard. Don't trust him, but he might know something. Be careful, Cassian. If you need backup, don't expect to find it."
Cassian inclined his head again, his voice as calm as ever.
"Thank you, Father. May God keep you."
Hargrove snorted.
"It's you He needs to keep, boy. See you… if you survive."
The jeep drove off, leaving Cassian alone in front of the gas station. An elderly, hunched man, Maynard, sat at the entrance, chewing something indistinguishable. His dull eyes fixed on Cassian as he approached.
"What do you want, stranger?" Maynard growled, his voice like crushed gravel. "This ain't no place for nosy folks."
Cassian stopped a few steps away, his posture relaxed but his senses alert.
"I'm looking for answers. People disappear in that forest. What do you know about it?"
Maynard spat on the ground, a dark liquid that smelled of decay.
"I don't know nothing. I just know you shouldn't go there. The devil's children are awake, and they don't take kindly to strangers."
"The devil's children?" Cassian repeated, his tone neutral but with a subtle edge. "What are they? Men? Beasts? Something else?"
The old man stared at him, his lips trembling before letting out a raspy laugh.
"Men, maybe, a long time ago. Now they're something else. They'll rip your guts out and laugh while they do it. Leave, boy. This ain't your place."
Cassian didn't respond immediately. His nostrils flared as he caught a faint whiff of sulfur floating in the air, mixed with the stench of stale gasoline. He glanced inside the gas station and saw a partially torn map on the wall, with lines leading to the heart of the forest. Without saying a word, he entered, took the map, and stored it in his bag. Maynard watched him silently, his hands trembling slightly.
"You're dead if you go there," the old man muttered. "They'll smell you before you see them."
Cassian turned to him, adjusting the crucifix around his neck with a slow, deliberate movement.
"Let them smell me, then. It's not me who should be afraid."
Without waiting for a response, he exited the gas station and entered the forest, his boots crunching against the dry earth. In the distance, a shrill scream broke the silence: Francine, hidden among the trees, pleading for her life as the shadows drew near. Cassian's ceremonial dagger gleamed under the moonlight as he unsheathed it, his face as serene as ever as he advanced toward the echo of the mountains.