The Weight of Failure

Once more, Ambrose awoke with a scream, his body drenched in cold sweat. Sleep—elusive and cruel—had abandoned him entirely. Five nights had passed, yet the memory of it clawed at his sanity. He had managed no more than fractured moments of rest, snatched away by the phantom cries that haunted his ears: “Ambrose! Ambrose! Help me!!”.

The voice of the girl—a desperate, shattering plea—echoed through his mind. He could see her still, chained to her bed, her frail body twitching in unnatural spasms. Foam and bile spilled from her lips, painting the sheets in symbols of her torment. Her eyes, wide and pleading, pierced him even now: “Ambrose! Liberate me!!”

He had tried. God help him, he had tried. But his strength, his knowledge—everything—had fallen short. He had been unprepared for the malice, the sheer power of the thing that possessed her. The demon was a shadow he could not grasp, a force he could not name. And she, so small, so fragile, had been no match: “Ambrose…!”

He sat upright in bed. Somewhere deep in his mind, he could hear it: the demon’s voice, cruel and guttural, dripping with venomous delight: “You are powerless. You are useless. You are a killer.”

Ambrose shut his eyes, willing the visions away. But they persisted, sharp and vivid. The girl’s body spasmed before him, her screams rising in pitch until they were unbearable. He had spoken every word he knew, clung to every fragment of knowledge, poured his soul into the exorcism—and it had not been enough. His efforts had been futile. His failure, absolute.

The moment her screams had ceased, abyss engulfed him. A darkness where her cries would forever echo, accusing, unrelenting.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his hands trembling as they reached for the gun on his nightstand. Cold metal pressed against his palm, an anchor in the storm of his torment.

“You are powerless. You are useless. You are a killer.”

The words felt heavier now, resonant and true. They weren’t just echoes of the demon’s mockery—they were reality, stark and unyielding. Slowly, he raised the weapon, his mind teetering on the edge of the abyss. The night was silent save for the whisper of his own breath and the distant howl of the wind.

Cocking the gun, Ambrose stared into the void. And in the void, he saw only one escape.