Author's First Note: I know how saddening is to say farewell to this story with its last chapter, but here we go! Pardon me for certain chapters that appeared to be quite sloppy and limping, nevertheless, I opt to cut them shorter even to end this book as early as possible before Christmas!

In addition to the epilogue, I've added a music that will be based on the very final scene of this chapter and associating with the genuine sentiments, dominating in its retrospective atmosphere and Timothy's nemesis. 

I hope you like and enjoy the epilogue! :))

--- *** ---

The betrayal was coming after his impending victim that was already trapped in its inevitable vicious circle or on the contrary the questionable dilemma of every human being. Betrayal was a common apocalyptic phenomenon, commonly occurring due to any soul's sugarcoated, sweet lies being catapulted into its face when confronting the absolute reality.

The paradoxical secrets behind its back may be never discovered unless its an individual's childlike inquisitiveness. Almost every second human being was victimized and relentlessly confined into the betrayal aftermath's daredevil game cage, where escape was guaranteed at any cost, howsoever, the unspeakable forgiveness and atonement were under no circumstances.

The stark, merciless adrenaline vehemently pulsated into the British compatriot's tall frame and coursed villainously through his muscles and bones along with the ferocious wrath pumping into his veins like an overflowing and erupting volcano.

His heart couldn't handle any longer the balefully restless thuds into his rib cage and tearing off under the form of a flimsy cloth with its extravagant fabric, constructing its attire's anatomy, resembling the thousand of shattered glassy, crystal fragments of the heart, due to Kit and Grace's recent interview, broadcasted inescapably on the television in the wee hours of the evening. The betrayal could be interpreted in a thousand worth of words a page, paging up the crucial motives and recent sentiments and feelings of the wretched soul.

Demogorgon was pretty aware of his current victim of spiritual possession's medley of inevitably baleful rage, heartache, and betrayal.

On one hand, the master of the demons' pure satisfaction with his slave emanated from his rage and showed again the hints of the diabolical, even if they're less domineering than a mere mortal's emotions and feelings, paired with abilities.

On the other hand, the heartache and betrayal brewing and cooking inside Timothy enraged him even more than his master and flabbergastingly overwhelmed his disquieting nerves with weakening perpetually, slowly but surely the former ambitious Monsignor and depriving his supernaturally detrimental, devilish power and rendering him to regret even pay for his sheer weakness with his inability to stand even for a mere mortal that imperils his condition and very being in general.

Even though the former aspiring Monsignor scarcely noticed the wee hints of the perpetual weakness of his supernatural, invincible devilish strength and the stamina's versatile plummet. His fragile meaty, masculinely pristine fingers lingered in bracing tandem around the strangely reassuring scotch glass's material with the brown liquor and banally fixating his smoky quartz bijous on the television screen with the broadcasted interview with the juvenile couple. Grasping suddenly his fingertips onto the glass material, he was all ears to listen to the sequel of the interview as well.

"I didn't know, even the diocese after stripping him off from his clerical possessions and declaring his insanity, even faking his diagnose under the form of schizophrenia would rename him with such," As soon as it was the young gasman's turn to elaborate his own utterance with its stubborn clash of vowels and syllables, limping forward and backward on his berry-coloured, wet tongue to construct the rational sequel of the raised topic in the interview.

A stammer wrenched his spontaneous pause with a heavy sigh of overwhelmedness fastening his rib cage after conjugating the fresh oxygen at the top of his lungs. The stark evidence of the undeniably unorthodox forceful pressure he is being under through his dynamic roller coaster of experience lately was quite obvious in his affliction over the former pious sister of the church's sudden demise.

"Such a name. Owen Manson! Doesn't it sound as if it belongs to an infamous psychopath, does it?" The rhetorical posed question, begging for stark attention with its focus spotlighting Kit attracted the audience's attention with a jumpcut to the huge mass of guests, overcrowding of the seats and the vigorous tempest of wrenched widened roundish big abysses, compulsively differing in the genuine climate of their gawks, darted to the interviewer and his recently presentable guests.

"I didn't know those associations with the renamed identity of Timothy Howard with Owen Manson would be responsible for his double standards, you know! Like the disturbing necrophilia, demonic prayers,"

At that moment, after violently manifesting to lug the glass of bourbon to graze his thick coat of bourbon, coating the British compatriot's balefully curved lips into bared teeth, spearing gently the glass to bestow the remaining alcoholic beverage's remnants to hydrate his organs and throat with its sinfully insatiable taste after flexing his throat muscles to swig greedily, hungrily at last.

"H-How dare you in the name of our neutrality?" Lowering abruptly the husky vowels under his breath into a hideous mutter, the former holy priest registered narrow of his twain of pools of abysmally expressive coffee brown bijous, speaking galore of emotions. Tears weren't even worth to rim his lower eyelids. Despondent sniffles wouldn't even compensate for the medley of low spirits, fiery ire and numbness, dooming every cell and muscle of his very being. The tear-stained faces wouldn't even suffocate and diminish his ire at all.

He was sensing the betrayal bracing him in a vicious circle, where nobody was at his side to hear his roar or at least trade with one another a comfortingly warm, affable hug that was worth for a single minute or a half a minute to warm the pit of his stomach after the frostbites of cold-heartedness and sadism glazed his muscles and bones.

"So my question is," The heavy stammers of the older gentleman on the television due to the intensifying atmosphere of its dramatic aura, welling in the interview roared the electrifying goosebumps his delicate epidermis after registering his mammoth, naturally crinkled with perfectly normal wrinkles due to the inescapable aging process hand to retrieve his mug of freshly brewed green tea to sip of it before dumping the marbled mug on the round table. "Is Timothy Howard still out there?"

"No, he is not!" A wryly sarcastic chuckle, clicking the roof of the French lady's tongue after sipping from her glass of freshly lukewarm water hydrated her oral caverns and organs, crafting emphatically the utterance with her feline mouth."No matter if he is in northern, southern, western or even eastern Boston, he could be anywhere found and I think he is still working in that miserable hospital where one of his co-workers reported about his delusional actions and possession."

The awkwardness was broken into a gruffly cleared throat with a raspy cough, emanating from the young woman after muffling politely, gently the cough.

Within a couple of minutes after fleeing squarely the bar without thinking twice to look back on the television screen and paying for his beverage, subsequently horde of police officers dashed to the facility with a few police cars and parked them past the medium-sized building, in order to catch the nefarious ex-doctor, who was with the vile essence inside him.

The bar's entrance double door swung open-mindedly broadly opened at the vista of the authorities' arrival to find Timothy and arrest him, despite their own woeful misfortune with manifesting their vindictive aimed arms at the customers and barman as their heavy, haughty footsteps murmured against the floor.

"Hands! Show us your hands!"

"Show me your hands!" The naked, orthodox panic swaddled icily the group of guiltless strangers to raise their hands at the authoritative command bashfully as the rest of the policemen investigated skeptically the corners of the bar and their oblivion of the dumped, desolated scotch glass with a few centimeters of bourbon's remnants, pooling its surface extraordinarily, originally with a dollar, aloofly escorting it.

--- *** ---

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

Once the British compatriot fled the bar and paid for his own beverage, staying away from the detrimental hazards of the authorities' vicious claws to deprive his entire, celestial freedom and diminishing the number of the freely roaming general population, his awkwardly sluggish lurch up to the nearby church to seek atonement and pray for his heart after being the essential core of Judy's demise and the aftermaths of sinisterly hair-rising deeds.

Even his teleportation and supernatural strength were ebbing off from his muscle tissues, ceasing to its existence to cast a spell ever again like before. Probably Demogorgon had enough of his stuff. Probably Demogorgon was potently fed up with the powerless side of Timothy when the sticky, ruthlessly translucent tears unmasked his stamina and strength's stability abruptly.

The weathered fingertips that once were capable of manipulating every superhuman power that was invincible hex, obtained from the devil populating its prey's body were starched with frostbites, death and unwavering glacial coldness, mantling his hands and persistently marching up to the church muscles.

The motels could be his last hope to have a warm, welcoming night with a peaceful slumber, however, haunting memories of the past such as the violation of the dead body of his rare bird, the infernal prayers and the homicide even being responsible for imprinting his own criminally unspeakable damages on her from head to toes.

Hitching his heavy breathing the whispering stomps against the luxuriously monumental, timeless snowy carpet with each elapsing second and the headstrong wind's howling through his ears and slapping his exposed flesh. A handful of minutes divided the real intimate proximity with the chapel after persistently marching without any ado.

Hopelessness indicated his sluggishly refined gait and his imminent destination to the chapel to beg for redemption or at least a second chance to save his money instead of recklessly spending it for one night in a cheesy motel. As soon as the manipulation of his curled colossal, weathered hand into a balled fist to push the monumentally fashionably lacquered double door of the chapel with its notorious squeak croaking the background.

The surprising emptiness of the sacred building's interior didn't fade away with its sheer illumination, glinting the cocoa brown gemstones of the British compatriot, lurching up to one of the nigh lacquered pews to perch his rear onto the wooden surface and rest after the long, arduous destination on foot.

Stilling the trembling motion of his mammoth, smoothly milky hands even shortly after knotting the virginally villainous, feeble fingers for a sacredly promising prayer and bowing faintly his head as his forehead rested on his fingers for support, wrenching shut his eyelids for increasing the prayer's aureate, divine effect nonetheless.

Guiltily swigging the soar lump, seething his Adam's apple shortly before honing up his nostrils to flush its sharp exhale to commence with the reciting of the prayer in a docile mumble, whereas his mumble cracked his ears.

"Lord Jesus, for too long I have kept you out of my life. I know that I am a sinner and that I cannot save myself." The more the orison's progress escalated, the more the former devotional clergyman's unwelcoming, austere stammers shortly before the notorious creak of the double chapel door tingled alarming tones into his ears, discreetly unknowledgeable with its owner of the reproduced, sinisterly disturbing background noise doctor Josiah Chance Crawford.

The angel himself. An eerie flat line blurred each pattern of misery and felicity, cracking the former priest's features, permeating boldly across his nude pink lips.

"No longer will I close the door when I hear you knocking."

The odd resilience of Josiah's silent footsteps, echoing against the marbled flooring of the hallowed façade hair-rising electrified Timothy's epidermis with an inexorable flood of terrified goosebumps. Little did Timothy know that there was an uninvited visitor inside the building at all. The doldrum was pretty relaxing and scary at the same time. Horrifying bristling the epidermis with electrifying, indisputably spine-tingling goosebumps to each victim of loneliness.

Although the former man of the cloth was all alone and his life was on the verge of life and literal death with the morbid lukewarmness, mantling glacially, graciously his frail skeleton, the last abiding hope to be in the prayers and always counting on fresh starts, even if they are almost futile, due to his nefarious profile, paging up its criminal history with the murder of Jude and the faked diagnose of schizophrenia.

"By faith, I gratefully receive your gift of salvation. I am ready to trust you as my Lord," When the angel maintained a platonically intimate distance from his ex-colleague and seating alongside him joining his desolated company by refilling the patchy void with his very precious presence and subtly clawing his muscular, crestfallenly broad shoulder, crying for comfort and unconditional love and warmness, even support he hasn't harvested for a while at least.

"T-Timothy,"

"What are you doing here, Josiah?" Intensifying manually its megawatt velvety timidness in his inquiry jingled hopelessness and despondence into the younger gentleman's vulnerable ears. In the interval, the former ambitious Monsignor flinched fearfully at his former co-worker's delicate, surreptitiously soothing touch grazing his muscular, toned shoulder with hesitance of tilting his head to encounter the eagerly pursuing gaze of the other gentleman.

"I know you are suffering from depression and loneliness, Timothy! But that way it won't work with curing your despondence."

"Are you here to," Shaking wryly his head in solemn stubborn disagreement to his former colleague's words conjugating a ruefully dark, fiendish chuckle with incredulity roughly contouring his facial attributes, honing the irony's sharpness in his punctured enquiry, gradually paused for a split-second. "Bamboozle me after the authorities are after me, my former master abandoned me, everybody thinks I am the insane ex-Monsignor that used to run a mental institution for criminally insane,"

Elaborating a squeaky, rusty hiss through his serpentine tongue, oozing naked truths, sailing out of the tongue tip with each advancing second in the exposure of the realistic treachery and desperation.

"Look what, Josiah! I was a liar many times. I was involved in a murder. I was a pure manipulator and now I am the joke in the whole freaking story."

Dancing his benevolently creamy, rather reassuring fingers around the tissue and fingertips and digits soothingly kneading, providing a myriad of unconditional consolation and warmness heating the pit of his stomach.

"I know so far every one of us has their own melancholic times like pure weakness, and they used to be once tremendously, unnaturally strong ever in their own lives. I have hurt many people and Demogorgon knows I am a pathetic and weak dastard who has his own very human times like crying, heartbreaks and whatever comes to your mind to think of the times when we should shed a tear at least."

"Timothy, listen,"

"There is no time for listening, Josiah! The police will be quite soon after me even they will know I am here and bringing myself into a miserable church to pray for my own heart, even for a possible atonement or at least hearing God's roar," All of a sudden, the British compatriot cut off curtly the other man shortly after building the abundance of vowels and syllables, clashing willingly, potently for their own position to nick his tongue tip categorically.

He continuously shook his head in disagreement and barely believed his former co-worker could be that altruistically open-minded and humanitarian even towards sinners like him.

The sinners are everywhere. Nobody is the real incarnation of perfection. The imperfection was constructing perpetually every living being with their own of kind flaws.

"At the top of his lungs! They aren't banally dumb, because they won't allow me to get away with that despicable homicide I committed and violating her corpse in the private clinic. I feel God is no longer next to me, and he has already abandoned me along with my conscience and being! I feel like a carrion for myself and everybody else especially for Jude's roaming spirit that hasn't even found peace with herself just because of me." In the meanwhile, what the angel ushered was flattening his thin, baby-pinkish lips into a pensively cautious purse, being all ears during the desperate monologue of Timothy.

"Shh, shh, shh, Timothy, no! You aren't carrion for anybody!"

"I am! Just admit it!"

"No," Haphazardly, the British compatriot's facial expression broke into a hysterically diabolical, fierce sob, tingling alarming tones into Josiah's ears, thus snaking his securely satin, masculinely toned arms to secure the older gentleman's upper back for a comforting, meaningfully delicate embrace.

"You aren't for first and last time! I truly mean it, Timothy! Just hear me out loud, okay?"

"D-Do you truly mean it?" When the pairing lifted their rears from the pew and the auburn-haired man meaningfully aided by guiding shyly, kindly Timothy to one of the chapel's rooms, throughout the strong howling wind's ballad chanted eloquently its chanson outdoors where the apocalyptically wintery nightmare was for every hopeless rambler.

"Y-Yes. I truly mean it, Tim! S-Stop doubting my words as if they belonged to the devil!" Another sob vehemently jimmied the former aspiring Monsignor's mouth with a heavy rain of crystal, translucent tears welling into his cocoa-big brown round gems and subsequently allowing the tempest of salty, sticky tears to stain his unblemished alabaster complexion. "Everything is going to be okay. I promise you!" Pressing an affectionately platonic peck on top of his frosty head, which has been barren of nothing than headaches and bickers, even unnerving stress and overwhelmedness in the past days for the former holy man.

Until the church's room, generously cloaked in a thick mantle of ebony darkness embraced the realistic illustration for the duo with the recurring support of the angel of the formerly possessed ex-doctor to the forthcoming and final destination. The infamously creaky chair perched his desperate feet for support until his head was supported by the rope.

"W-Where are we, Josiah? What is this place?" Shortly after Josiah encouragingly ushered Timothy to peak his figure onto the chair and poising its balance of his posture, thereafter the oblivion of his incredulity was unnerving God's messenger with furrowing stealthily haughty his dark, thick eyebrow in the most expressive, coldblooded motion.

"Don't worry about it, dear Tim! You are as safe as possible from the dangers of this cold," When the duo's very presence occupied every outskirt of the compact, pitch-black-mantled-clad room in the hallowed façade, subsequently, Josiah maneuvered his colossal, deft hands to swiftly push the chair as Timothy's body hung on the rope and bashfully, somberly swaying with weak intensity indicated its death's gait. The demise was coming for its impending victim. "Crudely unforgiving and selfish world and its expansive outskirts!"

"Are you planning my death, Josiah? Is that because of your broken promises?" The forsaken ajar opened the door with its small scale of gap to allow its modicum of celestially gilt light to penetrate through the untouchable darkness obscuring Timothy's vision and bleeding its mist of surroundings, encircling him in the very room. He was quite aware of his ex-colleagues intentions right away, howsoever, it was too late to stop him or halt the death penalty.

"I am rather trying to help you stop suffering and whining due to the sore pain of everything you have been through, Timothy! Don't ever forget your deeds speak everything about you!" The haphazardness of the younger gentleman's lulling shush into the lurking ebony darkness gave chills to the former man of the cloth who was all alone and dying, swaying his almost dead body on a miserable, invincible rope to halt his sore agony.

The genuine notion behind the eerie wisdom of God's messenger caught him off guard, pondering profoundly, and logically in its genuine meaning until the other gentleman was no longer escorting Timothy Howard.

Dumping his struggling with its combat between life and the death body to persevere as much as possible and his breathing elaborating gruesomely, marvelously ebbing off until the hoary tissues no longer supported every cell of his.

"No! That is not part of the deal we had. Josiah! You pathetic liar." Unceasingly reproducing the sluggish stutters in a series of pauses just shortly before the demise populated with its mortal immobility to halt his incessantly gearing muscles and bones along cells' choir lastly, the tempest of salty, frustratedly searing tears soaked his facial skin along with his garments.

The nemesis played its own cards right. The treachery of Demogorgon, his ex-master was an efficient success of his nemesis. The devil was always a winner, no matter how imperfect the sinner was. Is there a possible second chance yet? Nobody is certain about this controversial question. Only one God knew the stark truth. Demogorgon was an unbeatable kind of a monster.

The End

Author's Last Note: I would like to thank everybody but mostly to jlangster_, sociopathsis  ,Celeste-Moore and southernauthor for being the most active readers of this story with catching up with its updated and great blend of angst and fluff but mostly angst, affecting the plot twists! I genuinely appreciate every kind of support such as read, vote, even a feedback to make sure how much you've enjoyed the book and mostly the chapters that construct the entire work! Without you this book wouldn't survive, even to peak to its epilogue! 

I've a few questions to the readers that have caught up from the beginning to the very end of this work: Are you more into fluff or on the contrary angst as trope? Did you enjoy Timothy as possessed, pre-possessed or post-possessed version? Why, tho? Do you think there's a possibility for their reunion and if yes, does the purgatory count to be their last hope for atonement? 

I hope you genuinely liked and enjoyed this book along with the epilogue! Share with me your thoughts on the culmination! Don't be shy! :))