I'd like to thank Lastman416 for the read through and edits.
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"Mr. Augustine has never had any visitors," the orderly said. He wore clean, white linen scrubs and soft shoes. A hulking young man, over six feet tall, with the strength unfortunately often required for his day-to-day employment.
Walking one step behind him was an elderly man. The older man was a priest, walking with his left-hand swinging to his side, his right, holding a bible with a light grip against his chest. Even in his twilight years, having turned eighty-three a month ago, he walked without limp, lean, or effort. Not even a cane to aid him. Some would say God had been good to him. He disagreed. God had given him a body, so he treated it like a cherished temple rather than an amusement park.
Father Neville O'Reilly had been a priest for all his adult life. He wasn't one who came to the faith later after hardship, inspiration or revelation. Since he could remember, he'd always wanted to be a priest. He'd been a Father since 1907. Next year it would be sixty years he wore the collar.
Father O'Reilly wasn't just a priest. His responsibilities in the church were specific. He was an exorcist. The church usually would assign a Fractured to an exorcist, but he had always preferred, and he had reputation enough, to be allowed to select his Fractured from wherever he could find them. He discovered early on he often found them in asylums.
The modern, rational world didn't see things in the old ways. They turned their back to God, but in the process, also turned their back on things more sinister. And that didn't only mean the Devil and his disciples.
In California, Father O'Reilly was well known and operated a network of priests who acted as his eyes and ears. They'd be called to hospitals, funerals, asylums, schools, and other places where people needed the comfort their faith provided. They'd then report back anything unusual. Some knew of the Order of the Shattered Cross, others didn't, but they all reported regardless. He asked specifically to tell him of people who appear otherwise normal but speak of seeing things no one else could see.
Timothy Augustine was one such man.
"Tell me more about him. His history. His background," Father O'Reilly requested.
"Korean War veteran, purple heart recipient. After the war he worked for the Pinkertons. Union busting, political dirt sniffer, corporate espionage, and the like. Alfred Hitchcock once used them to guard the entrance of movie theaters when his film Psycho was released. Are you allowed to watch films?"
"Yes, we're allowed to watch films, sir. I'm Catholic, not Mormon," Father O'Reilly replied with a warm smile. He was also intrigued that this potential Fractured had experience in investigation. "And Hitchcock hired them because he didn't want the surprise at the beginning of the film to be spoiled by people showing up late and missing it." Father O'Reilly was an avid film lover. He appreciated art. "Family?"
"Both parents died in his youth. His father fighting Japan and his mother making the weapons to fight Japan. He lived with his grandmother for a time, but she died shortly after his return from Korea. No siblings. No other family."
"What are the characteristics of his condition?"
"He talks to himself like he's talking to others who aren't there. No therapy or treatment has been effective. Nothing makes him not see or hear what he claims," the orderly replied.
They entered a large open room where patients were shuffling around in slippers and loose-fitting robes. Some were making puzzles. Others were sitting and watching television with drool running down their chins. Some were shouting to themselves. Others, biting their nails to the bone. Some had mittens so they couldn't do that anymore.
All of them had the same vacant stares. Like their minds left their bodies decades ago, but the engine was left on so the car just sits idle until the gas runs out.
One man sat alone in the corner, facing the spot where the walls converged with two chairs orientated toward himself. He looked over his shoulder when he heard someone enter the room and made eye contact with Father O'Reilly. He looked like most of the patients with slippers and robes. He hadn't had a proper shave and haircut for some time. But his eyes told the real story. The man's gaze wasn't absent of life. It was still sharp, perceptive, angry, with a tinge of helplessness.
The spark in Timothy's eyes told him everything he needed to know.
"May I speak with him alone?" Father O'Reilly asked.
"I need to at least be in the room," the orderly replied.
"Is he violent?"
"Not particularly," he replied. "He's had several episodes, but they're isolated."
"I'll be fine, but please, as private as possible," Father O'Reilly requested, and the orderly nodded to confirm he understood.
Father O'Reilly made his way across the room, stopping twice to avoid the collision from a patient who didn't appear to notice him, and another who was spinning absentmindedly like a child trying to make himself dizzy. He arrived and stood five feet from the man's right shoulder.
"Mr. Augustine?" Father O'Reilly asked.
"Fuck you priest," Timothy replied without turning. "They've given up medicine and now want to exorcise me."
"I assure you that's not why I'm here."
"I wasn't talking to...never mind," Timothy replied, and O'Reilly smiled.
"May I sit?" he asked. "I'll find another chair."
"Why? Two empty ones right here," Timothy replied, gesturing flippantly with his hands.
"You and I both know those chairs are not empty," Father O'Reilly said, and Timothy slowly looked over his shoulder. "May I?"
Timothy didn't know why he knew what he knew. Something in his gut. He had spent so long being looked at with doubting eyes, he didn't know how to respond when the eyes didn't disbelieve. Did this man know something? Could he see them, too?
"Sure," Timothy said softly, and watching the Priest drag a chair over from a table and positioned it into the corner facing Timothy. "Who are you?"
"Father Neville O'Reilly," he replied.
"You don't sound Irish," Timothy said.
"We are a nation of immigrants, are we not?" he asked, and Timothy shrugged. "What are their names?"
"Whose names?" Timothy asked, and Father O'Reilly gestured toward the empty chairs. "Come on man," Timothy scoffed. "I'm fucking crazy. Don't play into it."
"I'm more open minded than I look," Father O'Reilly said.
Timothy sighed and pressed his palms into his dirty bearded face. He ran them upwards and ran his fingers through his long, matted brown hair. He inhaled harshly, and exhaled full lungs of air in a second.
"A little girl and a Priest," Timothy replied.
"Names?" he asked again.
"Does it matter?"
