--- *** ---

Once the nocturnal daily episode bled into the relentless, hysterical dynamic roller coaster of the midnight, prominently painting even darker the realistically phenomenal landscape of the night, subsequently the madhouse dipped in the abysmally misty, sinisterly quiet rivulets of the doldrum. No any single soul has whispered its own ballad. Uneven, hair-risingly dim footsteps echoed through the profoundly dull, lifeless hallways' walls and concetre flooring. It felt like an unexplainable heaven. Interpreted in its sacred sanctum of heavenly tranquillity settling conveniently inside the sites which no any single wretched soul chanted its despondently rowdy, hysterical wail at the top of their lungs.

The profoundly timeless night which was rather desolated for the pairing in the austerely dim lit office of the head nun of the nefariously dilapidating, grandiose mental hospital passed at snail's pace. Frank and Jude spent a couple of hours throughout logically rational, deep colloquys that variated from business up to their personal lives and desires. Even if they haven't discussed so much the British compatriot, at least his name numbering yours were part of their colloquy that has altered its own brilliance of the pigments and filling their growling, satiable desires to discuss certain interests and topics. The duo has already concluded with their dinner dishes and dumped the platter with emptied bowls and plates with balefully subtle remnants of food chunks, pooling the surfaces.

The late November mildly lukewarm zephyr antagonistically danced and ferociously howled its rowdy echo to collide against the brick, dimly cracked walls of the exterior and the shut windows.

"I didn't mean to bring it," Series of uneven, versatile stutters sailed out of the Bostonian's tongue tip whilst moistening to provide its necessary dew of hydration after manipulating to twirl in its exact apex her wet, berry-coloured tongue to bedaub delicately, greedily her upper and lower plumpish lips. Even though myriad of unconditional discomfort and unholy shyness submerged the pit of the Bostonian's stomach to bring the same topic in front of her fewest loyal, outspoken friend, the very thought of the ambitious Monsignor's disquieting disappearance wasn't a child's play for her to bear and assimilate recurringly the patchy hollow he wasn't able to fuel rabidly rapid at all. In the interval, the security guard registered his lapis lazuli huge, rotund gems imbibing the former licentious jazz nightclub singer's beautifully curtained with its thin veil of artificial saturation of her porcelain, elderly youthful complexion, whereas stabilising the maintainence of the eye contact they bore into afflictively diabolical, ruthlessly. "B-But it's almost midnight and the Monsignor's disappearance is quite distressful."

Notwithstanding the circumstances, factly, the former police officer has never been even slightly fond of the ambitious Monsignor, anyway he was somewhat certain after granting instinctive trust to his hurricane of thoughts and fiendishly acute, cunning intuition that either Timothy wasn't in Boston or on the contrary he was somewhere in Briarcliff, howsoever, rather referred the company of the heavenly loneliness to conveniently swaddle him.

"He might be not roaming around Boston or whoever knows!" At the moment, the middle-aged gentleman managed to crook his meaty masculinely strong fingers around his uniform's cap to be discarded recklessly on top of the cherry wood bureau and throughout grazing with his small, neatly trimmed fingernails his clammy scalp and allowing to breathe adequately after spending hours of antagonistic obligatory to not discard even a single attribute of his uniform.

"Only one God knows perhaps, Frank!" Although the elapsing hours where the both staff members had a humongous opportunity to get to know each other on much higher level and levelling out their informality abruptly as they traded with one another a diligent security guard and a pious sister of the church relationship even if he was her employee, hired a couple of years ago to suppress his melancholically rabid loss of his wife.

"Jesus!" Elaborating the breathy, hoarse mutter under his breath, the former policeman manifested to transfix his sharp gaze at the prospect of his boss yanking violently her conservatively dark woolen wimple out of her head during the relentlessly endless hours of coif until the lion mane of bewitchingly lavish, luxurious aureate curls piled up her dainty, feminine shoulders and curtaining stunningly her full, oval profile at last. The luxuriously sinful, eye-catching vista of the former licentious nightclub singer discarding the wimple on top of her bureau beside the tray and the cap of the security guard, pronged Frank's sapphire blue big, round cabochons.

"I know, Frank!"

"Isn't he lusting after some kind of a bimbo by letting the chips to fall where they may?" The suddenness of the widower's words punctually builded in a rhetorical enquiry somehow dueled the blonde's facial expression to break into an arcane grimace at the thought of her love interest not only breaking his own solemnly took vows, further trying to diminish his chances of pursuing eagerly, agitatedly his divine, golden ambition, in order to swap his current life with the past and taking into his own hands the love of his life along with the future. The heinously rebarbative thought of the devotional clergyman keeping in mind somebody much younger than Jude due to galore of reasons frigidly paralyzed the blonde's facial attributes and spotlighted prominently the nausea swamping the pit of her stomach. The dilemma between Timothy and Frank to choose between either of them as her lover didn't ease for a long time even after the appearance of the falsely commited patient Y/N and Timothy solemnly, surreptitiously granted Y/N the ultimate, celestial freedom you deserved the most.

"I wish I wasn't thinking about different scenarios about his disappearance, but the question is," When Frank's colossal, pleasantly olive-tanned hand manipulated to rummage his outfit's top inner pockets for two tiny, pleasantly lukewarm entities that freshly cooled his muscly, bulky torso, in order to calm his boss's nerves and bestow her with something to indulge herself at least once in awhile after the mouth-watering miniature Thanksgiving dinner they both traded with one another. Darting subtly his wet, strawberry-coloured tongue to paddle mischievously greedy his upper and lower baby-pinkish, brim lips with ineluctable dew of moisture after a handful of hours enduring its dryness thickly, generously coating the delicate skin of his oral slit. "Is he still thinking about that little slut he helped her to get her out of Briarcliff and gave her a black rose?"

In spite of the fact the duo knew one another for a few years that emulated to the approximance of two years at least, thus Frank's closest relationship he shared with its protagonist of his life story was the Bostonian, factly, they both traded mutually so much in common even when they had somewhat discords from time to time that were compensated with their isolative character in the middle of the night when the madhouse became a victim of the lethally apocalyptic silence and the holy priest didn't intervene essentially in their space. Their intesifyingly inevitable feelings they brewed and cooked inside their own frail skeletons every time whenever their interactions variated from brief to everlasting, the megawatt amplification of their bond and their undeniably potent chemistry melded its spellbinding hex of their unexplainable destiny. They were made for each other eventually. If Timothy could have different woman of his life even if it's his seriously initial, subsequently Jude would spent her eternity with her employee.

"Why Y/N has to be addressed little slut, Sister?" Meanwhile, the former promiscuous jazz nightclub singer maneuvered one of her thin, elegantly dark eyebrows to quizzically, gamely incline when the widower tossed amiably a can of fizzy berry liquid shortly after carding his own individual entity perched on his lap. "She did nothing wrong and she's falsely committed. The Monsignor had the full right to grant her the freedom she truly deserves, despite her grim past."

"I can't call it a day off for a former drug dealer to evolve around Timothy's holy brown eyes as if she's the center of the world."Then the pairing's fingers nimbly ushered to snap opened their cans and clink the plastic wee entities shortly before swigging a handful of tiny, humbly greedy sips. "I genuinely cannot trust Y/N, Frank! She might get back to be the creature of habit about the drugs and spreading them illegally for more money rather than for keeping clean her reputation."

"Look what, Jude!" Shaking his chilly forefinger to indicate his strong disagreement with the current Bostonian's statement after darting his wet, hydrated tongue to sponge the sticky fizzy liquid-stained coat thickly, wonderfully luminous glittering its own luster, clicking his tongue continuously afterwards. "There are people like me for example whose old habits aren't dying hard. I really believe she changed herself after moving there and we have to clap our hands that Y/N has changed for better and valuing the fresh start she rewarded herself from Maryland up to there." A gruesomely thin line flourished authentically upon the pious sister of the church while dancing the brace of her spidery delicate, marbled fingers around the can. All colours of the middle-aged lady's parchment, elderly young-looking complexion ebbed off and its chromatic tissues blanched unhealthily rapid. Outstanding incredulity in the meteoric changes contoured her femininely unique facial features. The blood's boiling inescapably couldn't stiffle its softening suffocation of her incredulity, factly, it took her longer than the usual to recover from the alcoholicsm. "And it's up to the Monsignor whatever his priesty self would choose, because even if he moves on, ya can always count on me for anything. Like advices, help, comfort and so forth."

--- *** ---

Shortly after Father Kellan Teagan Montgomery and Father McKenzie's arrival while escorting Barb and Dana until they peaked up to the targeted apogee of their eventual destination to the guests' room where the British compatriot's wrists and ankles were bided to sinisterly attack during the conjuration, subsequently the both priests advised you and your friends to maintain more isolative proximity with the current prey of spiritual possession while accomplishing their attempts to banish the vicious, invincible demon out of the British compatriot's frail skeleton.

Thick mantle of hard-heartedly restlessness concealed the sheer fatigue and starkly fickleness to aid one of their co-workers to not struggle with the contagious affliction of the vicious vile essence. While the brunet's virginally long, slim fingers dangled around the widely spread covers of the hallowed book to declaim half-heartedly, nonchalantly the powerful letterpresses to diminish the chances of the vile essence to win the combat, whereas the Bostonian hunkered down past the double bed as a fistful of the rosary's beads waltzed its brace around his tissues and transfixing his lapis lazuli jewels to imbibe the sight of the troubled holy man writhing frequently his non-verbal protests and mewling series of blatantly deep, infernally blood-curdling pleas daubing his oral tissues.

"Kiddos, better leave!" The older clergyman's deft tongue as his bottom plumpish lip curled in the starkly authoritative, nevertheless, kindheartedly benevolent caution towards you, Barb, Frederic and Dana when the trio managed meek, childlikely modest nods of their heads shortly before retiring back to the dining room unlike you. You didn't have any intentions of leaving the recently hired men of the cloth to deal on their own with the spiritually possessed ambitious Monsignor. "It's for your safety, Miss Y/N L/N!" In the meantime, Kellan Teagan flicked up his ocean blue embers to prong your youthful complexion, knitting furiously fierce his dark, thick eyebrows to convey its friendly reminder with a few cautions articulated fluently in verbal and non-verbal versions.

"F-Father," Fortunately, the soar flavor of the stutter awkwardly limping backward and forward in your oral cavern didn't honey-mouthedly, fluently free retaliating out the authoritatively calm caution you and your friends earned just moments ago, subsequently seizing your cherub, dry lips into a pensive purse. Solely distinctive for your own eardrums. Solely distinctive for your own bittersweetness even if you didn't want to follow obediently, diligently Father Kellan Teagan's instructions at all. It resembled a whisper in the barrens. In the desert. In the vacuum. Unhearable for its audience that encircled you. Was it possible for the evil spirit inside the British aristocrat's frail skeleton to detect even noises and voices emulatitng to the farer distance they traded with his larger frame? Ironically, you hoped neither of the holy men was victimized of your lull under your breath. Any syllable and vowel worth its craft to be constructed for your impending articulation of your own very thoughts bubbling up from your throat died acriminously on your tongue tip.

"Child, please leave! You don't have to witness all that horror." Shortly before shifting his utter attention to the Holy Bible's pages, your facial attributes' incredulity no longer obscured beneath its thin, translucently crystal veil and softened the sharp grain determining your facial expression's anatomy momentarily. Father McKenzie was truly altruistically caring soul when it comes up to warning the relatives or inner circle members of the exorcism's victims to gape flabbergastedly at the genuine epitome of the horror how the demons fiery forced their own preys to blatantly whimper couple of emotional, fiendishly profound protests at the top of their lungs.

"She better stay here to watch you suffering, you little pigs!" The suddenness of Timothy's interference in the colloquy caught off guard the male duo as their light embers ignited its ferociously scintillating flames to drain every ounce of their possessed business partner's ghostly pale face.

"The prayers, Father Montgomery!" The hastily salty reprimand of the younger man of the cloth laced vehemently exuberant its own infectious flavor when the older gentleman's azure blue huge, poetically rotund bijous fixated on Timothy and clenching tighter the rosary in his grip when his heart raced.

"Prayer to St. Michael the Archangel! In the Name of the Father,"

"A te, de l'essere Principio immenso, Materia e spirito, Ragione e senso! Mentre ne' calici, Il vin scintilla, Si'come l'anima, Ne la pupilla," At the moment, the British aristocrat's bottom plumpish, baby-pinkish lip curled in the scoff and the devilishly unholy, spine-chilling chuckle while reciting the unholy prayer and increasing perpetually its decibels to pitch the guests' room background eventually. You couldn't help but dart your E/C bijous to the battlefield of God's messengers and your love interest. Little did you know what might be happening if your very absence ghostwrote the site where the both clergymen unceasingly fulfilled their divine quest with the salvation of an innocently unblemished soul of the one of a kind. A smugly wicked, bone-chilling smirk tugged at the corner of the aspiring Monsignor's lip as Kellan and Alexander recited in a mumble the ruthlessly powerful, celestial prayers.