--- *** ---
--- The Next Morning ---
--- 2nd of March, 1965 ---

When the wee hours of the impending morning slowly but surely bled into extraordinarily celestial daylight episode after the profoundly unnerving night, Josiah took care of Jude's corpse autopsy and phoned exceedingly the juvenile couple to break the news about the abrupt grotesque demise of the former devotional sister of the church. Even though the juvenile couple were wondering about Jude's absence they acknowledged it in the wee hours of the morning until they earned the urgent phone call from Dr. Josiah Crawford, it was sinisterly difficult for them to overcome their closest person from their small family death.

Despite the French girl's literal obsession with the aliens and supernatural notion of the existence of superior power, stealthily reigning in the crudely cold, incredibly enormous world nonetheless, her mixed feelings about the possessed doctor were inexorably interpreted as an absolute reality circumstance.

Moreover, the young gasman wasn't very fond of Timothy and his nefariously appalling deeds, seeding its wighty spawns of the vile to fog his thoughts and vision by viewing him in the possibly the darkest light, scarcely illuminating his benevolent lighter side.

Even though Kit knew deeply that Timothy's pearly life was imperiled to be deprived of Demogorgon's starkly monstrously infernal hands, he couldn't grant a second chance to the British compatriot after being the essential reason for Jude's death and most of all, inhumane sadism and the potently frequent involvement of supernatural power reckoned as telekinesis and pyrokinesis to weaken his once endangering his life target.

Kit has almost never liked or at least had a modicum of sympathy for the former aspiring Monsignor at all. There were a few times when Kit could alter his ferociously intensifying hostile feelings for him, especially after arranging his, Grace, Lana and Jude's releases, howsoever, their relationship hasn't evened apt to any changes for the better.

Kit didn't care about Timothy and his existence after fleeing the grandiose dilapidating, ill-famed madhouse. His condition was a far cry from being murderously insane and initially framing him for the barbaric homicides of women and skinning their corpses, consequently naming him Bloody Face the nefarious serial killer of the small city of Massachusetts.

Once Josiah recommended the juvenile pairing to organize altogether the private, small funeral of the Bostonian though their financial issues to bury the corpse in the nigh cemetery, the trio managed to take utter control over the privately organized funeral.

What utmost saddened the French compatriot and her partner was that Judy didn't have any family, reckoned as cousins, siblings or just anybody else to pay a visit for a few hours at her funeral and presentably honor her memory. Anyway, they were the only family she had ever had, in spite of the angel's unsacredly unpromising risk of losing his own job in the nigh hospital, where he worked actually.

The wee hours of the morning's silver-tongued, promisingly elating birdsongs brightly contrasted with its turtle's pace grief over the former pious sister of the church's sudden demise and funeral ceremony. The late winter's roundish, monumental sun's starkly aureate filter showered the empty graveyard and refilled the patchy hollow with its radiance to soothe its visitors.

Today the graveyard wasn't assaulted by a swarm of the general population at all. The exceptional visitors were either honoring the very memory of their deceased friends and relatives or on the contrary burying them.

"Doctor Josiah, your kindness has no bounds!" The brunette's strawberry-coloured, wet tongue nimbly elaborated the vowels and syllables, almost dying on her tongue tip after a series of stutters, due to her overwhelmed heartache, amalgamating with the cordial gratitude towards the angel for taking care of burying her former rival's dead body.

In the interim, she managed to drop her head lazily, ruthlessly on Kit's broad, muscly shoulder whilst manifesting to bow despondently her head, her lapis lazuli huge, round bijous transfixed on the persistently hardworking doctor, whose great deal of efforts to still his curled pristinely potent, creamy fingers around the shovel's wooden handle and classily scoop a mouthful of dark soil from the ground.

At that moment, the ground's hole of its dig process wasn't even half its efficient progress.

"You don't have any idea how much you helped us to save our money for a grave digger, you know!" The confession's elaboration was strong-willed and inexorable after sailing out of her tongue tip after flushing her tiny, flexible nostrils to cleanse a myriad of futile oxygen, constricting her brittle lungs.

Even though the couple was beyond overwhelmed and mesmerized at the same time by Josiah's benevolence and his ginormous risk of being abolished from his own position, he did everything to save Kit and Grace's money for a grave-digger and undertaker, even purchasing with their remaining budget a plain coffin.

Notwithstanding the circumstances, the duo's heavy rain of crystalline, elegantly translucent tears rimmed its rich rivulets onto their lower eyelids and clung its moist stickiness to their unblemished porcelain, youthful facial skins.

"Needless to thank me, Grace! I am always there to help every troubled human being." Suddenly, the older man manipulated the shovel's silver round point to spear the ground, in order to take a break for a split-second by shooting a fleet glance at the duo and subsequently maintaining appropriate eye contact. Ushering his colossal, reassuringly smooth hand to daub the thickly ugly veil of clamminess, mantling his entire façade ruthlessly, a vague sympathetic smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, spearing with its megawatt radiance their vision.

"Everything will be alright, my love!" Snaking a strong, secure arm to brace the French compatriot's freshly slim waist, Kit lowered the decibels of his velvety northern lilt's sharp accent into a mumble. He pressed a tender peck on top of her head, whereas drawing her petite frame towards his muscular, toned chest to cradle her face. "She is in a better place right now and watching us like an angel and," Stilling the cradle of Grace's head, meanwhile, her crystalline, sticky tears soaked his coat-sleeve-clad forearm, quietly sniffling to herself. "Smiling at us and wishing us the best even though she tried our best to keep us safe by arranging the ex-Monsignor's exorcism with Father Malachi's council."

Lingering the low-spirited, teary frowns adorning their facial features, they managed meek nods at the older gentleman's smile and then got back to work.

"But she is gone forever." Conjugating with teary, frail timbre the impending utterance's vowels and syllables, a bittersweet lump burdened her feminine Adam's apple and throughout graciously flexed her fleshy throat muscles to swig the lump.

"Due to the fact, she is out of this world, that doesn't mean she is gone forever, Grace!" The honeyed calmness in the young gasman's whisper, delicately, sultrily fanning and gnawing the brunette's dainty earlobe sent her paradoxical paroxysm, waltzing eagerly inside her figure. The numbness, icily swaddling their flimsy hearts with its vigorous clomps whispering into their chests didn't cease to its chaotically heartbreaking existence. "She is going to be always with us. Even in our hearts."

"Of course! She would be a spectacular godmother and grandmother of our ray of sunshine." In the interval, the juvenile brunette manipulated her elvish, milky hand to perch on her small bump with the unborn one-of-a-kind creation of hers, peacefully guarded inside her with its brittle fingertips admiring the softness of its swollen stomach. Choiring its frequency of the blinks and the perpetual heavy rain's tempest of tears submerging with dew her garments and skin, the haphazardness of the gasman's larger, protective hand pawed the tandem of hands. "I truly miss her."

"I miss her more!"

--- *** ---

--- A Few Days Later ---

--- 5th of March, 1965 ---

A few days after the exquisitely organized private funeral of the former pious woman of the cloth in the nigh cemetery of the small city of Massachusetts, the British compatriot's recalcitrant attempts to pretend as if he wasn't involved in the brutal homicide and a bloodthirsty necrophilia, during his shifts in the hospital peculiarly questioned his colleague, who was more than ready to play his daredevil game with testing his patience.

Kit and Grace were gracefully invited to the television for a special interview in honor of their old friend and the former ambitious Monsignor.

Just a day ago, the penniless former priest resigned from the nearby Boston hospital, where he used to work for a while, in order to escape from his ex-coworker's harassment. Demogorgon's ominously ferocious plans geared throughout the frail skeleton of the former priest and anticipating its golden, triumphant apogee's sequence of its aftermaths and playing his own cards right with his current prey of vile essence.

The devil trawled its bloodthirstily ominous essence and blood to overflow into Timothy's mortally impure veins. He was still trapped with the demon inside his frail skeleton. He had plans yet for Timothy Howard. Not just mere ones. A superbly authentic even though Demogorgon was almost ready to establish his own presence to its evanescence and dump the former holy clergyman into the chaotic hollow with nobody else to support and grant him a myriad of unconditional love, murderous warmness and majestic comfort throughout the process of post-possession.

Anyways thanks to his short-term job as a doctor in the hospital, the British compatriot was equipped with sufficient money for an abundance of things, determining his survival's catharsis and increasing the chances of his strength and stamina's stability.

When the daylight's daily episode bled into a gradual nocturnal episode with its inescapable evolution of the day's regime, the former clergyman went to the nearest bar to pamper himself to cleanse his own nerves that obnoxiously clouded him in the past days and sorting his mind.

The resilience of his versatile, timid gait of Timothy with its whispering masculine, foreign footsteps echoing against the tiled flooring of the bar spotlighted his tall figure while taking a seat on one of the conveniently retro bar stools.

"What would you like to drink, sir?" Even though the bartender pampered the clients, despite their occupations, the politeness, greatly blending with his raspy voice highlighted his enquiry, whereas maneuvering his meaty, masculinely elderly fingers' cloth to daub the recently clean scotch glass with its oyster-white flimsy fabric getting rid of its appalling, eye-catching stains.

At that moment, the television's screen eagerly jumpcut its scenes of the recently broadcasted interview with the guiltless pairing Kit and Grace, lowly humming and meagerly discernible for the ex-doctor's vulnerable ears.

"Just a glass of bourbon, please!" Within a handful of minutes of finding the suitable bottle of bourbon and preparing a scotch glass on the cherry wood bar table, thereafter the polite bartender delivered presentably, hospitably the scotch glass to the recently welcoming, straightforward visitor while bobbing his head in solemn gratitude. "Thank you!" A primly coy smile was inked on his parchment, young-looking yet complexion after gladly accepting the scotch glass of sinfully brown liquor with its lusciously insatiable fragrance wafting across his nostrils.

"Thank you for accepting our request to join this interview, Mr. Walker and Miss Bertrand," The haphazardness of the interviewer's pauses wrenched abruptly the former aspiring Monsignor's cocoa brown cabochons to be fixated on the abstract, life-like television screen's playing pictures momentarily. "First and foremost, what would you say in honor of your deceased friend who is associated with the ex-priest Timothy Howard, who used to be her colleague and somehow a romantic interest?"

"First and foremost, Jude used to be a really gracious friend of ours, and she would make a brilliant godmother and grandmother of our future child! I really loved how compassionate and selfless she was, despite her dynamically risky and adventurous character as well."

"And your word on the topic, Mr.Walker?" Then, the interviewer shifts his attention in no time to the younger gentleman with his professionally presentable, refined undertone puncturing his formality in the voice.

"I really used to admire and like or at least have a modicum of sympathy for a man like Timothy Howard, who is responsible for our arranged release, but those associations with Owen Manson were astonishingly gruesome and left us speechless."

When the younger gentleman's mention of the former holy man's name and association tingled alarming tones into Timothy's vulnerable ears after gulping a series of tiny, sinfully delightful sips from its brown liquor, he furrowed his thick, darkly expressive eyebrows in sheer anger. The betrayal waltzed his adrenaline, pulsating furiously into his body.

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✝ Do you still enjoy the story, even if Jude isn't any longer alive?✝

✝ Do you think that Kit and Grace are going to straightforwardly forgive Timothy one day once he isn't spiritually possessed any longer? ✝

✝I hope you liked and enjoyed the chapter as well. Don't forget to leave an outspoken feedback with your thoughts on the chapter! :))✝