Chapter 134 — The Bank Salesman
Just a few minutes earlier, the group had arrived outside the restroom of Belton Bank.
Silas stepped forward and knocked politely on the door—
no answer.
He tried the handle; it was locked from the inside.
Gideon sensed no trace of demonic energy nearby.
Still, considering the salesman's safety, he gave Silas a look.
"Kick it open."
With one firm shoulder strike, the door gave way.
They found Carlby Price, the elderly salesman, in the last stall.
His gray hair was disheveled, and he was gasping for air, clutching at his chest.
"Young men…" he wheezed, forcing a shaky smile. "Would one of you give me a hand?"
A few minutes later, Carlby had calmed down.
He straightened his wrinkled suit, brushed off his sleeves, and gestured toward the office outside.
"Thank you, thank you.
Now—what kind of business brings three fine gentlemen of the cloth to my little bank?
If you need anything, I don't mind working overtime."
His tone was light, almost teasing.
"Mr. Price," said Bente, hesitant, "are you sure you don't need a hospital?"
"Oh, heavens no," Carlby chuckled. "Just one of my old fits. A little medicine and I'll be fine."
Gideon's eyes narrowed slightly.
When they first found him, he had definitely sensed a flicker of evil presence—
a faint, lingering corruption in the air around the man.
But now it was gone.
Completely erased.
With the Ethereal Sight, Gideon confirmed that Carlby was, in fact, human—
not possessed, not cursed.
But something about him was wrong.
"This old man… isn't ordinary," Gideon thought to himself.
Outwardly, though, he simply smiled and took a seat.
He placed a silver crucifix on the desk—just close enough for Carlby to notice.
"Mr. Price," he began smoothly,
"A few years ago, a man named Roy Solomon purchased a farm nearby. Do you happen to remember that sale?"
Carlby's expression softened in recollection.
"Ah… the Solomons, yes. I remember them well."
He leaned back in his chair—subtly putting distance between himself and the cross.
"When they first moved in, another buyer came along—offered quite a bit more, actually.
I even approached Roy to tell him, but he refused. Said the land 'felt right.'
You gentlemen looking to buy it now?"
Gideon shook his head slowly.
"Not quite. I've heard there have been multiple… incidents at that property.
And that Belton Bank has handled its sale more than once."
Carlby gave a light, dismissive laugh.
"My boy, banks don't kill people.
Living clients pay their mortgages.
Dead ones? They're just bad for business."
"I understand," Gideon said with an easy smile.
"That's precisely why I'd like to learn more about the property's history."
Carlby tilted his head, curious.
"You're churchmen, aren't you? What's your interest in a murder house?"
Gideon met his eyes.
"Sometimes," he said quietly,
"the killer isn't human."
For a second, Carlby froze.
Then he chuckled, as though Gideon had told a joke.
"Well, Father, you certainly know how to stay in character," he said, spreading his hands.
"If I hadn't already sold my soul to this job, I'd join your flock."
He leaned forward.
"That farm's been on our books since the day I joined the bank.
I've sold it a dozen times, maybe more.
But the truth is, there's nothing in our records—no owner's history, no structural reports, nothing.
"As a lowly salesman, you learn one rule early on:
Don't ask questions.
Just take the junk the bank gives you, and sell it to whatever fool's desperate enough to dream."
He mimicked a superior's voice mockingly:
"Move product, Carlby. That's what you're paid for."
Then he laughed again, shaking his head.
The conversation was interrupted by the soft chime of the glass door opening.
An elderly woman stepped in, clutching a worn handbag.
"Carlby, dear—I hope I'm not intruding?" she asked timidly from the doorway.
"Not at all, Maeve!" Carlby exclaimed, waving her in.
"You know I'd never turn down a lovely lady, no matter the hour!"
The woman smiled shyly.
"I'm just here to wire some money to my daughter—she's ill, poor thing.
But my car broke down on the way, that's why I'm late—"
"Nonsense! Come in, come in," Carlby interrupted warmly.
"I'd be delighted to help you."
Maeve's nervousness melted into laughter.
"Oh, Carlby, you old flatterer. I'm far too old for your charms."
Outside the bank, the group gathered near the car.
"Well," Bente shrugged, "it doesn't sound like he knows anything about the demon."
"No," said Silas quietly. "That old man's hiding something."
Gideon raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
Silas reached into his sleeve and pulled out a folded handkerchief.
"This. He used it earlier. I took it when he wasn't looking."
Gideon blinked. "You pickpocketed a banker?"
Silas ignored him. "There's a faint trace of corruption on it."
He passed the cloth to Zal and Bente, who both felt the residual tingle of dark energy.
"Faint, but real," Zal confirmed. "And it's fading fast."
"Right," said Silas. "I drew a small containment sigil to preserve it temporarily.
Otherwise, it would've vanished completely."
He looked back toward the bank entrance.
"You noticed it too, didn't you, Father?
That's why you kept probing him."
Gideon's expression stayed calm, but his thoughts sharpened.
This one's sharper than he looks.
Aloud, he said, "Yes. He recoiled from the relic. And he lied about his stance on demons.
But he's not possessed."
He paused.
"As for Belton Bank—whatever's happening there, I don't think the institution itself is involved."
That last conclusion wasn't guesswork.
It was deduction—
and it pointed to something far more disturbing lurking beneath the surface.
Of all things, a bank fears only one kind of customer—
the one who doesn't borrow.
If a man can take out a million-dollar loan,
the bank will pray for his long, prosperous life.
"Then why did we leave?" Judy asked, puzzled.
"We've already startled Carlby," Silas explained quietly.
"Now we wait to see what he does next."
Gideon nodded approvingly.
Late that night.
A shadowed alley.
Four silhouettes blended with the darkness.
Through a pair of binoculars, Father Gideon watched the house across the street—
Carlby Price's home.
Bente and Zal exchanged bewildered looks.
"It's pitch black," Zal whispered. "How's he seeing anything?"
Only Silas noticed something unusual—
a flicker of astonishment in his eyes.
He'd heard rumors of this before—that those with true spiritual sight could see through the night as if it were daylight.
Usually, only bishop-level exorcists could manage that.
Even Silas himself could only make out vague outlines.
Then—
a figure appeared from the house.
Carlby stepped out cautiously, scanning his surroundings.
After a few moments, he started walking briskly down the road.
The group waited until he was well out of earshot before following.
They trailed him for nearly an hour, through winding backroads and moonlit fields,
until he finally stopped—near the Solomons' farm.
Without Gideon's silent guidance, they'd have lost him long ago.
Silas couldn't help but glance at the priest again—his respect for him growing ever deeper.
The moonlight was bright that night,
the plains stretching out unobstructed under its glow.
From their vantage point, they could clearly see Carlby's movements.
The old salesman climbed out of his truck…
and began speaking to the air.
His lips moved in low murmurs,
as if holding a conversation with someone invisible.
But Gideon saw nothing—no demonic silhouette, no spiritual residue.
"Could it be… something parasitic?"
he thought grimly.
Some demons could infect the mind itself—whispering commands, nesting in the folds of human thought.
Then, without warning, something changed.
A crimson flash erupted across the fields—a ripple of red light like liquid fire spreading over the ground.
Carlby was hurled backward as if struck by a wall of force.
The plain shimmered,
revealing a massive circular barrier that encased the Solomon farmhouse at its center.
But the barrier wasn't perfect.
Silas noticed immediately—
the edges were pitted with deep indentations, concave hollows that looked like puncture wounds.
He counted them carefully.
Twenty-three.
Exactly the number of escape routes Father Gideon had them carved out earlier that day.
The radius of the barrier—five hundred meters—
matched precisely the perimeter he had calculated.
The three academy students finally understood.
"So that's why Father Gideon measured the distance so carefully…"
"He knew it wasn't safe even then."
Their gazes turned toward Gideon—
a mixture of awe and admiration.
Meanwhile, across the field,
Carlby staggered to his feet, swearing under his breath.
His attempt to enter the zone had failed completely.
But his expression showed no surprise.
Almost as if… he'd expected this.
He returned to his truck and pulled out a cloth bundle.
From Gideon's vantage point, he could see everything through the binoculars—
Carlby unwrapping a ritual kit:
black goat horns, animal viscera, wax candles, feathers.
He arranged each piece with deliberate precision,
forming a crude circle on the dirt.
And then—
Carlby drew a dagger from his coat sleeve.
Without hesitation,
he sliced a deep line across his wrist.
Blood spattered onto the ground,
soaking into the earth like ink into paper.