The kitchen air thickened, congealing into something suffocating, something wrong. The agent stood over Elle, fingers still curled over her scalp, but its gaze had shifted—far away, beyond the walls of the house, beyond the limits of human perception. A distant, lingering pause, like listening for a whisper just beyond the veil. Then, it began to speak. Low, guttural. Words that slithered rather than sounded. The syllables scraped through the room, leaving behind a taste of rust and decay, as though reality itself recoiled from their presence. Elle’s body shuddered violently. A strangled whimper escaped her lips, but she did not pull away. She could not pull away.
The agent’s grasp was gentle, almost reverent, yet its power coiled around her like an iron vice. Ronan and Malcolm stood frozen at the threshold, watching as the shadows in the room deepened, stretching unnaturally along the floor and walls, writhing like living things. The light above flickered once, then sputtered out completely, plunging them into an oppressive darkness where the agent’s voice became the only thing left in existence.
A presence stirred. Something vast. A tremor rattled through the walls, the floors, the very foundation of the house. A sound like wood groaning under immense pressure filled the air, yet there was no movement—only the sensation of being watched and scrutinized from all sides. The agent’s voice climbed, layered with more voices—hundreds, thousands—until it was no longer a chant but a chorus. A hymn of the forsaken, singing in worship of something incomprehensible.
A single, exhaling breath. Slow and measured. Unfathomably deep. The kitchen door swung open violently, slamming against the wall with enough force to splinter wood. A pressure, unseen yet undeniable, pressed into the room, forcing the air from their lungs. The space itself seemed to shrink, as if something enormous were forcing its way inside, distorting reality to make room for its arrival. The agent’s trembling hands lifted, arms outstretched, its broken, slack jaw quivering in euphoric reverence. “Our Lord… …arrives.” From the shadows, a shape began to take form.
At first, it was nothing more than an absence—an emptiness so profound that the darkness around it seemed lesser, insignificant. Then, within that void, a pair of eyes opened. Slow and deliberate. Watchful, and patient. White and gelatinous, slick like something half-formed, as if they had not been meant for sight but for something far worse.
The air held still. Not in relief, not in absence—but in waiting.
Vruhlithis did not lurch forward, did not attack, did not speak. It only watched. The shifting, gelatinous eyes floated across the dark expanse of its form, sliding across each of them, weighing, measuring. The house creaked under its presence, as if it were being hollowed out, made into something larger on the inside—something that could contain it.
And then, it receded. Not gone, not truly, but settling, bleeding into the walls, into the very framework of the house itself. The shadows swallowed it whole, and in an instant, the house was just a house again. Only the scent remained—damp and rotten, like wood left to fester beneath the floorboards. The agent was gone.
Elle slumped forward in her chair, body trembling, her breath coming in short, strangled bursts. Her skin was grey, clammy, drenched in cold sweat. She wiped at her mouth, smearing saliva across her wrist, eyes unfocused. “He’s inside the house now,” she rasped, her voice so hoarse it was barely a whisper. “There’s nowhere left to go.”
Malcolm approached carefully. “Eleanor—”
“Don’t,” she cut him off, squeezing her eyes shut. Her fingers curled against the table, digging in as if to ground herself in something, anything real. “I can still hear him.”
Ronan swallowed hard. “Then fight it.”
Elle gave a weak, bitter laugh. “You don’t get it.” She turned her head slightly, just enough to meet Ronan’s gaze. Her eyes—those sharp, knowing eyes—were dull, rimmed with sickly yellow. “I don’t think I want to.”
Silence.
Malcolm exhaled sharply. “That’s not true.”
Elle scoffed, shaking her head, but there was no conviction behind it. She knew as well as they did that if she truly wanted to surrender, she already would have.
A sudden, sharp thud rang through the ceiling above them. Then another. Footsteps. Ronan and Malcolm both turned toward the sound. Something was moving upstairs. Slow and deliberate. Elle stiffened in her chair, her breath hitching. “It’s him.”
Ronan’s fists clenched. No. This wasn’t Vruhlithis—not yet. Something else had come first.
Another thud—closer to the staircase now. Ronan moved before he could think. He stepped out of the kitchen and into the living room, staring up the stairs. At the very top of the steps, in the darkness of the hallway, it stood. The thing that had haunted Marigold in her dreams. Its bloodshot eyes were too wide, too hungry. Its gaping, slack mouth, lips curled as if caught in a silent scream. Its body twitched, jittered in sharp, unnatural spasms. And then, it bolted—disappearing into one of the rooms. Ronan stiffened. His whole body screamed at him to stay put, to not follow, but Malcolm was already moving.
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“We go together,” Malcolm muttered, striding toward the staircase.
Ronan forced his feet to move. He followed Malcolm up. The air was thick, heavy in a way it hadn’t been before, like the house itself was leaning in, pressing down on them. Watching. They reached the door where the thing had gone. It was closed now. Had it been closed before? Ronan wasn’t sure. Malcolm raised a hand, gesturing for Ronan to take the other side. Ronan obeyed, pressing his shoulder against the frame.
Malcolm’s voice was steady. “On three.”
Ronan swallowed hard.
“One.”
His pulse thundered in his ears.
“Two.”
He adjusted his grip on the handle, muscles tensing.
“Three.”
They shoved the door open—
—and Ronan was standing at the top of the stairs.
A slow, creeping sense of disorientation slid through him, like a missed step on a staircase. Malcolm was at his side, his face unreadable. He was moving forward again, just like before, leading them toward the door. Ronan hesitated. The uncertainty was sharp but fleeting, slipping away like a dream upon waking.
No, they must have just—what? Stopped? Turned around? He didn’t remember making a decision. But they were here. At the top of the stairs. And Malcolm was already taking position at the door like nothing had happened.
Ronan shook off the unease and followed.
Malcolm squared his shoulders. “Again. On three.”
“One.”
Ronan’s breath hitched.
“Two.”
His fingers twitched against the frame.
“Three.”
They shoved the door open—
—and Ronan was at the top of the stairs.
This time, he felt it.
The sensation crashed into him like a punch to the gut, like stepping onto solid ground and finding water instead.
“No, no, no, no—” His breath came sharp, uneven. His hands clenched at his sides, his heart hammering so fast it made him lightheaded. They had just done this. And the first time—hadn’t he noticed something then, too? A small slip, a second of doubt? Malcolm was already moving forward. He didn’t notice. Ronan’s stomach twisted violently. It was only happening to him.
“Malcolm,” he breathed. His own voice startled him.
Malcolm paused, looking at him. “What?”
Ronan swallowed hard, searching for how to explain something that shouldn’t be possible.
“We already did this.” His voice sounded strange to his own ears.
Malcolm frowned. “What?”
“We did this,” Ronan repeated, firmer now. “We already broke that door down—twice. And then we ended up back here.”
Malcolm’s brow furrowed, but his expression didn’t change beyond that. His silence was careful, measured, like he was searching for the trick in Ronan’s words.
Ronan clenched his fists. “I don’t think we’re getting through. I think it’s—looping. Like some kind of trap.”
Malcolm studied him. A long moment passed. Then, finally, Malcolm exhaled sharply. “What do you want to do?”
Ronan turned to the door. It stood there, innocuous, waiting. “I go in alone.”
Malcolm stiffened. “No.”
“It has to be me,” he muttered.
Malcolm’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.” Ronan faced him. “If it’s only happening to me, then I’m the one that has to break it.”
Malcolm hesitated. Ronan could see the battle in his eyes, the part of him that hated this, that knew it was a bad idea, but also understood—this was the only way. After a long pause, Malcolm nodded once. Ronan turned back to the door. He exhaled through his nose and steeled himself. He slowly creaked the door open, entering the room where the thing had disappeared, only now, time carried on as normal. Ronan stepped forward, the air inside the room thick and stagnant, pressing against his skin like a living thing. The temperature had dropped, not to an icy chill, but to a dense, suffocating stillness, as if the very atmosphere was holding its breath. The dim glow from the hallway barely pierced the darkness, casting long, distorted shadows across the walls. The space felt wrong, stretched beyond its natural dimensions, as if the room itself had shifted into something unfamiliar.
Then, he saw it. Hunched in the farthest corner, its body was grotesquely contorted, limbs bent at unnatural angles as though it had folded in on itself. A slow, labored wheeze filled the silence, thick and wet, the sound of something breathing through decayed lungs. Ronan swallowed hard and took another step forward. The floor groaned beneath his weight. The thing twitched. Its head gave a sharp, convulsive jerk, tangled strands of greasy hair shifting just enough to reveal part of its face. Its eyes—wide, bloodshot, and brimming with something unreadable—snapped toward him, unblinking. It did not move. It did not lunge. It only stared. Ronan felt his pulse hammering against his ribs. Something about the way it sat, curled inward, trembling, sent a sickening shudder through his bones. It looked as though it were waiting. Not for him to make a move, but for permission.
He took another step. The thing tensed, fingers flexing, revealing long, jagged nails that had splintered down to raw edges. Its breathing hitched, a sharp, involuntary sound, as though something inside of it was barely being held back. The air shifted behind him. The door slammed shut. Darkness swallowed the room whole. Silence. Then—a sound. Low and steady. A breath, exhaled with a slow, deliberate patience. But it did not come from the thing in the corner. Something else was in the room with him.