Satan Is The Author Of Confusion Novels & Stories

Warning: This story centers on a priest. If you’re uncomfortable with this subject, please skip it. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. Please confess your sins” The man’s voice came from the other side of the confessional, low, deep, laced with a thick Italian accent. The kind of voice that instantly makes you picture a tall, dangerous mafia man. The kind that could make any woman feel something sinful stir deep inside her.

“Aw, and here I was hoping the ‘sir’ would stay. Yes, I’ll get it, but we need to discuss the problem that thing presents.” “That is not the problem. The dickwad is the problem,” Beth says with her hands on her hips. Again I felt that nice warm, fuzzy feeling. “You’re both right. The notebook and Kirk are the problems. Which is why I want to at least destroy the notebook. Kirk, I will figure out what to do with later.” “So you don’t think you’re crazy anymore?” Matt asks. “Is one every sure they’re not insane? How can we really know what we experience in this world is the actual reality of the situation?” I ask back.

Forbidden I repeat. It stares back at me, haunting, demeaning. Yet I cannot bring it in me to let it go. I will never kneel before a man, but why does this sketch speak otherwise? I throw my notepad into my box as if it burns, and zip the bag so quickly like anyone could come in any minute from now and see how far gone I have become.

“He is at the bottom of the well, where I should have sent you. I will not make the same mistake this night. Come out! Let me in!” “Miranda! Was he wearing his Guardian’s Artifact? “Of course he was, even called out for him. Curral never came. He would never face me. Not for that. Curral Understands. They all need to understand. Sacha needs to understand!” “Understand what?” “That you are being betrayed, and so you betray me! There needs to be a new order. The old one will fall. Let me take you before then. Sacha will understand.” “Help me understand.”

The only way to break the spell was if the confessor dies. The confessors referred to themselves as "sisters" and lived together and of course, they had a leader. Isabelle's sister was their leader. King Caesar - back then, when he was still a prince - had been on a long trip with some guards. When it was nightfall, they found a place to camp, but unknown to them, it was close to the camp of the confessors. While they were asleep, the confessors attacked them and confessed him - Caesar - alongside some of his men. He was confessed by Tabitha - Isabelle's blood sister and the leader of the confessors at that time.

My words were fueled by a mix of defiance and disbelief. His words, dripping with a twisted amusement, hit me like a slap in the face. He seemed to relish the confusion he was sowing, taking pleasure in the chaos he was orchestrating. His sinister grin only intensified my anger, igniting a fire within me. "Angel, do you truly believe your father is the paragon of virtue you envision? Perhaps it's time to delve deeper into your family's affairs and uncover the hidden truths," he taunted, his words a calculated assault on my vulnerability.

Alexandra was frowning at the screen, eyes narrowed. “What is it?” William asked. “Someone posted a new entry,” Alexandra said slowly. “‘Malcolm Smith was really a Satanist. He dismembered his victims with an axe before slitting his wrists. His soul is trapped in the house for eternity.’” He turned to us. “Where the hell is this headed?” I slammed the book shut. “If this turns into some Scooby-Doo level nonsense, I swear I’ll burn that place down myself. How the hell are we supposed to take down a spirit that doesn’t even follow its own rules?”

He was still in his jeans, his boots, and—Christ—he could taste karaoke regret in the back of his throat. He blinked slowly. Once. Twice. And it hit him. He’d sung to her. Oh hell. He sat up too fast and the room spun, but embarrassment sobered him quicker than black coffee ever could. The song. The love confession. The awful, off-key, drunken mess he’d made of himself. He dragged a hand down his face. What the hell had he been thinking? He wasn’t the guy who said stuff like that. He didn’t do grand gestures, or declarations, or damn near serenade the girl who hadn’t even texted him back.

I had four days left before the poison consumed my organs entirely. All I wanted was to spend whatever time I had left with the woman I loved, but I could not reach her. The next day, I learned that Enzo Marchetti, the first love she had never forgotten, had returned from overseas. "Let's get divorced. The love of my life is back." I clutched my chest as a searing pain tore through it. "I'm at the family hospital. I've been poisoned. The doctors won't let me leave.” Her voice turned sharp and cruel. "I don't care if you're poisoned or dying. Even if you drop dead the next second, you need to come back and sign the papers." The last trace of warmth inside me went cold. I answered calmly,

Alliyah Agustin “So, did you find anything?” Satana immediately asked the moment I stepped out of the study room, her eyes filled with curiosity as she leaned slightly toward me. I let out a long groan as the memory of what I had just seen replayed in my mind. “Just books and studies about perfect sex positions,” I muttered with visible disgust. “Positions that I’m very sure he has been trying out with her.” Satana physically shivered at the thought, hugging herself dramatically. “Ew, gross,” she said, scrunching her nose. “I guess we should check the bedroom next.”