SUMMONITORES LIBRO: PART 9

The recording ended in silence. Monsignor Vescari removed his glasses and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. Outside, Rome’s bells tolled the Angelus, their echo faint against the stone. The air in the study felt charged, as if the words he had heard still lingered, unwilling to leave. On the desk, the CD spun its final rotation, whispering to a stop like a dying breath.

He sat motionless for a time, the letter open before him, until decision overcame caution. Rising, he gathered the disc and the papers, tucked them beneath his arm, and made his way toward the Apostolic Library. As he got close, something stopped him in his tracks. He turned his head toward a group photo hanging on the wall. He’d seen it thousands of times by now – but some faint memory drew him to the names of the people in the image – written on yellowing postcard at the bottom of the frame. Scanning the card, what drew him to the image so suddenly, met his eye. He looked at the corresponding photo. Front row – second from the left. His eyes darted back to the name. Sister Rabasandratana.

Vescari drew breath sharply, turned and made his to the library, urgent now. As he entered, the hum of the air systems filled his ears. At the last checkpoint, two Swiss Guards stepped aside in silence. He unlocked the narrow iron door of Archivio IX, a vault sealed since the nineteenth century, and descended into its cool heart. His footsteps echoed from marble to marble until he reached the catalogue shelf. There, his eyes found a handwritten entry in fading ink:

“Summonitores Libro. De origine ignota. Deposited Anno Domini 1884, Index 47B.”

He followed the reference into a narrow aisle. On the lowest shelf rested a small oak chest bound with red ribbon, its surface dulled by dust. Kneeling, he traced the Latin etched across the lid—“De Daemonibus et Invocatione.” He hesitated only a moment before breaking the seal.

Inside were four slim volumes, the leather dry and flaking. For several seconds, he stared. Then he closed the chest, carried it to the furnace alcove adjoining the vault, and set it down.

He struck a match. The flame caught the dry wood instantly. Within moments, light spilled from the cracks of the oak, bright as molten metal. A low hum filled the chamber, rising to a vibration that shook the floor beneath his feet. From deep within the vault came a single shriek - thin, metallic - and then another, closer, layered until the air itself seemed to cry.

Vescari stepped back as the chest erupted. Fire licked upward, alive with motion, consuming the volumes with impossible speed.

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