Hastum
patreon
1. Exorcisms can be boring
🕑 Added 2025-08-29 21:09:06 +0000 UTCI never know what to do in such situations, I thought, looking at the widow and her family's tears. Is it better to just lie to them? Put on the standard fake exorcism, take the money, and go? It's not like I cared much about the morality of the whole thing. Even if I refused, they would probably find some charlatan to “help” them.
And those people always left a bad taste in my mouth. They parodied something steeped in history and tradition they couldn’t begin to understand, just for a quick buck. Giving them any business was not on my to-do list, even if that meant scamming someone myself.
Or do I tell the truth, hoping that they will believe me, and this will be the end of it? No more money will be spent on exorcists, energy experts, or some other crystal-healing-adjacent professions. That might sound funny coming from an exorcist like myself, but in my defense, I was a real one, one of the very few remaining.
With the widow's second loud sob, my train of thought came to a screeching halt. I took another look around me, hoping that an actual ghost or demon would pop out from somewhere.
But all I saw was an old family house with dark wooden floors creaking with every step, an old kitchen to my left connected to the living room we were in, and many family pictures hanging on the walls. I stood facing a big window showing me the backyard, with around ten family members and the widow herself standing to my right. The air was filled with dust, and the typical smell of old people mixed with the lingering scent of food from the wake.
And to my greatest disappointment, no otherworldly entity in sight. The only thing that was haunted here was a blindingly bright pink dress one woman was wearing.
“So, to clarify, Miss Lena, you said that after your husband's funeral, his favorite rocking chair sometimes moves on its own, and you now have nightmares about him?” I asked, not letting my thoughts affect my professional demeanor.
“Y-yes, I-I was peeling the vegetables as always.” She started once again on a story we all heard at least a couple of times already. But I did not stop her. I knew better. “And then I looked toward the chair, where he would sit and read the newspaper while I made him dinner. A-and t-the chair.”
She stopped for another nose blow, accompanied by reassuring words from family. After a deep breath, she continued.
“It was rocking back and forth, as… as… as if…” Another deep breath, “as if he was waiting for his dinner.” She finished with a new bout of tears flowing from her eyes.
The supposedly haunted chair stood in front of me, and looking at it, I couldn't help but sigh. The object of ghost activities was made from wood, with the seat and the backrest made from some sort of material stretched between the frame. The whole thing seemed very light, so light that it could probably be moved by a gust of wind, especially since it stood next to a window. An open window…
Should I just tell her? But in my experience, people rarely accept their own mistakes. Usually, it ended with something along the lines of ‘How do you explain the nightmares’ or ‘I felt his presence’ or some other unprovable symptom. But if she could arrive at the answer by herself, maybe I wouldn’t have to put on the stupid show.
Let’s give them a small nudge in the right direction.
“So, Miss Lena, does the chair always stand before that window?” I pointed.
“Yes, ye... OH my God,” She started crying again.
Maybe? Did she get it?
“He always sat next to the open window. D-d-do you think this is a sign?“ the woman asked, her voice shaking.
Well, fuck me. Not that I entirely blamed her for seeing the things she wanted to see, that was natural, but it was tough to understand people sometimes. My particular condition did not help with my empathy, making some emotions even harder to identify with than they already were. Finally, letting go of any thoughts of getting away from the scam, I made up my mind and started on the good exorcist routine.
“Please, ma’am, do not despair. I can certainly help you.”
Let's start the show.
“I can sense the residual turmoil of emotions left by your husband,” I said with all the sincerity I could muster.
“Oh, wow,” said one of the spectators from the family flatly, clearly skeptical about my mystical powers.
I had to stop a chuckle from escaping due to the unintentional comedy here. The powers were real, but the situation was fake. I’m working with what I have here. I closed my eyes and raised my arms as if conducting some invisible orchestra into a slow waltz.
“Yes, yes, there is a lot of unwillingness to leave without you, yes.” I suddenly turned my head towards the chair. “Some anger? No, no, not anger, more like pain. Yes, pain. Did he have any medical issues?”
“Yes!” She cried upon my revelation.
Well, he was 87 years old, so of course, he had medical issues. Who doesn’t at that age?
“Hmm, some of those negative emotions were left behind. I have to disperse them so he can leave in peace. Please give me some space,” I said, pulling a medallion with a strange symbol from my pocket.
The medallion was an inside joke among real exorcists. If you had to lead a fake exorcism, then you would use it. The mysterious symbol was an actual rune, part of a complicated alphabet used in spellcasting. But this particular rune used to chase out fake ghosts just said, ‘fuck off.’ I started chanting, using some words from actual spells mixed with Hebrew and me-after-a-couple-of-beers speech. And after just a few moments of speaking in tongues, lighting candles, and using mysterious “special incense” (the cheapest I could find online), it was time for the finale. The medallion, you see, was not only a joke but also a prop. It had a strong magnet on the side, and if I held my hand with a metal ring on my finger next to it, the medallion would jump to my hand.
My chanting reached a high point, and I spoke in English, “Leave this house. I release you!” With that, I brought my left hand closer, and the medallion obediently jumped to my palm, the whole thing accompanied by gasps from the family. I rocked on my legs a bit. Now acting like I was suddenly tired.
“The ghost has left." I paused for a tired breath. "I think your house is clean now. However, the things that were associated with him may act as beacons for the remaining energy, making the atmosphere uncomfortable. If you insist on keeping the chair, please move it to the basement or the attic so that it does not remind you of the one who passed.”
I finished with a tired voice full of wisdom as the woman, now in tears, just nodded her head energetically.
“Oh, t-thank you. I-I don't know how to thank you.” She said over the tears, patting herself for money.
Finally, one of the family members tapped her on the shoulder and gave her an envelope.
“This is all I could gather for you,” she added, stretching her hand with the envelope in my direction. “The agreed-upon 1800$ with 300$ extra for your service and giving me peace.”
I stretched out my hand and touched the envelope. But before I took it, I stopped, just for a fraction of a second. In that moment, I waited for a sting of guilt for scamming the old lady, an uncomfortable pressure in the pit of my stomach, or maybe disappointment in myself. But as always, nothing.
The part of me meant to feel those things was hollow. A price paid long ago. But even now, I still wait for the emotion that will not come. My father told me that it was one of the things keeping our family sane and our minds relatively normal. Remind yourself of the emotions you should be feeling in those moments when you know you miss some. That kept us human. Well, relatively human. Without the contact lenses in my eyes, I would probably not have been let into the house.
I stopped my musings and bowed a little bit. “Thank you for your strength and for calling me. Reaching out a helping hand is a reward in itself.” After that, I said goodbye to the rest of the family and started on my way home.
The drive from the nice suburbs took a while, as I lived in a supposedly “bad” part of town. The apartment prices were relatively low, courtesy of several local gangs and drug dealers, and people kept to their own businesses. And this was just fine with me.
Well, not all people, I thought to myself as I watched the old lady opening the door on the staircase on my way to my apartment.
“Oh, Steve, honey, have you seen my cat?” asked the lady.
“No, Miss Helen, you should check under the bed,” I said calmly. After that, the lady thanked me and closed the door, ending the short talk that was now an inseparable part of my routine.
As for the cat, it was dead, and no, don’t judge me, I didn't kill it. It died of old age years ago. Also, to this day, I have no idea who Steve is.
From what I know, the old lady was sent here to live where she wouldn’t bother her family. And now she was something like an almost friend of mine, an unlikely friendship, but there was a reason for my liking her company. It was the side effect of her disease. While it caused her to lose touch with reality, it also allowed her to do what most can’t—look directly into my eyes.
The feeling of connection with another human at that moment was weirdly pleasing, like an itch that I didn't know I had until it was scratched. It was a nice change from the usual skittish glances followed by gluing their eyes to the floor, even if the reason for that happiness was a talk revolving around some guy named Steve and a dead cat.
So, each time I walked to my apartment, I would slow down and walk a bit heavier, waiting for that small piece of daily entertainment.
After twisting the key in the old lock, I entered my place. A small one-bedroom apartment was all I could afford, considering I had to pay upkeep on a tightly protected storage unit where most of my family's actual wealth lay. I could probably live in luxury if I sold any of the things there, but they were indispensable to me. They were instruments of one of the very few things that got my heart pumping, magic.
My thoughts were filled with spells and arcane knowledge as I went to the bathroom and carefully pulled out my contact lenses. I couldn't risk any damage to them. They were specially made and expensive as hell, but they did the job quite impressively. I appreciated the eyewear as I looked into my own eyes, now reflected in the mirror.
In the past, when tales about my family were told, most people thought that our eyes would be deformed. Red reptilian slits, or like basilisks and turn you into stone, or curse you, or cause anyone who makes eye contact to have a bad harvest.
But that was not it. The reason none made eye contact with the members of my direct lineage was more metaphysical. It was the price for our power, the presence of Our God reflected in them.
I took a deep breath, breaking eye contact with my own reflection. Another day, another boring job with nothing interesting in sight.
I sometimes wanted to try to find a remaining fortune teller who could tell me my stats to see how I looked compared to other members of my family from the past. How did I compare to the mages of old? I was well trained, but could use more experience that did not involve old ladies and gusts of wind.
The phone rang as I was about to lie down for the day after finishing a couple of tasks before bed. Unfortunately, it was my work phone. I immediately recognized the caller. It was my broker. Sadly, not exactly someone it was a good idea to ignore, so with a groan of someone made to go back to the office after leaving work, I picked up.
“Q’Shar,” I sighed into the phone. “Why are you calling me at this hour?”
“How was the exorcism? I heard you did an outstanding job. Scamming people so well, they thank you for it.” There was a chuckle from the other side as I groaned again.
“If you know how the job went, then why ask? An honest day of dishonest work got me tired, so get to the point.” I said, not in the mood for conversations.
“Well, I have a new job for you,” came an oddly excited response, considering scamming people wasn't exactly exhilarating.
“I paid my rent this month. I'm not in the mood for another scam.”
“Yes, you’re in the mood for sitting in that warehouse of yours, trying to figure out a way to cast third-circle spells or trying to summon some fucked up creature of myth.”
“I’m not denying anything, but it's still better than scamming some old people out of their money.”
“She's young this time,” the voice said, still excited, as if that was all good then.
“Oh, that changes eeeeeverything." I said with as much sarcasm as I could. "Should I heal her family with some crystals while I'm at it? Give me the address, and I will be there in an hour.”
“Aaaaaand.” This was getting annoying. “It's not a scam this time.” I could practically hear him smiling from the other end. “It’s a real haunting.”
![[SYK] from patreon](https://patrefans.com/kistorage/56232.jpg)
