Chapter 15: The Exorcism of Ella Martinez
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Clark's POV
They called her a demon online.
Twitter threads flooded with blurry photos, taken outside churches, showing Ella standing defiantly in black. Facebook groups with names like Defend the Faith and Catholics United called for her arrest. One meme said: "Possessed by attention, not demons."
Clark Monteverde watched the chaos unfold from a cafe in Quezon City, sipping over-steeped tea while the internet screamed her name.
He hadn’t seen her since the night she handed Ely the flash drive—the one that now torched headlines across Catholic nations. Videos. Documents. Secret transfers. Audio recordings of crying boys behind confessionals.
And her voice.
"They said I needed saving. I needed exorcism. All I needed was to be believed."
Clark had spent the last week rewatching that vlog, piecing together the puzzle. The girl he once filmed for a tourism campaign in San Agustin was not the same Ella Martinez now being crucified in comment sections. The old Ella smiled shyly and followed directions. The new Ella stared directly into the camera—unblinking, unyielding.
The new Ella was dangerous.
And he liked that.
He closed his laptop, paid in cash, and walked to the nearest church. It was locked. Probably for good reason. People had begun throwing red paint at doors and whispering Latin curses they barely understood. The news claimed satanists were rising. Clark knew better.
It wasn’t the devil they feared.
It was exposure.
He pulled out his phone. One message from Ely: "I hope you’re not scared of becoming collateral. We chose this road. No turning back."
Clark replied simply: _"When do we meet again?"
That night, he drove south. Past the lights. Past the security checkpoints. Into a safehouse where Ella waited—no longer hiding, just resting. Her hair was shorter. Her wrists were bandaged. Her voice was raspy from too many speeches.
"You came," she said.
"I read everything," he replied.
"Do you believe me now?"
"I never stopped."
For the first time in days, she exhaled.
She handed him an envelope. Photos. Names. The next list.
"There are still survivors who haven’t spoken. Some won’t. But the Church is trying to silence them permanently."
Clark opened the folder. The youngest was eleven. The oldest, a former seminarian now lost in rehab.
"You want me to film again?" he asked.
"No," Ella said. "I want you to witness."
He nodded.
He would. Not as a director. Not as a savior.
But as someone willing to stand in the fire with her.
And that, she knew, was the real exorcism.
Not of demons.
But of silence.
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