I created the Old Gods and Outer Gods in America.

The reporters finally dispersed.

Father Dawson stood at the side entrance of the church, watching the taillights of the last interview vehicle disappear around the street corner, and breathed a sigh of relief.

Today's interviews lasted from the afternoon until evening.

Since the outbreak of supernatural events, anyone associated with "mysticism," "religion," or "paranormal phenomena" has become highly sought after.

Father Dawson was extremely annoyed.

He closed the side door, walked through the corridor, and returned to the main hall.

The church is small and is one of the oldest buildings in the neighborhood.

The stained glass windows lost their daytime brilliance in the night, the face of the Virgin Mary was hidden in the dim light, and only the two rows of candles on the altar were still lit.

Father Dawson straightened his white clerical tie, walked to the altar, and moved the candles to the sides to make room in the middle.

Then he waited.

At 9:17, the church doors were pushed open.

The footsteps sounded like two people.

One heavy, one light; one hesitant, one steady.

Father Dawson turned around, putting on the smile he had practiced for twenty years.

The woman was in her early thirties, with brown hair tied in a ponytail. She held the child's wrist tightly beside her, not his palm, but his wrist, as if afraid he would run away.

The boy had short, dark brown hair, clean features, and large eyes.

Those eyes were quietly watching Father Dawson.

She showed none of the curiosity and timidity that her peers might have, but rather a calm demeanor.

Father Dawson opened his arms and said gently, "Monica, you made the right decision. Bringing Elijah here is the bravest thing a mother can do, and God will see your sacrifice."

Monica's lips moved as if she wanted to say something, but in the end she just nodded.

Her eyes were a little red.

Father Dawson glanced out the window; moonlight streamed through the stained glass, casting dappled patterns on the floor. "The moon has risen; the timing is perfect. I need to take Elijah to the inner prayer room, where it's quieter. The exorcism ritual must not be disturbed by outside noise."

He stretched out his hand.

Monica glanced down at her son, then at Father Dawson.

"Can I come in with you?"

"I'm afraid that won't work."

Father Dawson's tone carried just the right amount of apology: "During the ritual, the devil will try to exploit the emotional bonds between those present, especially between mothers and children. Your presence will only make Elijah more dangerous."

He used this sales pitch no less than twenty times.

Never failed.

Monica loosened her grip on the child's wrist.

Elijah followed Father Dawson deeper into the church. He didn't look back at his mother, and his steps were steady, as if he were taking a stroll.

Father Dawson led the way, pushing open a wooden door at the end of the corridor, leading to a small room.

An old sofa, a floor lamp, and a high window where moonlight streams in from above, casting a rectangular white patch of light on the wooden floor.

"Have a seat," Father Dawson said, gesturing to the sofa.

Elijah went over and sat down on the sofa.

His feet couldn't touch the ground; they were suspended in mid-air, swaying slightly twice before stopping.

He looked up at Father Dawson.

"Father."

"Um?"

"I don't feel like I've been possessed by a demon. Why? I don't feel any discomfort."

The boy's tone was calm.

Father Dawson paused for a moment.

It's not because the question is particularly pointed; any adult could raise a similar question, and he has a whole set of solutions.

To his astonishment, the question was asked by a seven-year-old child, whose eyes showed no fear, no confusion, and not even resistance.

There was only a purely technical curiosity.

Twenty years have passed.

He had seen countless people come to him for exorcisms—some crying, some shouting, some convulsing, some rolling on the ground—but never had a single person asked this question in this tone.

Father Dawson stared at those big eyes for two seconds, then knelt down, reached out, and placed his palm on the boy's cheek.

His hands were so big they could almost cover half his face.

Father Dawson's voice was low, carrying a sense of intimacy only found in enclosed spaces: "Because I am a priest. If I say you are possessed by a demon, they will believe me."

Elijah looked at him, his eyes blinked, and then the boy tilted his head slightly, as if he were seriously pondering the meaning of the words.

Father Dawson stood up and clapped his hands.

"You sit here quietly while I prepare some tools needed for the exorcism. It'll be quick."

He walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.

The door lock made a slight clicking sound.

Father Dawson's footsteps faded into the distance in the corridor.

Elijah was left alone in the room.

Moonlight streamed down from the high window, enveloping his small figure in a pale glow.

He sat on the sofa, head drooping, his legs no longer dangling.

*If I'm a priest and I say you're possessed by a demon, they'll believe me.*

This sentence swirled in his mind again and again.

He didn't quite understand the logic behind it.

Sleepiness washed over me like a tide.

Elijah slumped against the sofa armrest, his eyelids growing heavier and heavier.

In that dream, he seemed to have fallen into nothingness, unable to perceive anything around him. Moreover, he heard some kind of sound.

It was a strange whisper that echoed in his mind.

...

When Father Dawson returned, he was carrying a tray with various whimsical gadgets on it.

He pushed the door open with his elbow, kicked away the doorstop, and hummed some song as he did so.

The sofa is empty.

Father Dawson stopped humming.

He put down the tray and walked to the sofa.

There was a shallow dent on the cushion, left by the child's weight, and it was still warm, indicating that the other person had not been gone for long.

"Elijah?"

The room was small and could be seen at a glance. There were no cabinets or hidden doors, and the window was two and a half meters high, which was impossible for a seven-year-old child to climb up.

The door was always locked; the key was in his pocket.

Father Dawson got goosebumps on the back of his neck.

He took his phone out of his pocket, turned on the flashlight, and shone it around under the sofa.

There was nothing there.

"Elijah?"

He called out again, this time louder, with a hint of nervousness he himself didn't realize.

There was no response from inside the room.

Father Dawson straightened up, preparing to turn back and look for it.

The moonlight suddenly dimmed.

It's not that the clouds are obscuring the moon.

There was something blocking the window from him.

Father Dawson slowly raised his head and looked out the high window.

The moonlight is still there, but it has been divided.

An extra shadow appeared in the rectangular patch of light projected onto the floor.

The shadow had a shape, shoulders, and a head.

There is also a pair of enormous wings that are slowly unfolding.

The shadow covered Father Dawson.

A pure white swan feather drifted slowly down from the air and landed on Father Dawson's nose.