(POV Shift: First Person)
The battle in the basement had turned into a chaotic, deadly dance. Every boom from my "Exorcist" was answered with a barrage of paranormal fury. I had spent four bullets. Four precious shots that had only served to make Bathsheba smarter, faster, more vicious. She no longer fully manifested, denying me an easy target. Instead, she used the environment as her own body, turning the basement into a living, hostile organism.
Pipes twisted and slammed like metal tentacles. The dirt floor softened beneath my feet, trying to trap me. Old farm tools flew from shelves, rusted projectiles guided by an unseen hand. I was a soldier in a trench, dodging, rolling, and firing at vanishing shadows. My injured ankle was a searing, icy pain, and my [SANITY] bar on the HUD blinked dangerously bright red: 28%.
"Stay still and let me shoot you, damn it!" I yelled, firing my fifth bullet at a rapidly moving shadow. The cross-tipped round impacted the stone wall, sending splinters flying. Another miss! Only three bullets left in the magazine.
She laughed. The sound didn't come from one place, but from everywhere at once. It was a mocking echo that seeped into my skull. "...Silly child... this is my domain... always has been..."
An old scythe detached from the wall and swung towards me. I rolled on the ground, feeling the whistle of rusted metal pass inches from my neck. I landed awkwardly, pistol aimed at nothing. I was losing. My ultimate weapon was useless if I couldn't hit a target. Brute force wasn't working. She was outmaneuvering me, on her own turf.
I scrambled behind an old iron boiler, the only solid piece of cover in the whole damn basement. Panic began to displace the adrenaline. I needed a new plan. An "exploit." A combination of moves that would break her patterns. I thought like a gamer. What did I have at my disposal? The pistol, with three bullets. The Polaroid camera. The salt. The sage incense.
Stun. Debuff. Damage. It was a classic combo.
I looked at the bag of salt that had fallen near me. Then the camera hanging from my neck. A desperate idea, a last-second strategy, bloomed in my terrified mind. It was going to be all or nothing.
(POV Shift: Second Person)
Your heart pounds against your ribs like a prisoner trying to escape. You peek over the boiler. You see her. She's in the center of the basement, her form slowly condensing, savoring her victory. She's giving you time, enjoying your fear. It's her mistake.
You grab the salt jar. It's now or never. You burst from cover, not running, but in a desperate sprint. She spins towards you, surprised by your sudden audacity. She raises a hand, and the ground in front of you trembles, but you're already in motion.
You fire. BOOM! The sixth bullet. You don't aim at her. You aim at the rotting wooden beam directly above her head. The holy silver bullet pulverizes the wood, creating a shower of splinters and dust that makes her recoil for an instant. It's the distraction you need.
With a shout, you hurl the salt jar with all your might. You don't aim for the ground to make a line. You throw it into the air, towards her. The jar spins and, with a flick of your wrist, you fire again. BOOM! The seventh bullet impacts the plastic jar mid-flight.
The jar explodes.
A massive cloud of consecrated rock salt fills the air, engulfing Bathsheba in a white, purifying storm. The effect is devastating. You hear a shriek you've never heard before, a sound of pure agony, as if a thousand voices are screaming in unison. Her form flickers violently, the salt adhering to her spectral essence, burning her, disrupting her connection to the physical plane. She's stunned, blinded, roaring in pain.
It's your chance. The magazine is almost empty. You eject the spent magazine with a click. It falls to the dirt floor. You reach into your pocket, your clumsy fingers brushing against the cold metal of the second magazine. You pull it out. You try to insert it, but your hands are shaking. You drop it.
Shit!
You lunge for the floor as a piece of pipe whizzes past your head. The witch is recovering, her fury overcoming the pain of the salt. You grab the magazine. You align it. You slam it into the pistol. The click of it seating is the sweetest sound you've ever heard. You rack the slide. You're reloaded. Eight fresh bullets.
You leap to your feet. She has shed most of the salt and now lunges at you, her face disfigured by absolute hatred. She's too fast. You won't have time to aim.
Then you remember the final step of the combo.
You raise the Polaroid camera hanging from your neck. She's only meters away, her claws extended. You aim and press the shutter.
FLASH!
The camera's flash at point-blank range is a supernova in the basement's darkness. Pure, unadulterated light hits her full force. The witch's shriek reaches a new level of desperation. The light and the salt... the combination overloads her. Her physical form collapses. She drops to her knees, her body flickering like a faulty hologram. She's kneeling, humbled, her head bowed.
Incapacitated.
You stare at your handiwork, gasping. You did it. Your stupid gamer plan worked.
You hear a sound on the stairs. Footsteps. Slow, cautious. The basement door opens, and the silhouettes of Lorraine, Roger, and Carolyn appear at the top, their pale faces illuminated by the hallway light. They've been drawn by the sudden silence after the chaos.
They see you. And then they see her. Kneeling. Defeated.
(POV Shift: First Persona)
I ignored the gasps of awe and fear coming from the stairs. My entire world had narrowed to the kneeling figure in front of me. The rage, the fear, the adrenaline... all of it vanished, replaced by an icy, lethal calm. This was the end of the level. The boss was at one HP. It was time for the "fatality."
I walked towards her. My steps were slow, deliberate. I didn't limp. I didn't feel the pain. I only felt the weight of the "Exorcist" in my hand.
I stopped in front of her. She lifted her head. Her eyes, though flickering, met mine. There was no fury in them anymore. Only... surprise. And perhaps, just perhaps, a hint of fear. The fear of an immortal being realizing that mortality has come for it.
I raised the pistol. The black metal barrel touched her spectral forehead. It felt like pressing against a block of ice. A hiss emanated from the point of contact.
"You asked me why me," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "Because I'm the one who mocks the shadows. And you, darling, you're the biggest shadow of them all."
A smile, a genuine smile of satisfaction and liberation, spread across my face.
"GG," I said. "Good game."
And I pulled the trigger.
(POV Shift: Third Person)
The shot was not a bang. It was an implosion of sound and an explosion of light.
The moment the cross-tipped bullet touched Bathsheba's essence, there was no shriek. There was a torrent of pure white light that burst from her, not outwards, but inwards, consuming her. It was as if the sun had been born and died in the basement in a fraction of a second. The light was so intense that everyone on the stairs had to shield their eyes. A warm, clean wind swept through the basement, carrying away the cold, the smell of decay, and the sense of oppression that had plagued the house for years.
When the light faded, silence returned. But it was a different silence. It was an empty silence. A silence of peace.
In the center of the basement, Alex stood, arm extended, the "Exorcist" still smoking. Where Bathsheba had been, nothing remained. No ashes, no ectoplasm, no trace whatsoever. Only clean air. It was over. The ghost was gone.
Lorraine Warren slowly descended the stairs, her face filled with an awe that bordered on disbelief. Roger and Carolyn followed her, their eyes shifting from the empty spot to the figure of the young man who had saved them. He had done the impossible.
It was then that a new voice broke the sacred silence. A calm, firm voice, full of authority, coming from the top of the stairs.
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit..."
Everyone turned. In the kitchen doorway, silhouetted against the daylight, stood two men. One was Ed Warren, his face pale and his eyes wide at the scene before him. The other was an older man, in a priest's cassock and a serene gaze that was now tinged with profound confusion. He held a stole and a ritual book. It was Father Gordon.
They had arrived. The cavalry, the exorcist, the power of the Church... they had arrived to wage a war that had already ended. Their gaze fell on the devastated basement, on the Perron family crying tears of relief, and on the unknown young man holding a smoking, impossible weapon over the spot where a demon had ceased to exist.
Alex slowly lowered the pistol, weariness finally hitting him like a wave. He looked at the newcomers, then at his camera-hand, which was still recording. His punishment had turned into a salvation. And his stream had just had the most incredible ending in history.