Slowly a robbed man walks to the ringing telephone, “Yes” he exclaims,

  “Your Lordship we have lost track of the witch” The weight of failure stagnated the interior of the van.

  “How did you screw up such an easy task?” His voice was like gravel, rough and abrasive, cutting through the air with an almost tangible force. Each word dripped with disdain, a venomous indictment of their failure.

  “We had car trouble, two flat tires” he stammered, his words stumbling over each other in a desperate attempt to justify their shortcomings.

  “You fools, you were noticed, get to Saint Bethanie church and get those boxes by any means necessary,” he bellowed, punctuating his command with a resounding slam of his fist against the desk. The impact reverberated through the phone, a stark reminder of the consequences of failure.

  “Ye-Ye-Yes Sir,” said the driver of the van, now sweating profusely. They sped off towards the church. While en route they asked what the situation was, and the driver's response was curt, his tone laced with ominous overtones. “We are to get the boxes at any cost.” He declared.

  “What if they refuse” asked the man sitting in the back.

  “Then we will kill them,” The driver's reply was chilling in its simplicity, a stark reminder of the ruthlessness of their task. They had signed on to retrieve the boxes, not to spill blood in the sacred halls of a church.

  “So you will be firing the first shots then I would assume?” asked the man in the passenger seat. The driver now looking a little more pale than normal said

  “You guys are the hired gunmen I am just the driver”

  “You chicken shit, we did not agree to kill priests, only others who would fight to keep us from the boxes. When we get there you stay in the van, driver, we will get the boxes our way.”

  The three gunmen were more than just hired hands; they were low-level mobsters with connections that stretched across continents, their allegiance bound by blood and loyalty. Yet, despite their ties to organized crime, each man harbored a deeply ingrained reverence for their Catholic faith—a reverence that now clashed with the brutality of their intended task.

  In the depths of their souls, they knew that to spill blood within the sanctity of a church would be an unforgivable sin, one that would condemn them to damnation in the eyes of their God and invite the wrath of their criminal overlords. For if their treachery were ever uncovered, their bosses would not hesitate to exact a swift and merciless retribution— not only upon them but upon their loved ones as well.

  45 minutes later they pull into the deserted parking lot of Saint Bethanie Church, two men emerge from the vehicle, their footsteps echoing against the cold pavement like the tolling of a funeral bell. Together, they entered the hallowed halls of the church, their hearts heavy with a sense of foreboding. Before them, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, knelt a solitary figure—a lone priest lost in prayer at the altar.

  The heavy wooden door creaked closed behind the men, its echo reverberating through the vast emptiness of the church's interior, the solitary figure at the altar stirred, turning to face the unexpected visitors with a warm, welcoming smile.

  “Welcome gentlemen, please come in and have a seat,” he said. The men walked in and sat in the pews up front. “What can I do for you?” The priest inquired, his expression open and inquisitive, his eyes reflecting the flickering light of the candles that lined the altar.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  "Father," one of the men spoke up, his tone respectful yet tinged with an undercurrent of urgency, "we need you to turn over the boxes that are stored here. We have been asked to pick them up and get them to the Vatican where they will be safe."

  At the mention of the boxes, a furrow creased the priest's brow, his smile faltering ever so slightly. "Oh," he murmured, a note of concern lacing his words, "may I inquire who asked you to do this, as we were not notified of anyone coming to get them."

  “That is not relevant Father,” He declared, his voice a sharp retort, “We WILL be taking those boxes today with or without your permission,” he exclaimed.

  With a resigned sigh, the priest bowed his head, his voice heavy with resignation. “Well then I have little choice in the matter, the Lord works in ways unknown to simple humans. Get up and follow me to the basement, that is where we keep those vile creatures.”

  With hesitant movements, they rose from their seats, their eyes darting nervously between one another. The flickering glow of the single lantern clutched in the priest's hand cast eerie shadows upon the stone walls, lending an otherworldly quality to the dimly lit passageway. “Here they are gentlemen,” the priest announced, his voice a cold whisper “I caution you though, whatever you do, do not break the wax seals” His tone was grave.

  With trembling hands, they approached the crates, their movements slow and deliberate as they gingerly inspected the wax seals that adorned each one. As they worked in silence, the only sound that filled the basement was the soft shuffle of their footsteps and the distant echo of their labored breaths. The men could not help but wonder what secrets lay hidden within the confines of those wooden crates—and what horrors awaited them should they dare to disturb the delicate balance of the wax seals.

  “What is in these boxes Father and why the seal.” the man asked with hesitation.

  The priest, his expression shrouded in shadow, offered a low chuckle in response to the man's inquiry, the sound mingling with the somber silence of the room like an eerie melody. “Did your criminal bosses not tell you what you are stealing?”

  “Um no not really” one of the men replied,

  The priest's expression darkened, his features contorted with a mixture of pity and concern. With a sorrowful shake of his head, he uttered a soft exclamation of disbelief. “Oh goodness,” he murmured, “These boxes contain trapped demons, and some are exceptionally nasty.” Now visibly sweating and nervous they turn to look at the boxes, the men find themselves paralyzed by indecision, trapped within the suffocating confines of their fear.

  At that moment the priest turns and walks out the door with a resounding bang, he shut the door behind him, the sound reverberating through the room like a death knell as he locked the men inside. In the deafening silence that followed, the men were left alone in the darkness, their minds consumed by the chilling realization that they were now at the mercy of forces far beyond their comprehension.

  As the other priests gathered back in the main hall they decided to call the police to come get the group of disorganized thugs in training, Father Joncy walked out to the van to tell the driver that the others would be out in a little while, that they were having trouble moving the pallets out and to move around to the back lot. The driver furrowed his brow with concern, nodded in understanding, and did as he was instructed, with a muttered acknowledgment, he complied, maneuvering the van through the narrow confines of the parking lot with practiced ease not thinking that there was only one way out, and that he would be trapped if things went off track.

  That became painfully obvious moments later when he saw the police cars roll in. The flashing lights of the police cars cast an eerie glow upon the fa?ade of the church, illuminating the scene with a discarnate hue as they rolled to a stop outside.

  Father Joncy watched from the shadows as the officers emerged from their vehicles, they wasted no time in descending upon the church, their footsteps echoing like a grim procession as they made their way towards the entrance.

  As the officers descended into the basement the cries of protest from the apprehended men reverberated through the stone walls, their voices trembling with fear and desperation as they clung to their tenuous grip on reality.

  "They're holding demons in the basement!" one of the men exclaimed, his voice tinged with hysteria as he sought to justify their actions. "The Vatican sent us here to retrieve them!" As the officers emerged from the depths of the basement, their expressions grim and unyielding, it became painfully obvious that the facade of innocence could no longer be maintained. The more the apprehended men spoke, the more their claims unraveled into madness, leaving behind only the bitter taste of deception and despair.