The air around Dorm 6A was heavy, suffocating. The silence was broken only by the creaking floorboards beneath Father Emmanuel's worn boots as he made his way up the stairs. Clara, Maya, and Chloe followed him reluctantly, their eyes flickering nervously around the dim corridor.
They had begged the school management to do something — to investigate, to believe them. At first, they were dismissed. Then, after another student disappeared overnight, the fear in the staff's eyes betrayed the truth: they knew something was wrong. They'd always known. And yet, they did nothing. Except this — sending in Father Emmanuel.
But the moment he arrived, Clara felt something off.
He didn't offer them comfort or grace. He didn't ask if they were okay. His presence wasn't holy; it was cold. His eyes were sharp and strange, like he saw things no one else could. When he reached out to shake Maya's hand, she recoiled, claiming his fingers felt like ice.
Clara caught a glimpse of a faded symbol on his wrist — a twisted sigil of curves and claws that didn't look like anything from the Bible. It looked older. Darker.
Father Emmanuel carried with him a silver crucifix, a leather-bound Bible that looked centuries old, and a vial of holy water. But none of it brought the girls peace.
"We begin the cleansing," he said, voice like gravel soaked in silence.
Inside their room, he arranged his tools with ritualistic precision. He didn't ask questions. Didn't ask what happened. He just began.
"Our Father, who art in Heaven—"
The prayer felt hollow. Wrong.
His voice deepened with each word, muttering scripture in a language that wasn't Latin. The walls of the dorm shivered. The lights flickered. A gust of cold wind swept through the room, carrying with it a scent of rot and something burnt.
Clara tried to speak, but her throat tightened.
The crucifix trembled in Father Emmanuel's hand.
"By the power of Christ, I cast thee out!" he roared.
Suddenly, the shadows deepened. The corner of the room pulsed with blackness, swirling and thick like tar. A low growl echoed from inside the walls.
"You think you can bind me?" came a voice. Not Father Emmanuel's. Not anyone's.
It was layered. Inhuman.
The crucifix bent backward in his hand, metal groaning. His eyes rolled back, mouth open as something unseen forced its way through him.
Clara screamed as he dropped to the floor, convulsing violently.
From his lips spilled not prayers, but snarls.
Black veins crawled across his arms. His skin turned grey, cracking like porcelain. He suddenly snapped upright, standing unnaturally straight, his eyes glowing yellow.
"I was never here to save you," he hissed.
Maya backed up, trembling. "What… what are you?"
"The Church abandoned me when I tried to learn the truth," he said. "But I found it. Deep in the books they burned. In rituals they swore never existed. I found the name… Dwfilt."
Chloe's eyes widened. "You summoned it?"
"I offered myself to it. I made a pact. Power for loyalty. And now, I am its vessel."
Suddenly, the walls groaned, and the windows slammed shut. Darkness poured in through the cracks, alive and writhing. The air grew thicker, impossible to breathe. The crucifix in Clara's hand burned her skin, sizzling like acid.
"This isn't an exorcism," Chloe whispered. "It's a ritual."
Father Emmanuel lifted his hands, chanting in that same guttural tongue. The floor cracked. A deep red glow emerged from underneath, painting the walls with blood-colored light.
A shape rose from the floor — a massive shadow with curling horns and glowing red eyes. The Dwfilt.
Clara couldn't move. Her feet rooted to the floor, her voice caught in her throat. "This can't be real."
"It's real," Father Emmanuel laughed. "You woke it. All of you. When you stayed. When you listened. When you opened that door."
Maya collapsed to her knees. "You're going to kill us."
"No," he said with a smile. "You're going to join us."
Tendrils of darkness lashed out, grabbing Chloe by the ankle, dragging her toward the red light.
"NO!" Clara screamed, rushing forward, grabbing her hand just in time.
The room twisted. The walls melted into black smoke. Screams echoed from every direction — voices of past victims, of Delilah, of those long forgotten.
Clara could barely hold on.
"Say the name," Chloe shouted. "Say its name backward!"
"What?"
"It weakens it!"
Clara screamed the name: "TLI—FW—D!"
The shadow flickered. Just enough.
Chloe kicked herself free, scrambling back. The tendrils recoiled with a screech.
The priest staggered, clutching his head. "No! You don't understand! It needs more!"
With one final roar, the shadow vanished, s*ck*d back into the cracks it came from. The room collapsed into stillness.
Father Emmanuel dropped to the ground, unconscious.
Clara panted, tears streaming down her face.
Maya crawled to the center of the room, staring at the burned symbol still glowing on the floor. "It's not over."
Chloe nodded. "That was only the beginning."
The priest groaned.
But his eyes were no longer yellow.
They were gone — hollow, white, empty.
He would never wake again.
Outside, the sun still shone, but Dorm 6A had slipped into something else — another layer of reality where nothing was safe.
Clara whispered, "What have we done?"
And from the cracks in the floor, the faint sound of breathing answered.