[ WP ] The world 's Holy Water supply is running low and people are becoming possessed .

They're at the damn - darn - door again. I can hear their claws scratching against it in a frenzy. *Scritch scritch* and some of the women are cackling, the men bark like dogs. Are they even men still? Is there some part of humanity that remains after who *knows* how long their souls have been missing? 
 
 It gets too much, you know. For two weeks I've sat here contemplating life while the rest of the world burns around me and my little church. *My* little church, how my mother would be proud. Her little boy going from a sellout author to honorary priest. `` Honorary'' being within the most basic of definitions, as in: `` I'm the only person in the church,'' basic. Probably not official but I seem to be doing fine. I mean, listen to my ravenous fans outside! Hear them roar! 
 
 I traveled a long time to get here, had to do some things that I'm not proud of. I'll never be able to repay those debts now, and the poor old Father who took me in. I was resigned to death, they had flipped my car and one big mother hubber stuck me with a knife. I took the poetic irony in dying to Demons in front of a church and resigned to let the dark take me. Dear Father Carrace took me in the last minute. It was pretty badass, or so he soon told me, smoking a cigarette and cleaning his *rifle*. 
 
 I know, a chain smoking, rifle wielding Priest is something many of us did n't see before in the pre-demon world. I reacted as much as you could expect, in my recovering state. The man taught me everything about running a post-apocalyptic church. From cleaning the storerooms, to fortifying a confessional booth. He told me about his life, how he became a priest, and the church he helped build. The same church I was sitting in. He told me why he let me in and how happy he was to have company. 
 
 He had a curse upon him, something that I now have to deal with thanks to his passing. Of course the old man left it to a few days before he died to show me his private office. It was quaint, a small bed with an actual frame, a wood board desk, a copy of the Bible and a basin of Holy Water. The basin was set onto the sill of the only window in the room. This window was also the only window that had not been boarded up so it had a view of the whole city spread under it. 
 
 The water within the basin was something I had n't seen in years. When this whole thing began and people started realizing that it was n't a disease that was spreading, Holy Water was a commodity exclusive to the rich. Those days were chaos, when a church ran out it was almost destined to be burned down within the week. Meanwhile the big wigs holed up in their bunkers after buying *barrels* from the Vatican. It's all a blur now, after a few years have passed. Now, however, seeing this basin sort of rejuvenated me with just it's sight. This stuff was also one of the most valuable in any survivor settlement I've been to, with *milliliters* going for as high as limbs, or `` favours'' of the sinful kind.. The water sparkled blue in the light, and it tasted better than anything I've ever drank. 
 
 But it also burned, because of all the sins I had committed in my traveling there. The murders, the theft, the lies. My reward is watching the water that I ca n't drink because every time I do it sets fire to my insides. The Father never told me how to open the doors, and the system of barricades he has are too confusing for me to figure out. Sometimes I wish that Demons were helpful, or could even possess dead flesh but to even let them in would be stupid. This is probably my biggest regret, in this church. But, I'm not asking for repent, that was the Father's job. 
 
 Out of all his mistakes he told me, I think his lack of perception when it was crucially needed, was his biggest. 
 
 Demons do n't just stand around waiting for someone to die. I think that finally clicked when He turned around and saw me leveling his rifle at him. The last thing he said was: 
 
 `` Damn.''
