Chapter Text
Faith is a fragile object. A force that should not be reckoned with. For some, faith is an unwavering force that cannot be taken from them. For others, faith is simply a means to survive. For John Ward, faith is what makes his head spin, and what drags him down with guilt day after day.
He had failed in saving Amy Martin, way too many times to count. He failed to save her during the exorcism with Father Alred, he failed to save her during his solo mission, and he had failed to save her during the Profane Sabbath. He was no priest, he was a sham. And he felt this guilt of allowing the poor girl to die, weighing him down day after day.
But at least he could finish what he had started.
Faith was a ritual he had followed because he felt it was too late to change who he was. Faith had only been present in his life because otherwise he likely wouldn’t have the motivation to even get out of bed. Faith gave him something to do every day other than wallow in self pity and guilt. It was less of a spiritual sanctity and more of a task on a to-do list.
But faith had allowed him to meet Father Garcia. Faith gave him the ability to hunt demons, to prevent the Profane Sabbath from ever happening again. To prevent the monster of the unholy Trinity from reforming. To prevent The Unspeakable from ever falling into the hands of the cult. Into his hands.
That was another unfortunate truth of faith. It was the reason that he ever had the displeasure of falling into the hands of Gary Miller. The landlord straight from hell and the cult leader who cursed Amy to be possessed by the demons that John could not save her from. Faith was the reason he had to look into the eyes (er sunglasses) of that horrible demon.
Faith was the only reason God had been able to save him. But God had also forsaken him. Why else would he have to have gone through all the torment he endured? Was it a test of his faith? If so, he was soon likely to fail. But the Lord is a fortress of impenetrable strength. Unless you're his devoted servant trying to take on the horrors of hell and its possessed followers.
Faith, it doesn’t even feel like a real concept anymore. Just a word Father Clarke or Father Alred or Father Garcia threw around when they didn’t have answers for what was going on in the world. John couldn’t stand it. With everything he’s had to go through, he just wishes that something would make sense. That the doctors at the ward could be right. He wishes all these supernatural occurrences were just in his head, because then at the very least it would mean that his life wasn’t at risk every time he opened his front door.
Maybe he was crazy. It is crazy after all to prefer the idea of being delusional to being right. But delusional was synonymous with safe at this point. And reality was a cruel joke holding him on the edge of his sanity and limit.
It didn't matter. He had work to do. Starting with himself, starting at this place.
John Ward sighed as he looked at the doors of the Connecticut church. The very church he and Lisa were not expected to walk out of alive. The church where all hell began to break loose in his life. Snake Meadow Hill Church.
Why had he come to this building? It was simple, he felt it might build his faith. What little faith he had left of course. Although he had to wonder what a decrepit abandoned building would do for his faith. Would it really make him feel as if everything that had happened was just God's plan? Or was it just another waste of time.
There was nothing setting this abandoned building apart from another. The doors were just as filthy, the windows were boarded up just the same. The wood was rotting, and smelled of every rainstorm it endured, yet it still stood there, taunting the priest. The only way you could still tell it was a church was the crosses engraved so deep into the door, not even the rotting could erode its pattern. The only unique thing about this church was the old police tape, which had faded into one hardly yellow color.
Father Garcia needed him for an exorcism job soon, so he didn’t have much time. All he could do was look at the doors of the building. It was pathetic wasn’t it? He was supposed to be a servant of God, and was meant to lead the damned on a path of righteousness, but he was hardly able to save himself.
John tried to stir up some sort of emotion while looking at this building other than anxiety or the desire to run and never look back. He had no desire to look at these doors. All they did was bring back painful memories. Memories that he knew were all twisted and contorted, but could not be recovered. And the guilt welled up in his gut, biting at him like a parasite until he wanted to throw up.
Yet he stood firm outside of this building. The sounds of rotting ceiling wood clinging to the floor making its way outside of the building. These doors led to the beginning of his trauma, but unfortunately would not lead to the end. He would be forced to carry this guilt and pain for the rest of his life. He wishes his God would just end his suffering already.
“O God of peace,” he began repeating an Episcopal prayer for strength, “who hast taught us that in returning and rest we shall be saved, in quietness and confidence shall be our strength: By the might of thy Spirit lift us, we pray thee, to thy presence, where we may be still and know that thou art God; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen . ”
The prayer had done nothing but waste his breath. He still was absolutely terrified of this building. But perhaps God had heard him, and will protect him from any evil still lurking in this building. He was quickly proven wrong by the appearance of a red robe through a boarded up window that rushed quickly to the side when he noticed it.
John’s attention was grabbed by the motion in the empty space. There was something scarily familiar about the crimson.
“Hello?” John called, “Is someone there?” No response came from the building besides the creaking of old floorboards, “You’re not supposed to be here.” Still no response.
He knew what he had to do, but would the Lord permit him the strength to go through with it? It’s not like he could think about it long. He could either go in and investigate or leave now and forget this ever happened. John couldn’t just walk away from this however. He wanted a clear answer, so he was going to get a clear answer.
Slowly, he pushed the door open to the abandoned building. The door was heavy, nearly impossible to move because of the rusting hinges. He managed to open the door about halfway and squeeze through the opening he created. As soon as he was in, the door slammed behind him. No use going out the way he came in.
Just being outside was bad enough, but the inside of the building caused John to clutch his crucifix as he started hyperventilating. Miriam Bell, the detective, Father Clarke, yes, he remembered it well. Yet he didn’t remember it well enough.
But he couldn't just stand there like a coward. He had to find the owner of the crimson robes. If it was a teenager screwing around he'd need to get them out for their own safety. But if it was a demon, well, he hoped he had the strength to get rid of it.
“Hello?” He called again into the dimly lit building, only the sun's rays peeking through the cracks in the boards providing any sort of light, “Is anyone there?”
“Hello priest,” an eerily familiar voice loomed. John whipped around violently, but he couldn’t find anyone anywhere, "It's been quite a while, hasn't it?"
“Who’s there?” John called again, “You should not be here, no one has been inside this building in years.”
“In that case, what are you doing here, priest?” The voice called again. John felt his face scrunch up. He knew damn well he shouldn't be here. If someone in the building really needed to be escorted out, he should have called the police, not gone in himself. But regardless, he held firm.
“That’s not important,” he refuted, “You should not be here.”
“Neither should you,” the voice called, “It appears we’re both breaking the rules, priest.”
"Get out of here, it's not safe," John warned, "Who knows when this old place will cold in on itself like a house of cards?"
"Aww, how cute, you care about me despite not being able to see me," the voice said through a low chuckle, "It's truly adorable priest."
“Who are you?” John asked, “Show yourself.”
“If you insist, priest,” the voice said. The source of the voice stepped out of the shadows and into the light. The sight of who it belonged to made John’s heart fall to his feet. Standing before him in crimson robes and white mirror sunglasses was Gary Miller. The very same Gary who had been dragged to hell. The demon Astaroth that had tried to kill him, “Hello, John.”
“Gary!” John shouted, holding his crucifix up towards the demon, “Begone demon! Return from the hell whence you came! In the name of the Lord-”
“What ever happened to hello?” Gary asked, pushing the crucifix to the side as he got closer to John, “Don’t you think I missed seeing my favorite priest after having to crawl back from hell?”
“What do you want from me?” John demanded, not taking his eyes off of the older man for a second.
“No hiding your hostility is there?” the demon raised his eyebrow, “What I want from you, priest, is simple. I want you to become my vessel for The Order of The Second Death. Are you interested?”
“Begone creature of Satan!” John demanded, holding up his crucifix, “My faith is in the Lord! So long as I place my trust in him, I will be given salvation. Petty forces like you cannot hurt me.”
“How long are you going to tell yourself that?” Gary asked. John felt his throat tighten at the question, “I can feel it, it’s practically palpating off of you. The wavering of your faith. How little you believe your own words. How fear carries with you day after day.” He slowly took the priest’s hands in his, gentle as to not scare him, using it as an opportunity to send the crucifix clattering to the floor, “Every tremor of your hands is tell tale. Your faith is weak.”
“The Lord is my fortress,” John began, taking his hands out of the cultist’s, “My refuge from evil like you.”
“And where is your Lord now?” John wanted to argue, but he knew that Gary was right. Why had God not been there to protect him from the demon before him, “It is okay to be weak John, the order will take good care of you. To them, you’ll be a symbol of hope and peace. A sign of salvation. Isn’t that what you want?”
“I need to go,” John said, picking up his crucifix.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Gary grabbed him by the arms and whispered his next words in John’s ear, “You’re coming with me, priest.”
"Let me go!" John demanded, thrashing in Gary's arms. Gary didn't fight him, or try to get him still, even if John hit him a little too hard. He just stood still, holding him close, like calming a child during a violent tantrum.
"It's okay to place your faith elsewhere," Gary said quietly in a soothing voice, "The Order only wishes to take care of you, you can trust us. Place your faith in us."
"Never!" John fought, still thrashing, "The Lord holds my faith and I shall not stray from the path of salvation!"
"I'd stop thrashing if I were you," Gary's tone got dark and his grip got stronger, leaving light marks where he held on to, "There's no rule that I have to bring you back in one piece."
John’s eyes darted around the darkness, trying to find an escape. The door was hopeless, but what about the windows? He noticed a couple of the boards over one window were rotting away. Perhaps if he applied just enough strength, he could knock it out and run.
“In nomine patri, et fili, et spiritus sancti,” he said to the darkness, struggling against the older man’s grasp.
“Trying to exorcise me now won’t work,” he whispered once again, “Give up. The Order will take good care of you.” Be felt the clawed hand reach up and play with his hair, "I'll treat you well too, perhaps like a dog, or some other kind of pet."
John took a deep breath and swiftly kicked him in the shins, earning a loud howl of pain from Gary, “Amen.”
He kicked the rotten wood to the ground and jumped through the open space. Praying to God that Gary would not catch him.
"Get back here priest!" His loud, booming voice called behind John, "I'll take you to the Order in bloody scraps if I have too!"
Fortunately, Gary never caught up. John ran and didn’t look back. For all he knew, Gary was still in the abandoned church, clutching his shin in pain.
When John arrived on the scene, Father Garcia was already nearly complete. The call was to exorcise a woman once part of the cult. As John approached, she began screaming about the return of Gary, and the creation of a new vessel. With Amy gone, it didn’t seem possible for there to be a vessel.
“John, there you are hijo,” Father Garcia’s booming voice grabbed his attention, “Do you have your bible?”
“No Father,” he said, “I left it at home.”
“That’s fine, hijo,” Father Garcia said through gritted teeth. Though John could have sworn he heard Father Garcia whisper a light “pendejo'' under his breath, “I will recite the Psalm, but I need you to help exorcise this demon.”
John pulled out his crucifix and held it up and towards the woman, “Let’s do this.”
Father Garcia nodded and began reciting the Psalm. John couldn’t focus on what he had been saying. All he could hear were the loud screams of the cultist before him. He simply looked at her blankly, trying not to let himself feel anything, but he was caught off guard when she looked at him and fell silent.
“I can see it in your eyes, you saw Gary didn’t you?” John didn’t respond, but he felt the way his face changed, “I’m right! You saw Gary! Rejoice! Asteroth hath returned! And he has selected a new vessel!”
"No," John quickly tried to lie, "Gary has not returned, Gary is gone. It is the demon inside you making you think this. We're going to save you."
"Save me? You can't save yourself!" The woman yelled, "Gary would have no interest in you if you were not damaged, and I can tell, you're definitely broken. I bet if I pushed you over you'd shatter."
"Reveal thyself demon!" John shouted, trying to ignore her words. He wasn't ready to admit that what she said was right, "Leave this woman alone!"
"Thou art lost," the woman seemed to be staring straight through his soul, "Gary seeks thee out. Gary loves you. You should love Gary too. Most women would kill for Gary to love them the way he loves you. And even that's never worked."
John, in a last resort, said something he hadn't heard in years. A phrase he wanted desperately to forget, "You're crazy," the amount of pain those words caused John was indescribable. But he had to pretend like they meant nothing. That it was justified to say those words, "It's all in your head. Gary's not back. You must be insane."
John expected those words to break the woman like they broke him. But she just smiled even wider. Maybe it's because he was right. Or maybe it's because those words held a different meaning to him. Either way, the corners of this woman's mouth were pushed scarily high.
"Your faith is scarce," she said without hesitation, "Give in to Gary, he will save you. For it is in the sky that you are lost, but in his arms you will be found."
“In nomine patri, et fili, et spiritus sancti,” Father Garcia’s voice called over the sounds of the woman’s screams, “Amen.”
On the way home, Father Garcia tried to have a conversation. John knew it was just small talk to lighten the mood despite the horrors that came from their job as priests. However, his brain felt like the ocean in the middle of a storm. Violent and chaotic with no way of knowing which way was left and which was right, or if the end was in sight.
“So what do you think she meant by her speech about Gary?” He asked. John looked up at Gary, “It’s weird isn’t it? Considering Gary was returned to hell, wasn’t he?”
“Yes he was,” John nodded, wringing his hands repeatedly, “Maybe it was the demon inside of her causing her to talk. Trying to confuse us.”
“Either way, I’m glad we managed to get rid of that demon,” he said, “I’d hate for it to be like Micheal all over again.” John knew that to Garcia, Micheal Davies was like Amy Martin was to him. Father Garcia probably never forgave himself for allowing Micheal to die. John felt the same way about not being able to save Amy.
“Yeah,” John nodded. He wanted to say, “It wasn’t your fault.” Or, “I know how you feel.” Or anything, but only one word escaped his lips. He continued wringing his hands, feeling his skin start to go red from grabbing at his hands too tightly.
“Is everything alright John?” Garcia asked, noticing his partner’s lack of attentiveness, “Do you have something on your mind?”
“No, I’m fine,” he was not fine, “There’s nothing on my mind.” He didn’t even know where to begin with all the things that were on his mind. The storm wasn’t showing any signs of slowing. It was only getting stronger.
"Really, you can talk to me if you want to," he said, looking at John expectantly, "I know I'm old, but I've still got some advice for you up my sleeves."
"I'm alright really," John insisted, "Just tired I suppose."
"I'm not stupid John," Garcia said seriously, "I may look like an old fool, but I could see the way you bit your own words. It's only going to hurt if you don't let go. When you're ready, you can talk to me about it."
"Just tired," John repeated. It was his excuse for everything. But it was true. He was always tired. With everything that's happened, how could he not be? But he didn't have time to rest. He needed answers, and to remain by Garcia's side in their quest to put a stop to the profane sabbath for good.
He returned home. Collapsing into bed with the crucifix still in his hand. If he kept thinking, his head just might explode. But it was all so much. Gary returned, the cultist seeing it in his eyes, Father Garcia, the world was turning too fast. He wanted it to slow down.
He looked over at his nightstand to see a piece of paper that had not been there before. Written over the words in a bible, likely out of defiance.
“GARY LOVES YOU.”
Well John knew one thing.
In the name of the Lord, he would send Gary back to hell. Even if it killed him.