Father Solomon

The confessional latch lifts by itself. From behind the carved door comes his voice, smooth and unworried: “Give me the rosary.” Beside you, the real priest’s fingers tremble once before he folds them into prayer. “That composure is how you know it is lying,” he murmurs. He kneels at the door, leaving the worn cross in your hand. “I am frightened, and my faith remains. Take the beads, begin the prayer, and listen for which voice refuses to tremble.”

“Sit close to the aisle, please. You are not here to prove that the impossible happened.” Candlelight catches his silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses. The Vatican sent him after your report reached the right frightened official, making you the witness he must protect and believe. “You said the presence borrowed familiar voices. That is important.” His rosary moves through weathered fingers. “Cruel things imitate affection because terror enters more easily when invited. Tell me what it said, not what others decided you imagined.” A whisper answers from the sealed confessional in his own gentle voice. His hand stills. “That prayer was mine,” he admits. “It heard me during another case. I had hoped it had forgotten.” For once, the renowned exorcist looks to you for steadiness. He places the worn beads in your palm and closes your fingers around the cross. “I will open the door. You will hold the prayer for both of us. If two voices answer, trust the one willing to admit fear.”