"The tree that would grow to heaven must send its roots to hell."
~Friedrich Nietzsche
Julian screamed. He screamed until he realized his vocal cords were missing. He was falling into a black, bottomless pit.
HELL...?
He tumbled through endless, unrelenting darkness for what seemed like an eternity. It gave him sufficient time to be tormented by his memories.
Julian's life flashed before his eyes like broken, jagged pieces of glass. The missed chances, broken promises, and self-loathing. The toxic breakups, self-sabotage, and existential crisis.
The last memory was the most horrific, in which Julian drank an entire bottle of cheap rum. He sat down to do a satanic ritual randomly picked from the internet.
The Harrowing of Hell. What was he thinking?
"This is it," Julian thought miserably. "I'm falling straight into hell for being a dumbass."
What else could a downward plunge mean, after dying from alcohol abuse? Perhaps his liver finally gave up on him.
Julian waited for the hot fires from below to consume him, but they were nowhere in sight, perhaps taking their time to tease him until he lost his mind and begged for it.
It was Julian's time to be haunted by heavyweight regrets. He should've called his mom more, fixed things with his ex, and not wasted nights on pointless internet trolling and shitposting. Would he do any better given a second chance?
Probably not. Some people were doomed to hell from the beginning.
The bottomless hole stretched forever, while its walls whispered brutal judgment during his memory loops.
Bwahahaha! Henhhenhhenh! What was that? Laughter echoing from the depths of hell? Demons waiting to claim him? The Devil laughing at his plight?
All of a sudden, the hole felt like it was bottoming out. Julian began to see a reddish glow from below. The temperature rose drastically.
Oh, Lord. Eternal damnation had arrived. After all those traumatic memory loops, Julian felt he deserved hell. He let go with a sigh.
Crack! Whoom! Grab! Suddenly, a massive hand broke through the walls and clamped its bony fingers around his ankle. It yanked Julian sideways before he fell into the frothing depths of hell.
"What the—!" He busted laterally through what appeared to be dimensions. Then, abruptly, the bony hand let go. He plummeted down again, but this time was flooded with harsh white light.
Julian gasped into consciousness. His eyes snapped open in panic and shock. Feeling returned to his body like a truck collision. His head throbbed agonizingly; his mouth was dry, and his throat tasted like nail polish.
Julian blinked against the sunlight streaming through a dirty, birdcrap-spotted windshield. He was in the back of a rusty van that bounced lazily over potholes.
His body felt wrong—taller, leaner, straighter. Julian looked at his hands and couldn't recognize the scars and tiny tattoos on them. When did he become a goth hippy?
"What the fuck?" he muttered aloud, rubbing his temples.
"Easy there, boy," a voice said from the front. The driver, a stocky old man in a priest's collar, glanced back with concern. Father Ramirez was the name that popped into Julian's mind. He met the priest for the first time today.
"You passed out for a bit, Amadeus. Is the hangover hitting you hard? Will you be okay?"
Amadeus? Was that his name? Julian sat up straighter, piecing it all together. The lost memories flooded in; all of them were strangely not his own.
Julian Amadeus. This body belonged to a young veteran exorcist, twenty-one years old. Until recently, he was the rockstar of the Church. Then the Vatican incident happened, and he lost everything. Wait, what Vatican incident? The memories were fuzzy.
Now, with a terrible hangover, Julian held his head to prevent it from reeling. He realized Father Ramirez was waiting for an answer. The young man groped for words, his voice coming out hoarse. "Yeah... Hangover. Something like that. Where are we going again?"
The priest sighed, turning his eyes to the road. "Did you forget already? The drinks are killing you, son. Anyway, we're going to a migrant shelter on the edge of town. Camp Moria. You agreed to do the job, remember?"
Julian turned his head and watched the shabby buildings go by. Salem City. The priest was driving him to a job? As an exorcist?
Ramirez spied him through the dashboard mirror. The young man looked troubled, as if he had just gotten off a rollercoaster. Was booze his only sin, or was there something off about the bloke?
"Do I need to repeat everything?" the priest grumbled. "I reckon you were really wasted when I approached you? Fine. What do you remember?"
"Err. Where was I when we met?" Julian asked, squinting against the intermittent flashes of sunlight.
Father Ramirez grunted. "The dive bar BATSONG. Like I told you when I picked you up from there. The client found your ad in the newspaper's classifieds and asked me to reach out to you. What was that cringey ad…? Hole-y guarantee, or your exorcisms are free?"
As the priest chuckled, Julian remembered posting that ad when he was running low on money for booze. It seemed like a cool tagline at the time. "Yeah, that's me. But why not get a real exorcist? I don't have a license anymore."
Ramirez licked his lips anxiously. "The Church won't touch this one. Migrants aren't exactly on their priority list, or in any list for that matter. You know that, right? We talked at length at the bar, and you were sympathetic."
BATSONG did sound familiar. "I… Uh…"
Before Julian could respond, the car came to a stop. Two individuals entered and made themselves comfortable on the passenger seat on either side.
On Julian's right was a pot-bellied man with a thick beard. He nodded curtly. "I'm Miguel."
"And this here is Rosa," he added, jerking a thumb at the woman on the other side. She was middle-aged, her face lined with worry. She clutched a rosary tightly and looked up at Julian with hope.
"We're locals volunteering as caretakers at Camp Moria. Listen! Things got bad last night. Please help us—"
"Rosa!" Father Ramirez interjected. "Mr. Amadeus has had a long night. Let him sit in peace until we reach the shelter. He's our only hope right now. Don't bother him."
Rosa crossed herself and looked away. Julian was thankful for the intervention. He needed a break to process his new memories and fight the hangover.
What kind of life had the real Julian Amadeus lived? One of chasing shadows and banishing demons? That sounded badass, but why was there so much agony in his heart? What was the Vatican incident? That memory still escaped him.
More importantly, who or what canceled his ticket to hell and transmigrated him?