The Devil Worshipers: Demons of Destruction

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The Devil Worshipers: Demons of Destruction

Alex Monroe cut his aging pickup’s engine at the mouth of a forgotten forest road. Night air rolled in, smelling of wet pine needles and distant rain. Rust‑chewed mailboxes leaned along the ditch like the broken teeth of something long dead, while the moon, thin and watchful, traced silver on the asphalt.

Beside him, Marisol Carter tapped a flashlight against her palm to coax a steadier beam. “Gideon Chapel should be a mile that way,” Alex said, nodding at a deer path swallowed by blackberry briars. His voice quivered with equal parts ambition and dread. Six seasons of his podcast Urban Myths Unmasked had proven ghosts were often leaky pipes and UFOs were hobby drones, but tonight’s rumor—devil worshipers raising literal demons—felt heavier, like a loaded gun tucked into the night.

They pushed into the dark. Damp soil squished beneath their boots. Branches snapped, and owls hissed warnings that echoed like reversed church bells. Alex pictured headlines: “Podcaster Disproves Devil Worshipers”—great for clicks. Or worse: “Podcast Hosts Vanish in Demon Woods.” Each scenario quickened his pulse.

Ten minutes later, the trees parted, revealing a clearing where the chapel crouched like a shipwreck on land—steeple crooked, roof sloughed in, stained‑glass windows spider‑webbed. Candle stubs, long extinguished, dotted the warped sill. Alex thumbed the recorder. “23:54 hours—entering Gideon Chapel, rumored site of devil worship and so‑called Demons of Destruction rites.” The red light blinked like a mechanical heart, steady for now.

Inside, pews lay tossed as if a storm sea had rolled through. Mildew stung their throats. Latin script flaked off the altar stone: Daemonia Exitium. Marisol swept her light across iron rings bolted into the floorboards. “Restraints,” she whispered. “Not props—these have grind marks.” Her photo shutter clicked—evidence for tomorrow’s blog gallery.

Alex steadied himself by narrating: “Local myth claims Reverend Silas Gideon struck a bargain with infernal forces during the drought of 1876. Each century, his descendants—calling themselves The Devil Worshipers of Raven County—renew the pact, surrendering one volunteer soul to the Demon of Destruction in exchange for fertile land and prosperity.” He managed a skeptical laugh, but it clattered to the floor like broken glass.

A sudden gust slammed the door, shaking dust from rafters. Candle stubs guttered to life in a single, serpentine ripple. Marisol’s flashlight fizzed out; the phone screen went black. Darkness swallowed them, broken only by the living ring of flame licking the altar.

Footsteps—soft, synchronized—shuffled behind. Hooded figures emerged, robes stitched with black‑thorn sigils that glinted red in the candlelight. At their center strode a tall, lean man with skin drawn tight over sharp cheekbones and eyes glowing ember‑bright.

“Welcome, pilgrims.” His voice layered gravel over honey. “I am Ezekiel Voss, guardian of Gideon’s covenant.”

Alex lifted his mic like a crucifix. “We’re journalists,” he managed. “Share your side—unedited.”

Ezekiel’s smile unfurled slowly. “A story requires climax. We stand upon it.” From beneath his robe, he produced an obsidian dagger, its edge swallowing candlelight until it looked like a cut in the world itself. “The legion demands renewal. One heart, freely given.” His gaze settled on Alex, who felt it pry at ribs searching for the beat underneath.

Marisol drew a breath sharp as breaking ice and stepped between them. “Take me,” she said, surprising even herself. “Let him go.” Her voice trembled yet didn’t crack. Tears rimmed her eyes, but her posture was iron, chin held like a blade.

“Noble,” Ezekiel mused, tracing the dagger’s tip across her offered palm without breaking skin. “But the covenant does not dine on unwilling fear. It feasts on chosen courage.” He turned to Alex again, invitation smoldering.

Something snapped in Alex—maybe pride, maybe devotion to the friend who’d edited every episode at 3 A.M. He swept a toppled pew into the circle of candles. Fire leapt onto dust‑dry hymnals, racing up rotten beams with a crackle like laughter.

“You choose destruction!” Ezekiel roared, arms wide to the flames. Cultists chanted; the air thickened, buzzing like a hive of hornets. In the yawning roof, shadows knit themselves into a towering silhouette—horns curving like scythes, wings unfurling ragged as war banners, eyes molten gold. The Demon of Destruction stretched to its impossible height, and every candlelight flickered inside its throat.

Rafters groaned. Cultists screamed praise even as flaming debris rained upon them. Fire licked Ezekiel’s robe; he laughed, triumphant, arms still outstretched.

Alex seized Marisol’s wrist. They sprinted down the aisle, dodging beams that crashed like battering rams. Heat blasted their backs. At the main doors, a smoldering crossbeam blocked escape. Alex hurled his steel recorder at a stained‑glass window; metal met glass, and a circular panel depicting Michael the Archangel shattered outward.

“Jump!” he shouted. Together they dove through jagged edges, glass biting skin. They rolled onto dew‑slick grass while the chapel convulsed behind them. Inside, the demon turned on its worshipers—bargain satisfied in chaos. Flame tornadoed skyward, then imploded, sucking sound and light into a deaf void. When silence settled, nothing remained but a steaming concrete slab and a scattering of black ash that glowed like embers of a funeral pyre.

Sirens approached, distant but closing. Marisol pressed a trembling hand to Alex’s chest to feel his racing heart. “Burn the tape,” she pleaded. “Some truths shouldn’t stream at 128 kbps.”

Alex’s fingers found the recorder in the grass—miraculously intact, its red light still blinking. He pressed stop. The file length read 66 minutes—far longer than they’d spent inside. “Maybe the world needs to hear,” he whispered, yet doubt braided every syllable.

Dawn bled into the horizon as they trudged toward the county road. Behind them, the slab cooled, exhaling steam like a tired beast. Wind drifted through pines, carrying faint echoes—chanting, or just the memory of it.

Three days later, in his cluttered apartment, Alex hovered over the upload button. Marisol’s warning replayed on loop. His cursor wavered, then retreated. He saved the file offline and closed the laptop.

Silence reigned—too complete. Then an email pinged. Subject: The Covenant Endures. Attached: a high‑resolution photo of Gideon Chapel, wholly rebuilt, candles blazing behind frosted glass. Timestamp: 3:00 A.M. Beneath the image, a single line: One heart, freely given.

Alex’s own heart hammered. Outside the window, wings beat the humid air—slow, deliberate, heavier than any bird. The streetlamp flickered and died. He killed every interior light, clutching the recorder like a talisman. Unsure whether to document or pray, he waited in the hover space between skepticism and terrible belief, listening as the wings drew closer and the night inhaled his fear.