by Matt Wallace
His three judges, each face lit by two candle flames, are suspicious, and in and around them It seizes on that suspicion. It craves blood the color of their priestly robes.
He lies, the divine’s voice sounds inside his own skull, though it is not him speaking. The devil that dwells within him spits upon the one true God’s deliverance. He will destroy you. They will see the Holy Church to ash.
“Heresy! Heresy!” Words of fervor and hot spittle that teem like maggots in the divine’s beard.
And this pious man feels the power of a tyrant, terrifying and intoxicating and It pushing him closer towards the moth-to-flame lure of that feeling. When they haul Reimbauer towards the vaulted ceiling, a gothic mockery of ascension, spiked collar around his neck peeling the top layer of flesh with every spasmodic jerk of his head, red veined salmon pink beneath.