But the mountains remember.

The stones remember.

The shadows remember.

My great-uncle Alsworthy, according to the story I found in his desk in a sunny room of his old mansion in Worcester County, drew a circle of salt on the church threshold, engraved with symbols older than Rome.
Also included were those he found in a Mithraeum during his Roman walks, a figure symbolizing the victory of the light of goodness and truth over the darkness of demonic forces.

In his hand he held a crucifix.

He murmured Latin prayers in tune with harmonics hidden among the mountains.

The shadows trembled, writhing in anticipation.

The water of the Howling Den, frozen and blessed, hissed and steamed, flowing over the threshold.

Insects spiraled upward, forming chains of golden light.

Sage and myrrh traced an ancient pentagram.

The fire turned into blue and green flames, tornadoes that captured malice.

When the ritual ended, the mountains exhaled a long relief.

Residual echoes.

Remains linger: petrified faces in the caves, screams fused with those of the Howling Den’s victims.

Indistinct shapes appear along the walls of the refuge: fleeing monks, twisted faces.

Insects trace golden arches across the mountaintops.

Whispers, fragments of the ritual, brush the ears.

The Big Church hovers above the fire: blackened walls, twisted ivy, gaping door… alive in miniature.

My great-uncle returned to London.

The fame of his exploits reached the Vatican.

The Holy Father recognized the grandeur of his deed: Alsworthy became Chief Exorcist for Great Britain.

He had purified a place of ancient darkness, where human malice and mountain magic intertwined.

As I finished my story, the fire flared up one last time.

The shadows retreated into the corners.

The insects rose to the ceiling, leaving golden threads.

The mountains seemed to be drawing closer.

The whispers faded, but remained suspended.

The refuge breathed, alive with memories, with magic.

“Where did you hear all this?” someone whispered.

I smiled.

“Calm down. I heard it all from the mouth of Reverend Alsworthy, my great-uncle, as I told you. A man of lion-like courage and impeccable learning.”

For a long moment, the mountains seemed to listen.

The insects flapped their wings in unison.

And though silence returned, each of us knew:

The story was not over.

She was alive.

Still moving.

Still waiting.

Still suspended in the infinite cosmos of magic.