The tunnel shook like a living thing.
Dust poured from the ceiling in gray curtains. Somewhere behind them the blessed padlock exploded in a shower of molten iron and screams that did not belong to human throats.
Father Elijah shoved Sofia forward. "Go! Go! GO!"
They sprinted.
The narrow passage twisted left, then right, then plunged downward so steeply they had to brace their hands against the walls to keep from falling.
The only light came from the glowing cross on Sofia's forehead and the faint blue-white sparks that now danced along Diego's brown scapular every time his feet hit the ground.
Another explosion. Closer.
The air turned hot and thick, tasting of sulfur and scorched roses.
Father Elijah's voice cut through the roar. "They breached the lock. Whatever's coming isn't wearing the Mark—it's wearing the ones who took it."
Sofia's lungs burned. Her legs were jelly.
They burst into a wider chamber—an old crypt beneath what used to be St. Killian's before it closed in 1994. Rows of simple wooden coffins lined the walls like silent witnesses.
Dead end.
Diego spun, fists clenched. "We're boxed in!"
Father Elijah slammed a rusted iron door shut behind them and threw the bar across it.
The door shuddered instantly, as though a train had hit it from the other side.
He turned, face pale but steady. "This door was blessed by Bishop Sheen himself in 1952. It'll buy us minutes, not hours."
Sofia backed into the center of the crypt, chest heaving.
The rosary in her pocket was no longer warm.
It was white-hot.
She pulled it out without thinking. The beads blazed like fifteen tiny suns strung together, lighting the crypt brighter than noon.
Father Elijah's eyes widened. "Mary's giving you a choice, Sofia. Right now."
Another blow to the door. The hinges screamed. Black smoke began seeping under the gap, writhing like snakes with too many mouths.
Diego grabbed her arm. "Sis, whatever you're thinking—"
"I'm going to pray," she said, voice trembling but sure. "All four mysteries. Out loud. Right here."
Father Elijah dropped to his knees instantly, shotgun across his lap. "Then we kneel with you."
Diego hesitated half a second, then knelt too, clasping his scapular like a lifeline.
Sofia fell to her knees in the dust between two coffins.
The luminous rosary rose out of her hand by itself and hovered in front of her heart, spinning slowly.
She began.
"Our Father, who art in heaven…"
The first blow against the door stopped mid-swing.
The smoke froze.
"Hail Mary, full of grace…"
A sound like a thousand teeth gnashing came from the other side, then sudden silence.
By the third Hail Mary, the crypt filled with a wind that had no source.
The coffin lids began to rattle gently, as if the dead inside were turning to listen.
Joyful Mysteries.
Sofia's voice grew stronger.
With every "blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus," golden light poured from the floating rosary and wrapped around the three of them like armor.
When she reached the fifth Joyful Mystery—the Finding in the Temple—actual childlike laughter echoed softly around the crypt, innocent and ancient at the same time.
The door held.
Sorrowful Mysteries.
Now the light turned crimson.
Bloody wounds opened in the air itself—five glowing wounds that hung above them like the wounds of Christ.
Each time Sofia announced a mystery—Agony in the Garden, Scourging at the Pillar—the wounds bled pure light onto the floor.
Diego was openly weeping. Father Elijah's lips moved silently with every prayer, tears cutting clean tracks through the dust on his face.
When Sofia reached the Carrying of the Cross, the iron door began to bow inward.
Clawed hands—too long, too black, tipped with burning needles—reached through the gap, scraping for purchase.
Glorious Mysteries.
The temperature in the crypt plunged.
Their breath came out in white clouds.
On the third Glorious Mystery—the Descent of the Holy Spirit—tongues of real fire appeared above their heads, gentle as birthday candles, warm as Pentecost.
The clawed hands shrieked and recoiled, smoking.
Luminous Mysteries (the ones Pope John Paul II had added).
Sofia's voice cracked with exhaustion, but she did not stop.
Baptism of Jesus: the ceiling of the crypt turned transparent for one heartbeat, and they saw the night sky above Chicago suddenly clear, stars blazing like they hadn't since Eden.
Wedding at Cana: the dusty air filled with the scent of roses and new wine.
Proclamation of the Kingdom: every coffin lid lifted six inches, and pale, luminous hands reached out—not frightening, but blessing—resting on their shoulders like a congregation at Confirmation.
Transfiguration: Sofia herself began to glow, not just the seal on her forehead—her whole body, until she looked like Moses coming down Sinai.
And finally, the Institution of the Eucharist.
The moment she whispered, "This is My Body," the Host from St. Philomena's chapel—the one that had been blazing alone on the altar miles away—materialized in the air above the floating rosary.
Real. Physical. Radiant.
It hovered for one eternal second.
Then it lowered gently and rested against Sofia's heart.
The iron door exploded inward in a storm of fire and shadow.
But the darkness met a wall of light it could not cross.
Where the light touched the possessed enforcers—because that's what they were now, eyes milk-white, mouths full of crawling insects—they fell to their knees and vomited black sludge that hissed and evaporated before it hit the ground.
One of them, a young man who couldn't have been older than Diego, looked up with suddenly human eyes and screamed, "Help us!"
Then the light rolled forward like a tide.
Every possessed soul in the tunnel dropped, unconscious but alive, the burning Marks on their hands extinguished.
Silence returned—gentle, awed, sacred.
The rosary settled back into Sofia's palm, now cool and ordinary again.
She collapsed sideways into Diego's arms, barely conscious.
Father Elijah stared at the open doorway, at the pile of freed bodies breathing evenly in the dust, at the faint imprint of the Host still glowing on Sofia's hoodie like a miraculous image.
He fell face-down on the crypt floor and sobbed like a child.
"Fifteen decades," he whispered into the stones. "She just prayed fifteen decades and turned the tide of hell itself."
Diego cradled his sister, rocking her gently.
Above them, the tongues of fire still danced, and the scent of roses lingered.
Somewhere far above, church bells that had no one to ring them began to toll—slow, triumphant, unafraid.
To be continued…