Father McMahon hurried through the outer church doors and stepped into the vestibule, his eyes adjusting to the dim light as usual. He had fifteen minutes.

That was what the message had said.

He wiped a hand across his brow to remove the moisture that had accumulated there, then ran a finger inside his collar, trying to create a little space between the material and his neck.

He was in his thirties, had a full head of brown hair and was somewhat new to the priesthood. His parish had yet to get used to him, and now this had happened.

He peeked into the church and looked toward the confessional. The door was closed. Fourteen minutes.

He had to collect his supplies. But what were they exactly? He had never done this before.

He ran up the church aisle, the stained glass windows blurring into many colors as he passed by. He stopped in front of the basin of water, already blessed by him earlier that morning.

He wasn’t sure if this was right, but he was desperate. He rolled up his sleeves and plunged his arms in up to the middle of his forearms, then pulled them out and covered his face and neck with the excess water. He needed as much protection as he could get.

The holy water was soothing against his hot skin and he felt surprisingly armed against the forces of evil. Twelve minutes.

He whirled around, droplets of water flying off him as he spun, and looked for his next tool. He knew which one he needed. On the wall, next to the altar, he grabbed onto the crucifix with an agonized Jesus on it and yanked. A part of him winced at defiling the sanctity of the altar this way, but it had to be done.

The crucifix came away from the wall in his hand and he was surprised at how heavy it felt. He looked at Jesus’ face, twisted in anguish, and felt righteous. He could win this. Eleven minutes.

What else?

Father McMahon glanced at the church doors once more to check for any movement. When he didn’t see any, he ran off the altar and through the side doors into the rectory. He needed the Word. But not just any Bible would do.

The holy water had seeped into his sleeves and collar making him feel clammy but protected. He ran through the old house and up the stairs to the office on the top floor, seeking the powerful artifact he knew existed there.

Entering the room, he sought out the cabinet where he knew it would be—the first Bible to ever be used in this church. Two hundred and fifty years ago. It was considered especially sacred and was never to leave this church. Like the first dollar made by a business and hung on the wall, it was a reminder of the humble beginnings of this congregation and he knew he had to bring it with him.

He saw the book, closed his hands around it and felt a current pass through his hands and into his body. Eight minutes.

The message had said the demon would arrive to take the soul of the next visitor to the confessional, who would arrive in fifteen minutes’ time. It would take a soul every day thereafter until it had taken everyone in the parish. Then the congregation would do the Evil One’s work, unbeknownst to the people around. It was only a matter of time before evil had taken a foothold in this world, using its greatest enemy — the Church — as its willing accomplice.

Father McMahon couldn’t let that happen.

There was one more thing he needed to gather and then he would wait for the demon and cast him out of his church and the world.

He ran to his bedroom, opened the little drawer on his nightstand, and removed his rosary, given to him on his first communion almost thirty years ago.

He had always been comforted by the bluish-green, hexagonal beads and he ran it through his fingers knowing he was ready to confront the demon. Six minutes.

Father McMahon stood up fully, and despite his desire to run, walked — calmly and peacefully — back to the church. He entered it with five minutes to spare, moved toward the altar and dropped to his knees in front of it to pray.

With three minutes to go, he got to his feet and looking at the church doors once more, walked to the confessional, opened the door to his side and waited.

A minute later, he heard the church doors open and footsteps up the aisle. The door to the other side of the confessional opened, and a woman walked in — that much he could tell.

She sat down and there was silence while he gripped the Bible, the crucifix and the rosary. He could still feel the moisture of the holy water on his skin and clothes.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Father McMahon went through his schpeel, not wanting to alert the woman to the danger at hand. He knew that when the church bells rang next, the demon would arrive.

The woman began to speak, and he listened with bated breath for any sounds to signal the demon’s arrival. He lost track of what she was saying until finally he heard the woman asking for his attention.

“Father? Father?”

“Yes, what it is?” he answered, flustered.

“I asked — do you believe in evil?”

“What?” He hadn’t expected that.

“Do you believe in the existence of evil, Father?”

As her question sank in, he felt the cold metal of the crucifix, the leather binding of the Bible, the beads of his rosary and the moisture of the holy water. Never in his life had he felt so ready to fight the good fight.

“Why, yes. Yes, I do.”

The woman hesitated for half a second before speaking.

“I was hoping you would say that.”

Father McMahon began to smile and then suddenly felt confused as he realized he wasn’t exactly sure what they were talking about.

“Good-bye, Father.”

Father McMahon turned toward the screen that separated them, and began to say, “What? I’m un...”

The woman’s eyes glowed red and a sound like a great deal of air being sucked through something small could be heard. It ended in what could only be described as a pop, and with that Father McMahon leaned back in his chair.

The church bells rang and, if anyone had been on the other side of the confessional to see, Father McMahon’s eyes glowed red and he smiled in the darkness.

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