The Infernal Cross

The Infernal Cross

The artifact was unlike anything Father Marcus had ever seen. The ancient, tarnished cross, about six inches tall, rested in a glass case in the dusty corner of St. Augustine’s cathedral archives. Its edges were jagged, its surface darkened by centuries of grime. But its aura—an unsettling mix of dread and allure—sent shivers down his spine.

According to the parchment found beside it, the cross was known as Cruce Infernalis. Legend had it that the cross had once belonged to a bishop who dabbled in forbidden rituals. He was said to have summoned a demon to protect his congregation during a war. Instead, the demon was bound to the cross, and anyone who wore it would become its vessel.

The parchment ended with a dire warning: To wear the cross is to invite damnation. To destroy it is to release the demon upon the earth.

Father Marcus brushed off the story as medieval superstition. A man of faith and reason, he was more concerned about the recent thefts from the cathedral—a desperate thief had been breaking into the archive storeroom, likely looking for valuables to sell. Marcus made the decision to secure the cross elsewhere.

He placed it in a locked wooden box and carried it to his modest quarters, setting it on his nightstand. That night, he dreamt of fire and screams. He awoke drenched in sweat, gasping as he stared at the box. The air around it seemed heavier, oppressive.

The next morning, the box was gone.

Jacob Arlo was a petty thief, the kind of man who drifted through life on the wrong side of the law. When he broke into the priest’s quarters, he hadn’t expected to find anything more valuable than a silver chalice. But the cross had caught his eye.

By the time he stumbled back to his rented room at the edge of the city, he couldn’t resist his curiosity. He pulled the cross from his pocket, its weight oddly comforting in his hand.

“Looks expensive,” he muttered, holding it up to the flickering candlelight. Then, almost on impulse, he slipped the chain around his neck.

The transformation was immediate. His veins turned black, and his eyes burned like embers. A guttural growl escaped his throat as he fell to the floor, writhing in pain.

Moments later, Jacob rose. He was no longer himself. His body was now a vessel for Malzorath, a demon of the ninth circle of Hell.

Jacob—or rather, Malzorath—began his reign of terror that very night. He walked into a crowded tavern, his presence alone chilling the air. His first victim was the bartender, a kind-hearted old man who offered him a drink on the house.

Malzorath’s hand shot out, and with a single touch, the man disintegrated into ash. Chaos erupted as patrons fled, but none escaped. The demon’s laughter echoed through the building as it went up in flames, leaving a charred ruin and over two dozen corpses in its wake.

News of the massacre spread quickly. The townspeople whispered of a dark figure moving through the streets, leaving death and destruction in its wake.

Father Marcus learned of the destruction the next day. His heart sank when witnesses described the figure wearing a cross that matched the Cruce Infernalis. The priest realized his mistake—his failure to heed the warnings had unleashed something unspeakable.

Determined to stop the demon, Marcus armed himself with ancient texts and holy relics. He sought the advice of Sister Agnes, a scholar of the occult who lived in seclusion.

“It is not just a demon,” Agnes explained, her wrinkled hands trembling as she flipped through a dusty tome. “Malzorath is one of Hell’s generals. The cross binds him, but only partially. He feeds on the life force of those nearby, growing stronger with every soul he claims.”

“Can he be destroyed?” Marcus asked.

Agnes shook her head. “Not by mortal hands. The only way to banish him is to break the cross while it’s being worn, but doing so will cost the life of the wearer—and possibly the one who wields the weapon.”

Marcus’s resolve hardened. “If that is what must be done, so be it.”

The demon’s path of destruction led Marcus to the outskirts of the city, where an abandoned church stood in ruins. Malzorath had taken refuge there, his presence tainting the holy ground.

Marcus entered the church with trembling hands, clutching a blessed silver dagger. The air was thick with sulphur, and the walls wept blood. At the altar, Malzorath stood, his stolen body glowing with unholy energy.

“So,” the demon hissed, its voice like nails on glass, “the shepherd has come to face the wolf.”

“You will not claim another soul,” Marcus declared, though fear gripped his heart.

Malzorath laughed. “Brave words for a mortal. Shall I make you my next vessel?”

The demon lunged, faster than Marcus anticipated. He barely dodged, rolling across the debris-strewn floor. Drawing strength from his faith, he recited a prayer, the words burning Malzorath’s flesh as he came closer.

The battle was brutal. Marcus managed to wound the demon with the dagger, but each attack cost him dearly. Blood seeped from gashes on his arms and chest.

Finally, Marcus saw his opportunity. As Malzorath prepared to strike a killing blow, Marcus lunged, grabbing the cross around Jacob’s neck.

In a desperate act, Marcus raised the silver dagger high. “May God have mercy on us both,” he whispered, plunging the blade into the cross.

The effect was instantaneous. A blinding light engulfed the church as Malzorath let out a deafening roar. The demon’s essence was torn from Jacob’s body, sucked back into the depths of Hell.

When the light faded, Jacob lay lifeless on the ground, the cross shattered beside him.

Marcus collapsed, his strength spent. He prayed silently, asking for forgiveness—for himself, for Jacob, and for those who had suffered.

The church was silent, save for the faint rustling of the wind. When the townspeople arrived, they found Father Marcus kneeling amidst the ruins, clutching the broken cross.

Though the demon was banished, the cost had been great. The deaths caused by Malzorath could never be undone, and Marcus would carry the guilt for the rest of his days.

The Cruce Infernalis was no more, but its legend lived on—a grim reminder of the dangers of tampering with forces beyond human comprehension.

Father Marcus returned to his parish, a haunted man. Yet, he took solace in the knowledge that he had done what was necessary to protect the world, even if it meant bearing the scars of his actions for the rest of his life.

And deep below, in the fiery pits of Hell, Malzorath waited, vowing that one day, he would rise again.

The Infernal Cross is the property of the Author and must not be plagiarised. Legal action will be taken against those who copy, download and/or use for monetization purposes.