✟ Expect anything from anyone;

the devil was once an angel. ✟

--- *** ---
--- 2 Days Later ---
--- 31st of October, 1964 ---

Within the elapsing days which lurched at snail's pace, the more you spent sleepless starless nights even though you were back at work after your friends explained to your boss about your false imprisonment in the ill-famed mental hospital against your will. The quantity of sheer, natural caffeine's consumption, staining thickly your ivory enamel and greased grouts-clad coat swaddling hideously your teeth, affecting your health condition of muting the inner voices to wrench shut your eyelids for awhile like a half an hour or so were taking a toll on you.

The plum, cured bruises which once baptized hideously, brawnily your arms and legs were initiating to be blanched-clad smoothly grained after the adequate treatment, no longer resided hypodermically your flesh and perpetually ebbing off its unspeakable consequences of the bar fight.

The medley of the haunting shadows and demons of the lusciously insatiable kiss which you shared with the former sleazy nightclub singer, the delicate touches of the ambitious Monsignor grazing with his delicate fingertips and pads of his virginally strong fingers your flesh, the insomnia were numbing your intentions of collecting sufficient quantity of rest throughout the daily episodes. It has been three days since it was the last time when you've crawled emphatically to snap shut your eyes for a few hours or minutes at least. It has been a few days since you've seen whether Frederic, Dana or Barb even though you're about to behold them tonight on the house party over Dana's two-story mansion.

Whilst you're venturing to finish your shift up to the wee hours of the evening, the waitress's iris cotton apron embroidered your torso, indicating your current occupation and belong to the facility's staff, one of your co-workers warily carried a tray with freshly boiled lemon tea and a plate of lusciously insatiable slice of pumpkin cheesecake ventured unintentionally bumping into your figure, flinching in tandem waltz as he dropped unintentionally clumsy his tray with its shattered on cluster of marbled pieces plate and glassy segments, maliciously botching the lavishly silken indigo carpet.

"Fools rush in where angels fear to tread and so I come to you, my love, my heart above my head. Though I see the danger there If there's a chance for me, then I don't care!" Fools Rush In by Ricky Nelson was recently droning with sufficiently enhanced decibels as the vocalist's eloquence in the song's lyrics was entertainingly unknotting every surrounding's nerves, in order to bring themselves on the dance floor with their discretely authentic dancing moves, generally improvised and enabling their muscles to deform even twirl in the dance, barely wrapping their minds around the binds and ghastly issues. Further, the other rational motive the music in the restaurant was fascinatingly entertaining and unsettling merrily every customer after a tough day at work or school was eavesdropping the delightful tunes of music, tugging vaguely prim smiles at their mouths and twirling and swirling the smiles motionlessly with jaws' flexes instead of listening the appalling, merely common soundtrack of their coworkers or problematic acquaintances bugging them off with their own shenanigans and fiery complaints.

"I'm dearly sorry, {Y/N}! I didn't truly mean it." Your co-worker was approximately your age, standing 5'11 with gracefully slender body build and meager masculine muscles bulging and indicating his genuine masculine anatomy, pairing with his lusterly tanned skin tone with neck length halo ringlet of shaggy auburn strands, framing his oval, full profile. Furthermore, your colleague were partnering during your shifts and you were pretty getting along platonically even exchanging galore of punchline of the jokes and personal stories whether during your brief breaks or work time. Last but not least, his actual name was Raziel Billie Thomson and his background is partly Jewish, mixed with English and Walsh, factly, his grandparents are European emigrants unlike Raziel's parents who were actually Jewish.

"It's okay, Raziel!" Once you fumbled backward, fidgeting your trembling fingers to register propping your weight as your round knees brushed the carpeted flooring, earning ocean of bloodthirstily nosy eyes, transfixed on you. Meantime, the sole sounds which the tip of your tongue could conjugate flawlessly were clumsy grunts and gasps, vibration coursing through your throat. You sensed medley of pangs of conscience spearing your flimsy heart, thudding vehemently with its heart pulsations chanting resonantly, profoundly into your ears and opting to aid Raziel with the platter and the shattered muddy remnants. "Everything will be good. I will take care of that." The velvety promising Maryland lilt punctured your candidness in your promise

"It's rather my fault, {Y/N}! Our gooses are going to be cooked."

Knowing personally the Jewish compatriot, he wasn't the kind of extroverted guy you'd usually encounter especially circa your age and contemplating the fountain of self-esteem, oozing of insecurities and glistening in diversity of nuances. Raziel was rather the type of acquaintance even co-worker who wasn't very fond of night shifts and they compulsively affected his humor even his work in general. Moreover, he's always been amicable and gentlemanly open-minded towards everyone who didn't disregard him at all even contemplated and judged his flaws.

There were a couple of times whether during the night shifts or even the daylight whenever you got one another's backs peculiarly altruistic. Determining who will look after the rest of the business, whereas the other business partner was spontaneously cusping and there were times whenever you're replacing delightfully Raziel if he craved to go out with his friends on a gig, watch a football match with them or just spend more time with his inner circle. It wasn't a second nature to be commonly encountered in your daily life as waiters, nevertheless, there were just days where you would afford modicum of rest and subtracting your work time with a handful of hours at least, in order to accomplish the fewest tasks in your personal lives which you would scarcely find yourselves doing every day like certain spawns of the general population sticking to those habits which are perpetually developed and mustered to participate presentably in their daily schedules.

Notwithstanding the gigs, football matches and the spent time with inner circle in Raziel's case, you were having your own life just like him and every one of a kind individual. For example, cutting off randomly a night shift's bonus hours which were granted to you to roam around the restaurant's outskirts ruthlessly restless, stomping each step to approach a couple of vainly whimsical and crudely lukewarm customers, you were having your own nights or afternoons when you were hanging out with your small group of only close friends whom you could always cry on their shoulder and rely on their effortless pieces of advices, besides fleeing to a random bar just to have a beverage and pearly cherish each moment of your youthful, fresh life, full of brilliant opportunities to alter anything for better or otherwise for worse. Full of felicity and wonderfully elating moments to share with your soulmate even cherish each elapsed moment together which you could covet to endure ethereally timeless as if the absolute reality was out of bounds and the supernaturality was engaging emphatically, aloofly with whether halting the time or at least decelerate its megawatts. Full of impending moments, scripted meaningfully and dumbfounding you even interpreting either as decent or disastrous, depending your philosophy and their humor's effect.

"Don't be so gullible about this mess, Raziel! I'll try my best to clean it pearly well as possible how our boss would want." Even though your tip to evade any conflicts with your boss and altruistically sacrificing yourself to save the Jewish compatriot from his salary's descent and the increased chances of losing his own position, he's otherwise dissenting from your tip momentarily, pangs of conscience was morbidly written all over his fresh, masculinely attractive facial features and frustrated, rueful frown flattening his lips, squinting up his amber brown cabochons at your straightened petite frame.

"Why thank you, {Y/N}?" In the meanwhile, the young man shook his head meekly, credulously at his own pangs, parlously aching his thoughts and plaguing his overall mind, thriving a vaguely benevolent, grateful smile due to your stark sacrifice which you would do for anybody you loved or at least liked platonically to prevent their unabating aftermaths of their fiascos and clumsiness. "But it's pretty unnecessary. I don't want you to get fired because of your sacrifice."

"Even if I lost my position, therefore it could be for better." The tip of your tongue rolled off wryly jubilant, somber chuckle, mischievously and warmly tickling the corners of your dehydrated mouth, throughout dashing to the women's restroom to retrieve a broomstick, paired with shovel, hardly having any intentions of extending the discords which you and Raziel are having at the moment. "Come on, Raziel! Go do your own business while I'll take care of this obnoxious mess." Meanwhile, the young man retreated to the kitchen with the muddy platter, while you discarded the shovel on the carpeted flooring and manipulated in curling your delicate fingers around the wooden broomstick's handle, subsequently the gilded-straw-clad brush brandishing the ocean of glassy residues and slice of pumpkin cheesecake's glossy glaze until they submerged the shovel's solid, flat surface.

"Mm-mm-mm-mm! Fools rush in where wise men never go! But wise men never fall in love, so how are they to know? When we met, I felt my life begin!"

As soon as you mopped the residues of Raziel's ineptness in nimbly stabilizing his own recently leaking tasks without dropping a platter unintentionally awkward, afterwards you retired to the women's restroom to discard the broomstick and shovel and marching up to your imminent destination. The kitchen.

Once you stepped inside the kitchen and the sole company you divide among yourself was with the cook and a handful of waiters in the same position as yours. Having meager tasks, grievously overwhelming them and having no time to sort their vortex of thoughts which client to serve their ordered beverage or meal.

The radio news was lowly droning in the kitchen with its ultrasound waves colliding in the exquisitely isolative walls even though it's slightly early to flee your workplace momentarily.

"The infamous Briarcliff Manor just became an institution also for possessed by the devil inmates, struggling with the vile supernatural essence which was commonly encountered in Middle Ages and bewildering priests and nuns." Sternness emotionless accent strongly punctured the radio journalist's declaim while registering the urgent announcement jingled medley of nonchalance and unnatural enthusiasm into the paranormal even the spirit possession froze you on the right spot when you were propping on the counter after retrieving your partly full glass of lukewarm water, stilling your spidery fingers hitching the flimsy glass's rim. "A seventeen-year-old boy under the name Jed Potter was recently registered as a temporal patient for exorcism and cure, seeking the owners of the mental institution's aid along with Dr. Thredson and Father Malachi. Jed parents' complaints were amusingly obnoxious, witnessing the recently occurred horrors, altering their son's behavior such as speaking in fiendish, deep voice and flaying the corpse of a pig in the barn." In the meantime, your plumpish, naturally roseate lips mopped sluggishly, gingerly the rim of the glass once you were sipping of the refreshing liquid, consequently hydrating your organs and water's quantity, deposited in your overall figure. Even though you weren't a potentially ardent believer in the paranormal and supernatural power's existence since they've ceased to be distanced from the absolute reality, abundance of questions were narrowly merging your entire vortex of thoughts, still wavering the accuracy in the announcement.

--- *** ---

--- An Hour Later or So ---

An hour after the young man who was severely charged in vile essence's possession, commanding his body muscles and hurricane of thoughts of committing unspeakably heinous deeds against anyone's expectancies especially for an individual on the cusp of a young adult and adolescent, the great deal of efforts insatiably infused in reciting in docile mumble prayers and performing any act of bashing the vile spirits from the vulnerable body, combating with its salvation and lurching on the cusp between the life and the death, Timothy and Oliver lingered their presences and toilsome efforts in the poorly furnished ward. The both men were garrisoning the both sides of the hospital bed.

Just a few minutes ago when Timothy advised his rare bird to supervise the young man and solely seek God's word through the old, nefariously rusty door's battered window the process of Jed's passiveness until his bleated series of whimpers taunted the former sleazy jazz nightclub singer in no time and opted to daub with a plain, oyster-white cloth the trickling bloody rivulet downward his lower eyelids in paradoxally straight angles. Leading to his taunts and exposing her grim past within a handful of minutes which fantastically perplexed even obfuscated her, subsequently the pure lava of adrenaline, pulsating into her body with the boiling ire and her berserk stance maneuvered her to smack series of weak slaps across his face which wasn't left unseen by the ambitious Monsignor and newly hired doctor.

"There's no more time for prayers, Monsignor." Professional definiteness emphasized boldly the newly hired doctor's caution, thus struggling injecting the syringe into the patient's arm. "His heart can't handle it!"

"Help him! Help him now!"

"Help me sedate him!" The young doctor's insistence docketed the older man's command, whereas the other gentleman was binding Jed, aiding the newly hired doctor to inject the syringe into Jed's arm.

The light smashed in the cell, subsequently chaffed wryly the pairing to duck in protest, avoiding any physical damages, mapping any ounce of their flesh.

A small amount of froth seethed up in the young man's mouth, subsequently he manipulated the writhes resembling a vicious seizure.

The exhausted nun watched through the small iron door's window the exorcism process when Sister Mary Eunice snapped her out of her thoughts as she warned her urgently about one of the inmates' is in the cordiac arrest.

Instead of responding to the younger nun, she opened the cell's door as she noted, being convinced that Jed won't survive as he was experiencing a heart attack.

The both nuns witnessed the final seconds of the young man's life, while the Monsignor prayed. "May the lord who frees you from sin save you and grace you."

Meanwhile the young doctor gave the teenager's motionless body CRP.

As Jude and Mary Eunice transfixed their darkened orbs on the exorcism's process, a haphazard gasp limped backward and forward into the teenager's mouth, coursing through his tongue and plunking his average-frame. He collapsed back on the pillow as Oliver gave him CRP again, counting every beat as Timothy's prayers.

"He's dead."

The both owners of the mental hospital exchanged perkily swift glimpses. An abrupt creaking sound of falling wooden crucifix from the wall, sourced a click on the concrete floor. Meantime, the British aristocrat flumped heavily, haphazardly on the concerted floor as his frail skeleton landed on the cold stone floor at the sight of trio's arcanely astounded gawks and their hearts skipping a beat due to the post-exorcism's sequence, resumed in an unavoidably blowminding segment after Jed's demise, succumbed in a heart attack.

"Father?" All of a sudden, the former sleazy nightclub singer's honeyed, timid murmur rolled out of her tongue tip, scooting up to his love interest's motionlessly flumped body.

--- *** ---

--- A Half an Hour Later or So ---

An hour or so which was elapsing at light speed's pace and bristling every ticking second, calculated in every background noise, every laughter, every pitching voice in the guests' room in Dana's mansion where you held a Halloween party, dolled up in spooky costumes which were enticingly pleasant vista for every stranger ironically metaphoric, your high spirits were lingering and obscenely corrupting every ounce of yours. Your vocal stings could scarcely collect the necessary rest after series of emitted variety of syllables and vowels even laughters' soundtracks, composed in detached symphonies and matching with particular themes.

For your own surprise after finishing your night shift, Barb was already dolled up as a pirate, incarnating the sarcastic scruffiness in her outfit after infusing her efforts in looking decently appealing. Furthermore, your decision in disguising yourself as an angel of the death wasn't peculiarly disappointing at all unlike Dana and Frederic being aliens.

The advancing time was exhausted in drinking beverages, eating sweets and snacks even spilling opulently goofy shenanigans on the dining table while the hums of the radio were attempting to amalgamate with the Halloween atmosphere in the guests' room.

"Come on, Barb! Pass the tequila!" The blonde gentleman's stubborn obstinacy to earn the bottle of Mexican's liquor while seating alongside you, maintaining a meager intimate proximity which was adequately proper for both of you, while Barb and Dana were lost beyond in their misty colloquy, hardly darting their pairs of irises to either of you. "Barb!" In the interim, the only thing which you're granted with a sheer chance was nudging the Mexican compatriot and attracting her attention in no time with unblemished physical contact that wasn't worth any efforts at all.

"Hey girls! I'm really sorry if I'm interrupting you, Barb and Dana," The stutter, reproduced in a pensive gearing system of syllables and vowels, recently pieced together as puzzle fragments and shaping the complete prospect, you ushered your spidery delicate fingers to poke smoothly the older lady's shoulder blade.

"It's okay, {Y/N}! No need to apologize!" The German-Canadian ventured to offer a sympathetic smile, creamily inked on your face while the Mexican compatriot shifted her attention to Frederic.

"Pardon me for not hearing you well, Frederic," Once it was high time the dark-haired lady's turn to convey her utterance, meanwhile, the young man ushered with a mammoth, marbled hand to gesture her to stifle her agitation.

"It's alright, Barb! I just wanted you to pass the tequila over there if you aren't planning to pour in your glass anymore."

"Just a few hours ago after Jed's failed exorcism, leading to his heart attack at age seventeen only, Monsignor Timothy Howard fainted just seconds after the adolescent's death until his transportation to his helpless condition was managed to the infirmary." When the late night's radio news begun with the breaking news about the aspiring Monsignor's faint just shortly after his failed attempts to rescue the once taintless adolescent's essence and bash the vile spirits, the bitter vibes which the breaking news oozed of and being all ears to acknowledge the clergyman's recent condition suddenly stung your {E/C} cabochons widened in immense shock, parting your mouth in a soft O until your unpredictable faint befell you with your petite-frame plumped backward on your Victorian style oak wood chair, plummeting your physical stamina's stability to linger your balance, hardly composing any gasp or further noise. The last night you beheld before your senseless condition was your old friends, thereafter your vision patched in entire ebony blanket.

"Y/N?"

Author's Note: I'd like to thank everybody for taking their time to read even vote and leave a kind feedback on each chapter that has intrigued even struck them! I genuinely appreciate it! Don't forget to leave a feedback! I'd genuinely appreciate to read your thoughts! :))