Benoit’s heart sunk. He recognized, possibly for the first time, that this would be the longest night of his life.
“I would suggest,” the Master said, “that you tense your body and flex your muscles.”
Before Benoit could respond, he felt a series of blisteringly hot stabs to his lower spine, ribs, and upper arms. Billows of smoke rose from the fresh wounds, which Benoit could feel bubble over with burning blood. The muscles in his stomach tightened, and his legs began to shake and weaken. Benoit felt on the verge of a total collapse.
“Swallow the pain,” the Master intoned. “Do not display weakness—ever. You are preparing to become something stronger than a mere man. Remember this and find your resolve!”
Benoit scrunched up his face and bit his lip. He kept his body tense. He felt it shake and sweat all at once. He envisioned the pain as a floating orb of orange light. He saw it in front of him and tried to consume it, to swallow it, and make it disappear. Benoit failed, but his mind at least focused on something other than the pain. It helped, but only in the most minimal way.
“Very good. Next test,” the Master said.
A small sound of shifting came from the darkness. Within seconds, a foul, pungent odor assailed Benoit’s nose. A small, circular cake with the consistency of rice was placed before his lips. One pair of unseen hands gripped the back of his head, while another tried to force the cake into his mouth. He ate and swallowed the awful concoction. It was a taste that Benoit refused to ruminate on. Eventually, seconds after digesting the cake, Benoit began to wretch.
“The witch’s cake is an unholy meal. It is good that you spit it up. Once upon a time, we tested the unclean with such a treat. We now only use it for such endurance rituals. I will spare you the details of what it is made of. Proceed!”
Benoit stumbled forward in the darkness until stopped by a glass wall of unknown height. Benoit used his fingertips to guess the shape and contour of the partition, but he could not accurately guess until a small, blue-colored light appeared. The light focused on the center of the glass. The light began to move and create distinct images. Benoit recognized the familiar whirr of a projector hidden somewhere in the room. His assignment, he understood, was to watch the scenes unfolding before him.
They were not easy images to withstand. They came in short bursts, with clips ranging in time anywhere from ten to twenty seconds. They were a mix of extreme violence, mostly crime scene recordings, with occult images and uncensored pornography. Benoit lived his entire life with the Internet, and thus felt immune to most graphic images. However, nothing could have prepared him for what he saw in that dark room on that arduous night. He saw more viscera, more exposed entrails and sexual organs in a minute then he had in decades of mindlessly searching online. It felt downright criminal to see so much without warning. Benoit instinctively turned his head away again and again.
“No, you must not avoid it. You are seeing the nature of the enemy. This is their product — the fruits of their poisonous tree. You must know it in full in order to hate it as you must.” Benoit did as he was told, for at some point during his ordeal, Benoit had come to identify the Master as his superior and sovereign. The Master commanded and Benoit followed. He watched the manifold horrors until the light disappeared for good.
“You are getting better,” the Master said, “and fortunately for you, you are almost done.”
The Master’s words had an intoxicating effect that was immediate. Benoit’s tired and weary body felt energized by the idea of a conclusion, and a successful one at that. The proverbial light at the end of the tunnel was starting to glow.
Once again, unseen hands grabbed him and roughly carried him forward. Benoit went limp and let himself be dragged until he felt a large emptiness beneath him. The distinct and disquieting feeling of being suspended over a large chasm struck him. Without warning, Benoit was thrown into a large body of water and was told to float. He was not given a time or a purpose — just told to float.
“Evil ones can sometimes float, Benjamin, but most drown. That is because they do not have blood in their veins, but iron. Their hearts are made of porous stone, but stone nonetheless. You must never think of them as fully human. Yes, they were born of woman and disciplined by man, but their oaths turned them into golems. They are vessels for all manner of evil. Know this and realize that, like false idols, they must always be smashed.” The Master’s words had an oddly calming effect on Benoit, who began to drift off into sleep. In an weird twist of fate, Benoit felt comfort in the water — the same water that he had earlier tried to drown himself in.
“Rise!” The Master barked.
Benoit shook himself awake. He had no idea how long he had been out, but a deep chill could be felt in his bones. The water had turned ice cold during his slumber, and Benoit was at severe risk of hypothermia. He raised his voice to ask for help, but something new in his psyche told him to remain silent. To suffer was his new objective. Benoit shivered and shook until he the blackness overtook him again, and this time it was not sleep. Benoit was unconscious when he was pulled up from the water and taken to the small room on the first floor of the mansion. There, he was placed underneath several blankets and left to rest on a bed near a roaring fire. For hours upon hours he slept until he arose the following day. The Master greeted him at his bedside.
“Good morning, or rather good afternoon, Benjamin Benoit.” Up close, the Master’s voice was softer and less sonorous.
“Good afternoon,” Benoit said groggily. “Did I pass the initiation?”
“You did well. Your test, however, continues.”
Benoit’s heart sank again. He gently placed his head back on his pillow and closed his eyes.
“Do not fear. Your next test is quite simple. It will require nothing but faith and memory. Once you have completed it, you can begin your training.”
“Training to become what?”
“In time, Benjamin, in time. Now please; recite the Lord’s Prayer.”
“The what?”
“The Lord’s Prayer, son. The most common but most blessed prayer in all of Christendom. Please say it for me.”
Benoit stared at the Master’s cornflower blue eyes, which were creased at the edges with age. It was the face of a patriarch. It was a kind face, but capable of stern judgement. Benoit did not want to disappoint the face, but he also knew that he could not recite the Lord’s Prayer — not a single word.
He began to sweat…