The first thump stirred Percy from his restless sleep. His body tensed, but his mind—still sluggish with exhaustion—resisted wakefulness. A second thud followed, louder this time. The noise reverberated through the farmhouse’s wooden beams with a bitter groan.


    Percy’s eyes snapped open.


    Next to him, Hex groaned and rubbed his face. “Bloody hell, Percy, keep it down—some of us are trying to sleep.”


    Before Percy could answer, a third impact struck, splintering wood somewhere below.


    They both sat up.


    For a moment, they listened. The house creaked, and a faint wind whistled through cracks in the walls. There it was again: a rhythmic pounding from below—slow, persistent. Something was trying to get out.


    A door creaked open down the hall, and Percy realized the girls were already awake.


    Hex threw off the blanket and swung his legs over the side of the cot, reaching for his boots. Percy scrambled up as well, his pulse hammering in his throat.


    Elsbeth stood at the top of the stairs, revolver in hand, her eyes wide but steady. Cordelia stood behind her, listening. Hex peered down the stairwell, but darkness swallowed the lower steps whole.


    “Lanterns,” Hex said. “Can’t see a bloody thing.”


    Elsbeth tossed Percy a tin of matches. His hands trembled as he lit both lamps, their flames clawing at the gloom. The thudding from below had escalated to a frenzied, splintering rhythm. Whatever was down there would break free soon.


    “We need to move,” Elsbeth whispered. The noise below was growing frantic. If they hurried, they might still make it to the carriage before it broke free.


    They crept downstairs, lantern light spilling over the sitting room’s disheveled furniture. The floorboards shuddered with each blow. Percy’s throat tightened as Harrow materialized in the kitchen archway, hackles raised, fangs bared, and a guttural growl rumbling in his chest.


    Elsbeth gripped the revolver, eyes locked on the wooden hatch in the kitchen floor.


    The root cellar.


    The hatch door buckled, wood groaning under the force of another strike. A deep, wet snarl vibrated from beneath the house.


    Hex inhaled. “Percy—stand on the hatch.”


    “What?” Percy hissed, eyes darting toward him.


    “Just do it,” Hex muttered, already moving toward the fireplace.


    Percy shot a panicked glance at Cordelia, who nodded once, calm as a blade. Grimacing, he planted his boots on the shuddering hatch, lantern abandoned on the counter. The wood heaved beneath him like a living thing.


    Cordelia and Elsbeth exchanged glances as Hex seized the iron poker from the hearth. He hefted it, rolling his shoulders like a cricketer stepping up to bowl.


    The hatch door splintered further, dust sifting from the ceiling as another guttural moan seeped through the cracks.


    Hex tightened his grip.


    Straight wrists. Elbow high. Play the ball late.


    Coach’s old advice flickered through his mind, absurd yet steadying. He took an experimental swing, the poker slicing air with a whistle.


    This wasn’t cricket. No polite applause and no sunlit pitch. But if that thing broke through, he’d drive it back to whatever hell spat it out—with the full force of a perfect strike.


    Percy clung to the hatch, knees trembling. “Hex—!”


    “Eyes on the target,” Hex muttered, stance widening. “Time the stroke.”


    Then—


    The hatch exploded upward with a violent crack.


    The violent surge of the hatch sent Percy sprawling backward into the pantry. Shelves laden with jars of preserves and vats of oil shuddered violently.


    A large vat teetering above his head reminded Percy of Mrs. Leeford—the Wren household’s iron-fisted housekeeper, his surrogate mother, and undisputed tyrant of the kitchen.


    She’d skin him alive if he made such a mess—again. How many times had he spilled oil or lard across her pristine floors? Her voice would ring out as she chased him, slipping and sliding in the chaos. It had been pure comedy at the time, but in the end, she always caught him, dragging him around by the ear and scolding him as he scrubbed the floor.


    The first ghoul heaved itself through the hatch before he could right himself. Hex swung hard, the iron poker striking true with a dull crack—but the thing was too fast. Its unnatural momentum carried them both backward, crashing into the sitting room. They were a flurry of tangled limbs, groans, and guttural snarls in the dark.


    Hex hit the ground hard, the ghoul looming over him, its mouth yawning in a grotesque, lipless grin. Its teeth—long, splintered remnants—glistened with black spittle as it lunged for his throat.


    Cordelia seized the brittle remains of its sparse, wiry hair and yanked it backward with all her strength. The ghoul screeched when her booted heel slammed into its ribs. The blow sent it careening into the wall, jarring loose a picture frame, which fell with a clatter against its skull.


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    She got her first good look at the creature, and what she saw froze her breath. The ghoul’s gray, mottled flesh clung to a skeletal frame, mouth twisted in a rictus grin. Once a woman, now a monster, it stared at her from lifeless sockets, its unhinged jaw exposing broken teeth and clawed fingers that twitched against the floor like a spider testing new legs.


    And above all—


    It reeked of death.


    Before Cordelia could react, movement in the corner of her eye sent a spike of fear through her chest. She twisted to see Elsbeth, pistol raised, aiming—not at the first ghoul but at something else.


    A second creature was pulling itself from the hatch, its clawed fingers digging into the wooden floor. Its movements were fluid and fast, and the black pits of its eyes locked onto Elsbeth.


    Elsbeth froze. Percy crouched behind it. If she fired and the shot missed—she would hit Percy. Her fingers trembled for a fraction of a second before she turned and took aim at the first ghoul instead. It rose from the wall, shoulders hunched forward, its mouth curling into a wicked sneer.


    Breathe in, steady your aim, and squeeze the trigger.


    The shot rang out like a thunderclap.


    The muzzle flash illuminated the room, stark shadows flaring against the walls. The bullet struck home—a small, perfect hole punched clean through the creature’s sunken chest.


    It reeled back, its body jerking from the impact.


    But it didn’t fall.


    A thick, black ooze, viscous and tar-like, welled up from the wound, dribbling down its gaunt ribs in sluggish strands that clung to the wasted flesh like ink soaking into old parchment.


    No blood. No cry of pain.


    Only silence.


    Then, the ghoul moved—slow and deliberate. Its withered fingers curled toward the wound, pressing against the ragged hole.


    And then—it poked at it.


    Elsbeth’s breath hitched as it wiggled a long, bony finger into the wound, tilting its head with something that almost resembled curiosity. The black ooze bubbled as it parted around the intrusion—the texture of the gouged flesh resembling something rotten, gelatinous, and wrong.


    Then, to her mounting horror, the ghoul grinned.


    A dry, rattling laugh rasped through its throat—a gurgling, wet sound that sent ice knifing through her veins.


    Elsbeth stepped back, bile rising in her throat. Her grip on the pistol tightened, her breath shallow, rapid.


    The thing’s grin widened.


    And then it lunged.


    <hr>


    At that exact moment, Harrow attacked. The two forms collided, his powerful jaws clamping down on the ghoul’s arm with a deep, snarling growl. The creature staggered back against the wall, but if it felt pain, it gave no sign. With an almost casual flick of its grotesque limb, it swung wide, hurling Harrow across the room like a rag doll.


    The dog slammed into the wall near the kitchen, his body hitting the wooden boards with a sickening thud. He slumped to the floor, shallow gashes carved into his shoulder, his breath ragged.


    Cordelia’s scream tore through the chaos. “Harrow!”


    For the briefest moment, everything slowed. Her world narrowed to the still form of her companion, her blood turning to ice.


    There was no time for distraction as the second ghoul skittered across the floor. Its movements were a nightmarish parody of life, its limbs jerking and contorting as it closed the distance.


    Elsbeth threw herself sideways, feeling the touch of its rotting flesh as the creature rushed past and smashed into the couch.


    “Up the stairs! Now!” Hex roared, shoving Cordelia toward the steps.


    Cordelia resisted, her wide, panicked eyes locked on Harrow, who struggled to rise from the floor.


    “Go!” Elsbeth barked, grabbing the simple wooden chair from the writing desk and taking a defensive position on the bottom step. The flimsy chair wouldn’t be much of a weapon, but it was all she had. They might have a chance if she could hold them back long enough to reach the upstairs bedroom.


    “Hex!” she gritted out. “Let’s go!”


    But Hex wasn’t moving.


    She saw his eyes flick to the kitchen—where Percy stood, pale and unmoving, like a spectator watching the scene unfold.


    Hex wasn’t going to leave Percy.


    “There’s a door in the kitchen!” Elsbeth snapped. “Percy can get out! We have to go, Hex—, now!”


    Hex’s grip tightened on the poker, his knuckles white.


    The second ghoul twisted its head, its blank eyes locking onto him. It gathered, shifting onto all fours, muscles coiling beneath its withered flesh.


    Then it sprang.


    Hex managed to react right before the thing was upon him. He swung the poker with a roar, the iron rod ringing out against the creature’s skull with a sickening crack. The impact sent the ghoul crashing into the small front window. Glass shattered, the delicate chime of splintering panes an eerie contrast to the brutal violence of the moment.


    Elsbeth turned as the female ghoul lurched forward, its movements now frantic. Its claws raked the air as it charged the stairs, its jaws snapping like rusty shears and loose skin peeling away with every manic clack of its teeth.


    Elsbeth slammed the chair forward, jamming it into the creature’s chest. The ghoul shrieked, clawing at the wood, but Elsbeth held firm, her boots digging into the worn floorboards.


    Behind her, she heard Cordelia muttering an incantation—her voice low, urgent, and crackling with unseen power.


    Elsbeth had no idea what spell her friend was working, but she prayed it would be enough to stop this thing.


    Hex stood in the center of the main room, staring at the second ghoul as it twitched and twisted upright, preparing to lunge again. He stood between them. If they both attacked at once, he wouldn’t stand a chance.


    Elsbeth bared her teeth, bracing herself. If she could keep this one focused on her, Hex might have a chance to take the other one out. She threw her weight forward, kicking out, her boot slamming into the ghoul’s chest.


    Focus. Keep it here.


    “Come on, you rotting devil!” she snarled, voice raw. “Come and get me!”


    The ghoul’s head snapped up, sunken sockets locking onto her.


    Then, with a ravenous glare, it lurched forward.


    <hr>


    Then, Harrow was up and back in the fray. Bloodied and limping, he launched himself toward the stairs, his robust frame colliding with the female ghoul like a battering ram. His fangs found flesh—or what remained of it—and he clamped down hard on her left arm. A deep, guttural growl rumbled from his throat as he locked his jaws, his teeth sinking deep into sinew, crushing with enough force to snap a man’s bone in two.


    The ghoul staggered under the weight of the attack.


    But there was no scream. No pain. No frantic struggle to dislodge him.


    She turned her head slow and deliberate, looking at him with mild irritation.


    Harrow snarled, shaking his head with malice, refusing to let go.


    Rancid, grayish flesh tore beneath his fangs, peeling away in long, wet strips to reveal the blackened muscle underneath.


    Still, the ghoul made no sound. And then—it sighed—a slow, bored sound. Then, with unnatural strength, it wrenched its arm free. Not with panic. Not with urgency. Only cold, dispassionate efficiency.


    The flesh did not rip cleanly. It peeled. Like old parchment curling in fire. Long, glistening ribbons of shredded skin dangled from the exposed white of the humerus.


    A sickening squelch filled the room as Harrow staggered backward, his muzzle slick with the dark, putrid ichor that oozed like tar from the wound.


    The ghoul did not even look at the ruin of her arm. Did not acknowledge the horrific mutilation. With torn skin hung in dripping shreds, it gave no notice.


    Her attention was already back on the stairs, already on Cordelia and Elsbeth. Already moving forward.


    “Oh God…”


    Elsbeth’s voice was a whisper. Her fingers gripped the stair railing so tightly the wood seemed to groan beneath her knuckles.


    It doesn’t care.


    The ghoul took a slow, deliberate step forward.


    Its ruined arm swayed at its side, the jagged edges of torn flesh scraping against the wooden banister with a sickening, wet drag.


    Cordelia and Elsbeth recoiled, a cold wave of nausea rolling through them.


    This thing wasn’t only a perversion of life. It was something worse.


    It was something that refused to die.