"Mr. Godoy, we spoke over the phone. I'd like to say it's a pleasure to see you, but the circumstances don't allow me to." A gray-haired man said, extending his hand to Alexander.
Ryan Freeman was a man nearing sixty, yet remarkably well-kept. He was tall, with only a few gray hairs sprinkled through his otherwise brown hair. His physique was fit, and if not for the deep circles under his eyes and his pale complexion, one could easily mistake him for being in his early forties.
Ryan was a businessman. He had inherited several properties from his father and managed to triple the initial capital, making him one of the wealthiest men in Oregon and neighboring states.
"Mr. Freeman, I'm here, and together we'll solve this problem. Can you tell me when and how you first started experiencing these unexplainable occurrences? Flickering lights, sudden drops in temperature?" Alexander said, shaking the man's hand and taking a seat across from him.
The office was located on the second floor of the main mansion. It was furnished with dark wood furniture, portraits of the Freeman family's patriarchs, and various works of art. There was a painting that Alexander could swear he'd seen in a museum during his previous life. Large windows with burgundy satin curtains and a beautiful tapestry adorned the well-lit room.
"A month ago, I closed a major deal. I acquired an airline, and last month marked the official start of its operations. However, in the middle of my speech, I felt a terrible unease, as if I'd eaten something spoiled..."
As Ryan recounted the events, Alexander jotted everything down in a small notebook, asking occasional, pointed questions to unravel the mystery. He managed to gather a few key points, which he categorized into two main lists: genuine symptoms and those potentially caused by stress.
1- Ryan has been feeling drained of energy, constantly tired and sleepy, yet struggles to fall asleep.
2- He has no appetite. Whether it's Michelin-starred cuisine or fast food, he eats but vomits shortly afterward.
3- Since last month, Ryan has experienced a streak of bad luck. Glasses shatter in his hands, his once-profitable businesses are now inexplicably losing money, and his children and grandchildren have fallen ill or suffered accidents. Fortunately, none of these incidents have resulted in permanent injuries or fatalities.
4- At night, while battling insomnia, Ryan claims to hear whispers—muffled, distant voices.
Some of these points could be easily explained. The voices, for instance, might be attributed to prolonged sleep deprivation. His "bad luck" could be paranoia; after all, before that speech a month ago, Ryan seemed to have the Midas touch—everything he touched turned to gold. Suddenly, his businesses were failing, and his personal life was unraveling.
He might simply be searching for a reason, a scapegoat, to explain his recent failures.
Alexander, however, wasn't one to dismiss any possibility before conducting a thorough investigation. Supernatural entities were cunning, toying with the human mind, inducing madness and despair. This could all be a figment of Ryan's imagination—or it might not. Alexander didn't know yet, but he intended to find out soon.
"Mr. Freeman, if I may, I'd like to take a tour of your home. I'll be looking for any cursed objects or suspicious individuals. This could all be the work of an obsessive spirit or..." Alexander didn't finish his sentence.
Ryan, who had remained calm and composed until that moment, felt the blood in his veins turn to ice. A shiver ran down his spine, and the sunlight streaming through the window no longer warmed his skin. Swallowing hard, his voice emerged as a near-whisper: "...or?"
Alexander locked eyes with Ryan, his voice heavy with seriousness: "A demon."
The room no longer felt bright and vibrant. The world seemed grayer... emptier.
________
Alexander proceeded to tour Ryan's mansion. The estate spanned four floors in total, with numerous bedrooms, suites, dining rooms, living rooms, a library, and countless other rooms.
In addition to Ryan, the entire Freeman family lived in the mansion. Ryan's brother, his children and their spouses, his grandchildren, and a veritable battalion of maids occupied the grand estate.
Everyone in the house found it odd to see Ryan guiding a tall young man through the property. The supernatural wasn't widely known, and there were several reasons for that.
The maids' glances were fleeting yet brimming with undisguised curiosity. Low murmurs spread whenever Alexander walked by, and the general consensus among the staff was that he must be from a pest control company, called in to deal with the infestation of cockroaches and termites that had plagued the mansion over the past month. Others speculated that he might simply be one of Mr. Freeman's illegitimate children.
Not everyone could see or sense the supernatural, and not all supernatural creatures were capable of interacting with the physical world.
But the most crucial reason for secrecy was that some supernatural entities, when acknowledged by a large group of people, became significantly stronger and underwent transformations that made them nearly immortal.
For this reason, governments, churches, and organizations dealing with the supernatural opted to keep most information hidden from the public. Only powerful and influential individuals—businesspeople, politicians, and other prominent figures—knew a little about the supernatural. Even then, many dismissed it as nothing more than a hoax.
After all, if the supernatural existed, science would have proven it by now, right?
The investigation lasted all day, and by the time the last rooms were being checked, the sky had already darkened.
"And this is the storage room where we keep non-perishable food," Ryan explained.
Alexander remained focused, his gaze scanning every corner of the room with meticulous attention. One thought dominated his mind: find the threat, identify it, and neutralize it.
"Mr. Freeman, do you mind if I step inside?" Alexander asked from the doorway.
"Go ahead, Mr. Godoy." Ryan gestured for him to enter but remained in the hallway, visibly uneasy, cold sweat forming on his brow.
Throughout the day, Ryan had cycled through a range of emotions—fear, anger, skepticism, reluctant acceptance, and finally resignation to his situation.
Alexander still carried his briefcase in his left hand, ready for any emergency. He inspected every shelf, looking behind every sack and container.
On the second-to-last shelf, high up, hidden behind a sack of rice, Alexander found what he had been searching for. He froze momentarily, feeling the cold touch of the object through his leather glove.
Ryan, noticing Alexander pause, grew even paler. "D-did you find it? What is it? Do I need to leave the house?" His fingers drummed nervously against the wall beside the door, the rapid, uneven rhythm betraying his anxiety.
"There's no need to panic, Mr. Freeman," Alexander said calmly. "It seems you've made a few enemies—and they have access to your home."
Alexander carefully pulled out the object. It was a green glass jar with a wooden lid. To Ryan, it looked like an ordinary jar, but to Alexander's trained eyes, there was far more to it than met the eye.
"What do you mean, Mr. Godoy?" Ryan asked, stepping back from the doorway as Alexander moved to the center of the storage room with the jar in hand.
Alexander placed the jar gently on the floor and removed a small container from his briefcase. Taking off his gloves, he revealed tattoos on the palms of his hands. On his right palm was a golden cross, its design delicate and refined. Ryan could have sworn he saw it emit a faint golden glow. On his left palm, however, was a red cross, crudely drawn, as if etched in a fit of rage. The red cross was surrounded by jagged lines, resembling barbed wire.
Alexander opened the jar with one hand while, with the other, he used the oil from his container to draw a circle on the floor.
"This, Mr. Freeman, is a curse," Alexander explained in a low voice. "Someone used your hair, skin, or nails in a ritual to bring misfortune upon you. This is a minor curse, meant only to harm your business. However, some curses target your family, your sanity, your health, and in the worst cases, your life."
Inside the jar, Ryan spotted a lock of his own hair. Fear gripped him, and he staggered backward until his back pressed against the far side of the hallway. His legs gave out, and he sank weakly to the floor.
Ryan's mind raced in a chaotic whirlwind of questions. Who? Why? What was the end goal? How had they even breached the security of his mansion?
Alexander peered deeper into the jar. Within, a small wooden creature, no more than three centimeters tall, writhed under a dark, smoky aura. It resembled a tiny puppet and moved its hands erratically, as though manipulating invisible strings.
Threads finer than a spider's silk extended from the jar toward Ryan. These threads had been invisible before the jar was opened, but now everything was laid bare.
"Some kind of concealment technique… This isn't the work of an amateur," Alexander thought as he completed the circle and wrote a series of Latin words on the floor.
Purgare, delere, exstinguere.
Alexander extended his left hand, and the red cross on his palm began to glow. The curse seemed to sense his presence for the first time and cowered into a corner of the jar, shielding its head with its tiny arms.
When Alexander's palm made contact with the jar, the curse trembled violently before crumbling into dust. The dark powder tried to escape the drawn circle, but to Alexander's eyes, the words he had inscribed began to glow.
Purgare - The dark powder shifted to a lighter gray.
Delere - The coarse granules grew finer, nearly imperceptible.
Exstinguere - As the final word lit up, the powder ceased to exist.
At that moment, Ryan, for the first time in years, felt hunger and sleepiness. He didn't mind, though; he was finally free.
________
Ryan tried to convince Alexander to stay the night, but he firmly refused. Before leaving, Alexander advised Ryan to be cautious of this potential "enemy." However, Alexander had no interest in uncovering who had cursed Ryan or why. His job was to deal with the problem—not the perpetrator.
When Alexander returned to his hotel room, he collapsed onto the bed, feeling the full weight of the day's exhaustion settle over him.
"I wasn't made for this..." he muttered.
In his past life, Alexander hadn't even reached adulthood. His days were spent playing basketball or video games with his friends.
Then, out of nowhere, he died, reincarnated into a world filled with horrors straight out of a lunatic's imagination—and he was now one of the lunatics tasked with exorcising those grotesque creatures.
Looking at his hands, Alexander noticed they were trembling. He had spent the entire day on high alert. If there had been a demon in that house—especially a high-level one at full power—not only would the mansion have been destroyed, but the entire city would have been wiped off the map.
Being under such immense pressure for the first time was anything but pleasant. Knowing so many lives were depending on him made him feel like throwing up.
"If I had hesitated for even a second in front of a demon, it would've been the end..." Alexander said to himself, pushing himself off the bed.
Taking a cold shower, he replayed the day's events in his mind. He searched for flaws in his decisions. Should he have been bolder? More meticulous? Had he found the curse purely by luck? What would his mentor have done?
He didn't know. He had been training to become an exorcist for over five years, yet he still lacked real experience.
_________
The winter wind bit at Alexander's face as he walked through the bustling commercial district.
Today, he wore a dark blue suit, layered with an overcoat and a felt hat. In his gloved right hand, he carried his briefcase.
Glancing briefly at his left hand, he recalled the agonizing pain of the tattoos that now adorned his palms.
Those tattoos had been done by his mentor, Jason Mitama, a man nearing 84 years old who looked closer to his sixties. Jason was the son of a Japanese mother and an American father.
Jason's father had been a pastor, while his mother was an Onmyōji. He had spent the first 20 years of his life in Japan before moving to America.
Jason had once explained to Alexander that the crosses he tattooed were the culmination of over 70 years of research, theory, and practice in exorcism. The crosses on Alexander's palms weren't made of simple lines but intricate writings.
They included Hebrew, Latin, and kanji, all carefully combined to best serve the exorcist. The golden cross on his right hand acted as a seal, designed to imprison supernatural entities that couldn't be killed. The red cross, on the other hand, was created to purge, destroy, and exterminate.
During his years of training with Jason, Alexander had learned that every country had its own supernatural phenomena—obsessive spirits and demons in America, yokai in Japan, djinn in the Middle East, and so on. While demons could technically appear in Asia, their occurrence was so rare that they were almost mythical.
Alexander strolled for several more minutes, feeling uncharacteristically lighthearted. A good night's sleep had wiped away most of his anxiety and mental fatigue, leaving him in better spirits. A small smile crept onto his face, drawing the attention of a few women on the street.
"Ah, the curse of being devastatingly handsome!" Alexander thought narcissistically.
He arrived at a small antique shop, stepped inside, and headed to the back of the empty store.
In the back room sat an elderly Asian man smoking a cigar and reading the newspaper. His black hair was streaked with a few strands of white. He had a slight belly and a face marked with wrinkles, though it was clean-shaven. Like Alexander, he was dressed in a tailored black suit with gold buttons. Jason looked like an old aristocrat enjoying afternoon tea.
"This war is going to ruin our country, I'm telling you!" Jason exclaimed the moment he saw Alexander.
Alexander glanced briefly at Jason before sitting in a chair on the opposite side of the table.
"What war?" he asked curiously.
"What other war is going on, Alex? The Vietnam War, of course! So many lives lost. And they're feeding their own blood and flesh to things that should remain starving!"
Alexander had completely forgotten about the Vietnam War. "I'm not going to get drafted, am I?"
Noticing the anxious expression on Alexander's face, Jason smirked. "Don't worry, kid. I registered you with the Exorcists' Council. We may not have as much influence as the Church, but the government won't pull us off the field when there are far greater horrors we have to fight."
Alexander's anxious expression didn't fade. Before, he would've been worried about fighting in a war. Now, he was concerned about having to give up a portion of his paycheck to the Council of Exorcists. He almost preferred the war!
Closing the newspaper, Jason adopted a more serious demeanor, his face expressionless and his steely eyes sharp. "So, how did the case with old Freeman go?"
Alexander found it odd that Jason referred to Ryan as "old," considering Jason was more than twenty years older than him. He didn't mention it, though—Jason was sensitive about his age.
For the next hour, Alexander recounted how the case had gone and explained the reasoning behind his decisions. It reminded him of the time he had learned from Jason about the proper use of anointing oils, holy water, talismans...
Jason commented on several points, offering occasional tips on how Alexander could improve, while also highlighting where he had gone wrong or excelled. As much as he criticized, Jason also gave praise in equal measure.
"With that case wrapped up, I have some news for you," Jason began. "A couple I've known for some time came to me asking for help. But, as you know, I'm retired. So, I recommended you in my place. The money won't be anything extraordinary, but they're experienced—you might pick up a thing or two from them."
At that moment, the bell over the front door chimed, and a young couple walked into the shop.