《Damned Be The Human》


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    Mrs. Holt wouldn¡¯t stop crying. She clung to Elle¡¯s hands with her cold, trembling fingers, her grip tight with desperation. Words poured from her in a breathless, hiccuping rush, gratitude and terror tangled together. Tears streaked down her flushed cheeks, her baby blue eyes raw and frantic. Her red hair, frizzled from stress, stuck to her damp skin, strands threatening to crawl up Elle¡¯s nose as she leaned in too close.


    Elle took a deliberate step back, peeling Maddie¡¯s fingers off with careful detachment. Distance. She needed distance from this woman¡¯s suffocating hysteria.


    Elle was tall and slender, with sharp, defined features that made her appear perpetually unimpressed. Her dark brown hair was cut short, and tucked behind her ears, and her piercing green eyes had a calculating quality as if she were always measuring the worth of what she saw. Dressed in a black leather jacket and ripped jeans, she looked more like a disaffected rock star than a demonologist.


    The driveway was cool beneath her boots, the air dry, the last remnants of daylight stretching long shadows across the pavement. Behind her, the rest of the Night Crew finished unloading their equipment from the van, working with practised efficiency. The sky was dimming, bruised with the deepening hues of dusk.


    ¡°My husband and I can¡¯t thank you enough!¡± Maddie choked out.


    Elle kept her expression measured. ¡°I¡¯m sure it¡¯s nothing to worry about. It¡¯s certainly nothing we can¡¯t handle.¡±


    Maddie¡¯s gratitude didn¡¯t touch her. It never did. They all acted like this. Clutching, pleading, convinced their haunting was unique. Special. But it never was. Nine times out of ten, it was old pipes, faulty wiring, or their own paranoia feeding into the creaks and groans of a settling house. Elle had seen it a hundred times before. And yet, here was another one, unravelling like she had personally descended into hell and returned just to save her.


    Elle suppressed the sigh building in her chest. Thankfully, Ronan was around to play damage control.


    Ronan was younger than the rest of the crew, mid-twenties at most, with shaggy black hair perpetually falling into his warm brown eyes. He had an easy charm about him, a grin that could diffuse most tensions. Dressed in a dark hoodie and jeans, he exuded a casual confidence that made him seem impervious to fear.


    ¡°You have nothing to be thankful for, Mrs. H.¡± He grinned, easy and confident. ¡°Providing peace of mind? Making homes feel safe again? That¡¯s why we do this.¡±


    Maddie sniffled, confused by his upbeat energy, yet drawn to it all the same.


    Ronan took the opportunity to flash his signature charm. ¡°But hey, if you really wanna thank us, check out our website. We upload all our investigations there. You¡¯ll love it.¡±


    Her face paled. The shine in her eyes dulled, her momentary reprieve swallowed by something distant, hopeless.


    ¡°I have to say, I admire your courage,¡± she murmured. Her gaze flickered toward the house as though afraid it was listening. ¡°But if I¡¯m being honest... I don¡¯t think this will be something you¡¯ll want on your website.¡±


    Elle felt the shift instantly. Not another hysteric. Something about the way Maddie said it made the air feel heavier.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t just another paranormal adventure.¡± Maddie¡¯s voice wavered. ¡°This one¡­ only gets worse.¡±


    And just like that, she broke again, sobbing into her hands.


    Elle glared at Ronan, who grimaced as if he¡¯d been caught kicking a puppy.


    Elle exhaled slowly before placing a hand on Maddie¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± she said, offering a tissue. ¡°We¡¯re professionals. Ronan¡ª¡± she cut him a pointed look, ¡°¡ªis our newest member. He believes our website offers us a bigger outreach so we can help more people. Unfortunately, he is not practised in the art of consolation.¡±


    Ronan held up his hands. ¡°Hey¡ª¡±


    ¡°But I have been a demonologist for seven years now.¡± Elle met Maddie¡¯s gaze directly, her voice steady, commanding. ¡°And we will get to the bottom of this.¡±


    Maddie swallowed hard, a flicker of hope surfacing. She nodded. ¡°Thank you,¡± she whispered, staring down at her shoes.


    Elle rolled her eyes and turned away.


    The front door opened, and Daniel Holt stepped outside. He was a tall man with a broad frame, his salt-and-pepper hair neatly trimmed. His posture was composed, his movements steady, but there was something tight about his jaw, something wary in his sharp blue eyes.


    ¡°Hey, Mads,¡± he said. ¡°Can you help me zip up the luggage? You know I still don¡¯t have a handle on that trick you do.¡±


    ¡°Oh, sure, sweetie.¡± Maddie¡¯s voice softened, and she followed him inside.


    Ronan raised an eyebrow. ¡°Luggage?¡±


    Elle barely glanced at him. ¡°They insisted they couldn¡¯t stay in the house another night. Not until the ¡®evil¡¯ was gone. Or something like that.¡±


    Ronan huffed a quiet laugh, shifting his weight as he took another look at the house. ¡°Jesus. You really think this place is that bad?¡±


    Elle watched the last bit of daylight fade behind the trees, the house looming in its absence.


    ¡°It¡¯s only ten minutes out of town,¡± she said as if that meant anything. ¡°I¡¯m sure we¡¯ve dealt with worse.¡±


    Ronan and Elle saw the Holts off as they drove away, Ronan waving with an absent-minded smile.


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    ¡°Stop that. You look like an amateur,¡± Elle muttered, arms crossed.


    Ronan shot her an offended look. ¡°Sorry.¡±


    ¡°Come on. Let¡¯s see what the others are up to.¡± She turned on her heel and stepped inside.


    The house swallowed them in silence. The air was thick and cold, like stepping into a crypt. Ronan shuddered. In the dim living room, Father Mal was dressed in a black clerical shirt, worn leather jacket, and heavy boots. Kneeling, his head bowed, lips moving in hushed Latin prayers. Mid-sixties, around six feet tall. He was broad-shouldered but slightly hunched from years of stress and age. One could see he was once strong but had softened with time. His hair was salt and pepper, with a lot more salt, short but unkempt, usually combed back with little care.


    ¡°Mal! Come on, we need to set up in the kitchen,¡± Elle called, only for Mal to lift a hand, silencing her. She exhaled sharply, arms folding tighter.


    Mal finished his prayer, made the sign of the cross, and slowly opened his weary dark brown, knowing eyes. He stood with a groan, tucking his glasses into his pocket.


    ¡°Welcome, Your Highness,¡± Elle quipped. ¡°Care to do your job?¡±


    Mal smirked through his rough stubble, stretching his back as he spoke with whiskey on his breath. ¡°When you reach my age, you kneel while you still can.¡±


    ¡°And was there a good reason? You couldn¡¯t have done that prayer later?¡±


    Mal¡¯s face darkened. ¡°We¡¯re not alone.¡± He tucked away his rosary.


    Before Elle could press him further, the sound of violent retching echoed from the kitchen.


    ¡°Marigold?¡± Ronan¡¯s voice broke with concern as he rushed forward, the others close behind.


    Marigold was bent over the sink, trembling as she wiped her mouth, her golden hair clinging to her damp forehead. She was in her late twenties. Standing at roughly five and a half feet tall, her build was lithe and flexible. She moved with effortless grace. Her eyes were soft and hazel, shifting between green and brown. She had fair skin, with warm undertones and freckles dusted her nose and cheekbones.


    Ronan was at her side instantly, holding her hair, and rubbing her back in slow circles. ¡°You okay?¡±


    She swallowed hard, still pale. ¡°Yeah... but this place is bad, guys.¡±


    Mal crossed himself. Elle frowned. Ronan¡¯s jaw tightened.


    ¡°There¡¯s something here,¡± Marigold murmured. ¡°It doesn¡¯t like us. It doesn¡¯t want us here. And it¡¯s making me feel sick.¡±


    The tension was creeping in. They hadn¡¯t even set up yet, and already, it felt like something was watching. Waiting.


    The Night Crew moved methodically through the house, each member taking their role without the need for instruction. This wasn¡¯t their first case.


    Elle adjusted her earpiece as she unzipped a heavy-duty black case, revealing a REM-Pod, its small antenna already humming with electromagnetic sensitivity. She placed it in the centre of the living room, where Mal had prayed earlier. It would detect fluctuations in the electromagnetic field¡ªif something unseen moved near it, it would light up and emit a high-pitched tone.


    Across the room, Ronan set up the tripod-mounted camera, its infrared mode switched on. "Static cam in the living room is live," he reported, checking the feed on his tablet. "Setting up another one in the hallway." He lifted the second camera, adjusting the angle to cover the length of the dark corridor leading to the bedrooms.


    Marigold was kneeling near the base of the stairs, rolling out a motion sensor strip. ¡°These are super sensitive,¡± she muttered. ¡°Even a shift in air pressure will set them off.¡± She pressed the adhesive edges into the carpet, then stepped back, testing the tripwire effect¡ªno one could pass without triggering the embedded laser grid.


    Father Mal set a small, black spirit box on the coffee table. He adjusted the frequency sweep rate, letting the device scan through AM and FM radio stations rapidly. It produced a steady, unsettling white noise. He ran his hand over a rosary in his pocket, murmuring a prayer under his breath before stepping away.


    "EMF''s spiking a little in the hallway," Ronan noted, holding up the EMF detector, its lights flickering between green and yellow. "Could just be electrical interference, but it¡¯s worth monitoring."


    Elle walked past him, holding an SLS camera, a device that used infrared light to map human-like figures in the environment. Through the screen, the empty hallway appeared in grainy black and white. Nothing. Then, for a second¡ªa distorted, flickering outline. It was gone as soon as it appeared.


    "Did you see that?" she muttered, angling the camera again.


    "See what?" Ronan asked, stepping closer.


    Elle hesitated, scanning again. The hallway was empty. She shook her head. "Never mind. Let¡¯s finish setting up."


    Ronan placed an audio recorder on the kitchen counter, setting it to EVP mode. Any unexplained voices would be picked up in the background frequencies. He double-checked the settings, making sure it would run continuously throughout the night.


    After a final pass, Elle clicked on her walkie-talkie. "Equipment check. Static cams are live, motion sensors set, REM-Pod active, EVP recording, and EMF readings are being logged. Spirit box will go active later."


    Mal exhaled. ¡°Then we wait.¡±


    The house seemed to exhale with them, the silence now heavy with expectation.


    The team sat around the wooden dining table, dim yellow light casting long shadows along the walls. Their takeout containers were half-empty.


    Mal nursed a whiskey, the amber liquid swirling as he took a slow sip. Not enough to be drunk. Just enough to feel it. He exhaled deeply, warm and at ease despite the tension hanging over them.


    Ronan, ever the fool, tried to lighten the mood. ¡°So, Marigold, does puking on site mean it¡¯s a guaranteed haunting? Or do we actually have to spend the night here? You can always share my bed.¡±


    Marigold smirked, shaking her head. ¡°No thanks, funnily enough, I''m not in a very romantic mood tonight, Ronan.¡±


    Elle barely looked up from the pile of notes and journals spread in front of her. She adjusted her glasses, flipping a page in her leather-bound notebook. When she finally spoke, her voice was smooth and deliberate, the tone of someone who knew exactly what she was talking about.


    ¡°This case is different.¡± She leaned forward, her green eyes gleaming in the dim light. ¡°The Holt house doesn¡¯t have your usual ¡®unsettled spirit¡¯ nonsense. The signs point to something much worse. I''ve really only ever experienced something like this once before.¡±


    She tapped a page. ¡°Knocking in threes. It¡¯s not just random noise¡ªit''s a mockery of the Holy Trinity. Classic demonic behavior. They mimic. They degrade. They invert.¡±


    She flipped to another section. ¡°The whispering? The voices denying the existence of Heaven? That¡¯s called spiritual erosion. It¡¯s designed to break a person down over time. Doubt is a demon''s greatest tool.¡±


    Ronan shifted uncomfortably. ¡°Sounds dramatic. I don''t think doubt can be considered an aspect of haunting.¡±


    Elle didn¡¯t blink. ¡°Doubt leads to fear. Fear leads to despair. Despair is an invitation.¡±


    "An invitation to what?" Ronan inquired.


    Elle ignored Ronan, pushing a photo toward them¡ªdeep scratch marks along a wooden floor, jagged and uneven. ¡°Then there¡¯s this. Three deep scratches. Not human. Not random. A beast-like entity.¡±


    Mal drained his glass, nodding solemnly. ¡°Demonic signatures. No question.¡±


    Marigold tapped her fingers anxiously against the table. ¡°It feeds on despair and doubt... so what? What¡¯s the endgame?¡±


    Elle inhaled sharply. ¡°Possession. Corruption. It¡¯s not always about taking over a person¡¯s body. Sometimes, the goal is simpler.¡± She closed the notebook. ¡°Make us break our faith. Make us lose hope. And once we do, we belong to it.¡±


    A heavy silence settled over the table.


    And then¡ª


    The spirit box crackled to life.


    A burst of static filled the room. The white noise hummed, stretching unbearably long. Every breath in the room held still.


    A faint, muffled voice crackled through.


    ¡°Hello?¡±

 Stay

    The crew leapt from their chairs in unison, drawn toward the spirit box like moths to a flame.


    ¡°Camera''s still rolling. We got that,¡± Ronan confirmed, hoisting the heavy camera onto his shoulder, his pulse pounding in his ears.


    Elle snatched up the spirit box, her fingers tightening around its edges. She leaned in, voice steady despite the creeping unease. ¡°If there¡¯s anyone¡­ or anything here, now¡¯s the time to make yourself known.¡±


    For a moment, nothing. Just static crackling through the speaker, a suffocating silence stretching between them.


    Ronan handed Marigold the infrared camera. ¡°Take this.¡±


    She adjusted her grip, struggling under its weight as he made his way to the SLS camera. ¡°I¡¯ll take this one.¡±


    Marigold moved toward the living room, the dim glow of the screen casting eerie shadows along her face. Mal muttered a quiet prayer under his breath, the familiar cadence of Latin filling the room.


    Then¡ª


    BOOM!


    A deafening bang erupted from upstairs, rattling the ceiling. The floor trembled beneath them. Something was moving.


    The team rushed to the staircase, feet pounding against the old wood.


    ¡°The fuck was that?¡± Ronan¡¯s voice cut through the tension, sharp and unsteady. He gripped the EMF detector, the device was flickering red.


    ¡°It¡¯s spiking¡ªhard!¡± he hissed, his hands trembling. ¡°Something is right here.¡±


    The REM-Pod in the hallway blared to life, its beeping shrill and frantic.


    Elle¡¯s breath hitched. ¡°We need confirmation! Can you do that again?¡±


    A beat of silence¡ª


    Knock. Knock. Knock.


    A rhythmic three knocks. Measured. Mocking.


    ¡°Three knocks!¡± Marigold gasped, gripping the infrared tightly.


    Mal crossed himself, his movements swift and precise. A cold wave crashed over them, and the temperature plummeted. Their breath curled in the air, visible puffs of fear. The chill sank beneath their clothes, sending shivers racing down their spines.


    Ronan swung the SLS camera up the stairs, scanning desperately. The EMF detector remained in the red, unwavering.


    The screen glitched.


    A horrific, high-pitched frequency shrieked through the device, distorting the image.


    Suddenly¡ª


    A figure appeared.


    It wasn¡¯t human. Not even close.


    Its limbs twitched unnaturally, bent at grotesque angles. The outline flickered in and out as if reality itself was rejecting it. Then, with a sickening lurch, it crawled along the ceiling, its movements jerky, fragmented, unnatural.


    Ronan¡¯s stomach turned to ice. His grip tightened around the camera, fingers going numb. His body screamed to move, to run.


    His voice barely scraped out: ¡°Guys¡­ this is not a fucking ghost.¡±


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    The figure vanished.


    Ronan stumbled back, his breath heaving, his heart hammering against his ribs. The silence was deafening.


    Until¡ª


    The spirit box crackled.


    A sharp, rasping woman¡¯s voice hissed through the static: ¡°Leave.¡±


    A high-pitched shriek followed: ¡°We are watching.¡±


    Then, a guttural growl¡ªdeep, inhuman, vibrating through the walls.


    ¡°We mean you no harm,¡± Marigold spoke carefully, though her voice wavered. ¡°We want to know your story. Who are you?¡±


    Ronan turned to her, his face pale, eyes rimmed with unshed tears.


    ¡°Mari,¡± he whispered, voice thin. ¡°What I saw on the SLS¡­¡±


    She held his gaze, something unspoken passing between them.


    ¡°¡­ It¡¯s not human,¡± he finished, the words barely audible. The dread in his voice was suffocating.


    Out of nowhere¡ª


    Mal gasped, clutching his chest. His body jerked forward, eyes wide in agony. He let out a strangled groan, his fingers clawing at his shirt.


    ¡°Mal?¡± Elle grabbed his arm. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±


    Mal¡¯s hands shook violently as he ripped open his shirt¡ª


    Three deep gouges were carved into his flesh. Fresh blood seeped from the wounds, running in thick, jagged lines down his torso.


    His rosary snapped, beads scattering across the floor like falling stars.


    And the house watched.


    ¡°Oh my God,¡± Marigold murmured, covering her mouth with trembling fingers. She lowered the camera to the floor as she sank to her knees, vulnerability radiating from her shaking frame.


    Her hair lifted. Weightless. Suspended.


    A second later, it jerked backwards violently as if yanked by an invisible hand.


    ¡°OH MY GOD!¡± she screamed. ¡°RONAN!¡±


    Ronan lunged toward her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, his own breath ragged with fear. The SLS camera weighed heavy in his grip, nearly pulling him down. He let it down slowly¡ªbut as soon as it touched the floor, the figure appeared again.


    Ronan¡¯s chest heaved. His voice was raw with frustration. ¡°What do you want?!¡±


    Mal¡¯s voice cut through the chaos, deep and commanding despite the blood seeping down his chest.


    ¡°Speak your name, demon! So that I may banish you back to the depths of hell!¡±


    The REM-Pod flipped over on its own, the impact echoing through the house.


    ¡°Fuck this! We gotta get outta here!¡± Ronan shouted, whipping around to Elle.


    Elle, jaw clenched, voice steady despite the madness unfolding around them: ¡°NO. We need to get to the bottom of this.¡±


    Ronan gaped at her. ¡°Are you fucking kidding me?! We have more than enough proof to warrant an exorcism!¡±


    Elle¡¯s eyes burned with defiance. ¡°I said no!¡±


    SLAM!


    A door upstairs. The sound was deafening, reverberating through the walls.


    Everyone inhaled sharply, chests rising and falling in panic.


    The lights flickered violently, casting erratic shadows that twisted and lurched like living things.


    The EVP recorder crackled, no longer silent¡ª


    Whispers. Low, unintelligible. But they were speaking. A language that didn''t exist. Primeval and grotesque.


    Mal, weak but standing firm, pressed his rosary to his chest and began reciting Latin prayers aloud. The whispers grew louder, merging, layering over one another, voices overlapping in a frantic, incomprehensible chant.


    ¡°EEEAAAAGGGGHH!¡±


    A bloodcurdling screech erupted from the spirit box, a noise so inhuman, so ear-splittingly raw, it ripped through the air like tearing flesh.


    Elle¡¯s breath hitched. She stared into the flickering void of the room, her voice coming in a measured but forceful whisper.


    ¡°Who are you?¡±


    The fireplace exploded, sending embers across the floor. Heat blasted outward, searing the air.


    Then, the spirit box spoke.


    A voice that was not human.


    ¡°Vruhlithis¡­¡±


    Everything stopped.


    The lights went dead.


    No more flickering. No whispers. No sound beyond the calm, crackling fire.


    But the silence was wrong and smothering.


    Marigold trembled violently, gripping Ronan¡¯s sleeve. Her voice was barely a whisper: ¡°I don¡¯t want to be here anymore.¡±


    Mal¡¯s face was pale, but his eyes burned with conviction. ¡°We need to banish it.¡±


    Elle lifted a hand, her voice sharp, unwavering. ¡°I said no! Everybody shut up.¡±


    The clock on the wall stopped ticking.


    A long, groaning creak split the silence.


    A door slowly swung open, its hinges shrieking into the stillness.


    It led to the basement.


    The crew turned, drawn toward it like prey facing the mouth of a predator.


    The static of the spirit box hummed through the air, ringing in the darkness.


    Then¡ª


    That same, low, guttural voice from before.


    ¡°Stay¡­¡±

 Forsaken

    The group stood frozen, staring at the open door. The air felt thick, pressing down on them like a crypt¡¯s embrace.


    ¡°That couldn¡¯t be a more obvious trap,¡± Ronan muttered, his voice tight. ¡°We¡¯re leaving.¡± His tone was calm, but the tension in his body betrayed him.


    ¡°Like hell you are,¡± Elle snapped, stepping forward.


    ¡°I¡¯m leaving!¡± Ronan¡¯s voice sharpened, his chest rising as he loomed toward Elle, jabbing a finger into his chest.


    ¡°I¡¯m coming with you,¡± Marigold said softly, her arms wrapped around herself as if trying to ward off the unbearable cold that had settled into the house. Overhead, the light from the ceiling seemed to make the shadows sharper, and the cold felt even more cruel.


    Mal stood apart from them, his gaze fixed¡ªnot on the basement door, but the attic. His expression was unreadable.


    ¡°You can¡¯t just walk away!¡± Elle shouted, storming after them into the kitchen as they began hastily stuffing their gear into their bags.


    ¡°This is your job! Our job! You can¡¯t just refuse.¡±


    Ronan spun, eyes blazing. ¡°Look at Mal¡¯s chest, Eleanor!¡± He pointed, voice cracking with frustration. ¡°The man has the mark of the beast, he¡¯s probably cursed or some shit. Thanks to you!¡±


    No one had ever seen him this shaken. His hands trembled as he shoved a camera into his pack.


    ¡°Now we¡¯re leaving. If you wanna stay, be my guest.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re cowards!¡± Elle spat. ¡°You¡¯re going to run away, leaving the Holts to deal with this?¡±


    ¡°The Holts can move,¡± Ronan shot back, his glare sharp enough to cut glass. ¡°I only get one life. I¡¯d like to keep it.¡±


    ¡°They are depending on us, you fucking asshole!¡± Elle¡¯s voice wavered with fury.


    ¡°Oh, for the love of God!¡± Ronan threw up his hands. ¡°Don¡¯t act like you give a shred of a shit about the Holts! You¡¯re not in this for them! You¡¯re not some noble warrior of justice, Elle. You do this for you¡ªeither because you like it, or because you¡¯re punishing yourself. Either way, I¡¯m done being part of your redemption arc.¡±


    Elle¡¯s lips curled into a sneer. ¡°Sounds like someone¡¯s projecting.¡±


    Ronan lunged forward.


    ¡°Ronan, don¡¯t!¡± Marigold gasped, grabbing his arm, but he tore free.


    His face stopped inches from Elle¡¯s, his voice a low, threatening whisper. ¡°Try to stop me.¡±


    He turned toward the door, but Mal stepped in front of him, blocking his path.


    ¡°Mal¡­ I like you, man, but if you don¡¯t move¡ª¡±


    Mal tilted his head, unconcerned. ¡°What?¡± His voice was smooth. ¡°You gonna fight an old man?¡± He glanced down at his bleeding chest. ¡°A demon already tried.¡± His gaze flicked back up, sharp with challenge. ¡°I¡¯d like to see what you can do.¡±


    Ronan clenched his jaw.


    Mal didn¡¯t flinch.


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    ¡°Now, Marigold,¡± Mal called, still facing Ronan, ¡°Would you mind treating my wounds? I am in tremendous pain.¡±


    Marigold hesitated, her body still tense from the argument. But after a breath, she nodded. ¡°Take a seat.¡±


    Ronan glared at Elle, still seething.


    ¡°Oh, would you two please just sit down?¡± Mal exhaled, lowering himself into a chair. ¡°Let¡¯s talk about this like adults. The demon¡¯s not going anywhere.¡±


    The house shuddered.


    Everyone stiffened. A cold rush of air slithered through the room like something unseen had exhaled.


    Mal just smirked. ¡°See?¡±


    Marigold forced herself to focus, tending to Mal¡¯s wounds with shaky hands. Ronan hesitated, his pulse still pounding in his ears, then exhaled sharply and dropped into a chair. After a long pause, Elle sat too¡ªbut she never looked away from him.


    Mal took a breath, his expression darkening as he settled into his seat.


    ¡°Listen, kid. I¡¯ve dealt with these things my entire career. I remember my first exorcism,¡± he said, shaking his head. A smile tugged at his lips, but there was no joy behind it. ¡°I thought it was going to be an adventure.¡±


    His eyes grew distant.


    ¡°I threw up a lung at the things I saw.¡±


    ¡°It was a teenage girl. Emily."


    Mal''s voice softened, his gaze distant. "She was beautiful, bright¡ªdevoutly Catholic. Lived in West Germany. I was young, fresh in my priesthood, and sitting in on an exorcism felt like an adventure. The life of a priest rarely offers excitement, and I¡¯d sworn off everything else, so I was elated..."


    His expression darkened. "Only, it wasn¡¯t an adventure. The first thing I saw when I stepped into that room was her smile. No¡ªits smile."


    He swallowed, his voice lowering. "Her skin was pale¡ªsickly green. Lacerations and bruises covered her body. Her eyes¡ªyellow, glossy, predatory. Hungry."


    The group shifted uncomfortably.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t helping,¡± Ronan muttered, but Mal continued, as though he hadn¡¯t heard him.


    ¡°Twelve priests were already there when I arrived. Twelve. And yet, even starved and tied to a bed, they couldn¡¯t hold her. She broke free¡ªmore than once¡ªin the three days I was there. Her body would twist, and contort into impossible shapes. She crawled the walls, the ceiling. She¡ª" He hesitated, pressing his fingers together. "She violated us. Verbally. Physically."


    The air in the room grew unbearably heavy.


    Mal let out a trembling breath. "Now, you hear the jokes about priests and children¡ªbut let me tell you something. That thing was a sick, twisted monster. It forced that poor girl¡ªbarely seventeen¡ªto do the things it made her do."


    A tear slid down his cheek, his voice thick with grief. "And after three days¡­ she was dead."


    Silence.


    Marigold paused in her stitching, her fingers trembling against Mal¡¯s skin. The room felt colder.


    Mal wiped his face roughly. "I¡¯ve seen a lot, Ronan. But nothing¡ªnothing¡ªcompares to the feeling of forsaking a soul. We couldn¡¯t save her. And when the weight of that settled?" He let out a humourless chuckle. "I took to the bottle."


    His fingers tightened around the arms of his chair, the pain of the fresh wounds mixing with the ones he carried inside. "They relieved me of my duties soon after. So, I married. Had kids. Tried to live a normal life. And yet... of all the things I¡¯ve seen? Emily is the one I dream about. Every night. Because we failed her."


    Ronan swallowed hard. The weight of the confession settled over him.


    Mal looked up, locking eyes with him. "Do not forsake these people, Ronan. You¡¯re a good man. And you will do the right thing."


    A tense beat passed between them. And then, Ronan nodded.


    "Alright," he said, pushing up from his chair. "Let¡¯s just get this done as fast as possible."


    He glanced at Marigold. She had that same hollow look he felt, but she, too, had been moved by Mal¡¯s story.


    ¡°I¡¯ll grab the headphones from the van,¡± Elle cut in, already heading for the door. "We¡¯ll do the Estes Method in the basement. We need to find out why this thing is here and what it wants. Its name¡ªVru¡­ something? Never heard of it. Never read about it. We need its origins. Might give us an edge."


    She stepped out onto the porch.


    Ronan watched her go, then leaned toward Mal and Marigold. His voice was barely above a whisper. "I don¡¯t trust her."


    The others nodded in silent agreement.


    ¡°I¡¯ll make sure she stays in line,¡± Mal assured, glancing toward Marigold as she finished tending his wounds. ¡°Thank you, dear.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not much, but it¡¯s what I could do with what we have,¡± she said softly.


    ¡°It¡¯ll do. Thank you.¡± Mal smiled, patting her hand in appreciation.


    Elle strode back into the room, urgency in her posture. ¡°Let¡¯s head downstairs,¡± she said, wasting no time. ¡°Let¡¯s get this over with.¡±

 Feet

    The crew exchanged wary glances before rising to their feet. One by one, they fell into formation¡ªElle leading, Mal murmuring quiet prayers with his rosary clutched tightly, Ronan bringing up the rear with his camera mounted on his shoulder. Sandwiched between them, Marigold radiated nervous energy, though she carried herself with quiet resolve.


    A deep growl reverberated through the darkness below as they stepped onto the basement stairs.


    The wood beneath them groaned under their weight. The shadows at the bottom swallowed their flashlight beams whole.


    Ronan kept his camera steady, eyes fixed on the night vision screen. ¡°I hope the mic caught that growl,¡± he muttered. The screen flickered, revealing distorted figures shifting in the murk.


    The basement was mostly barren¡ªjust scattered debris and an overwhelming, pungent cold that clawed at their skin. The air was thick with something foul, rotting, almost oily in texture.


    Elle scanned the room, eyes sharp. ¡°Alright, who¡¯s going under?¡±


    Ronan scoffed. ¡°Why don¡¯t you?¡± His glare cut through the tension like a blade.


    Before Elle could fire back, Marigold stepped forward. ¡°I¡¯ll do it.¡±


    The room fell silent.


    ¡°It wants to talk through me¡­ I can feel it.¡± Her voice wavered, but her eyes held determination.


    ¡°You sure?¡± Ronan¡¯s voice softened. ¡°You don¡¯t have to.¡±


    Marigold inhaled deeply, then nodded. ¡°I have to.¡±


    They lowered her onto the icy cement floor. She shivered, her thin sundress useless against the frigid surface. With slow, steady movements, she slipped on the blindfold and noise-canceling headphones, plugging them into the spirit box.


    Elle crouched beside her. ¡°Just tell us what you hear. It will speak through you.¡±


    Marigold gave a small nod. ¡°I got it.¡±


    The spirit box crackled to life, white noise humming through the headphones. The others exchanged uneasy glances.


    Ronan took a breath. ¡°Mari, can you hear us?¡±


    Silence.


    Mal exhaled. ¡°Alright, let¡¯s begin.¡±


    Elle leaned forward, notebook in hand. ¡°Hello, we are Eleanor, Marigold, Ronan, and Malcolm. We want to hear your story. Please, tell us your name.¡±


    Marigold¡¯s breath hitched. ¡°I just heard a low growl.¡±


    Elle straightened. ¡°Who are you?¡±


    A pause.


    ¡°Watcher.¡±


    Mal¡¯s grip on his rosary tightened. ¡°What do you want?¡±


    ¡°You.¡±


    Ronan tensed. ¡°How many of you are there?¡±


    ¡°Me.¡±


    Elle¡¯s voice sharpened. ¡°Who are you? What is your name? Vru¡ªsomething?¡±


    The spirit box hissed with static. Then¡ª


    Another growl. Louder. Closer.


    Marigold shuddered. ¡°It doesn¡¯t want to tell us.¡±


    Mal shook his head grimly. ¡°He is telling us. In his language. He¡¯s mocking us.¡±


    Elle leaned in, her voice firm. ¡°Tell us your name in English. Please.¡±


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°Clever¡­ Vruhlithis? Clever priest. It said clever priest.¡±


    Ronan swallowed hard. The name felt unnatural on his tongue. ¡°Vruhlithis¡­ how long have you been here?¡±


    A pause.


    ¡°Before¡­¡±


    ¡°Before?¡± Ronan frowned.


    ¡°Before you.¡±


    Marigold nodded slightly, her head tilting unnaturally.


    ¡°Before us,¡± Ronan echoed, uneasy.


    Mal¡¯s grip on his rosary tightened. ¡°Why do you hurt people?¡±


    A beat of static.


    ¡°No¡­ I don¡¯t.¡±


    The group tensed. The air in the basement grew heavy.


    Then, finally¡ª


    ¡°You hurt.¡±


    Marigold twitched violently, her entire demeanor shifting into something alien and grotesque. Her head snapped toward Elle¡ªblindfolded, yet staring straight at her.


    ¡°It was me,¡± she rasped. Her voice¡ªjagged, layered, wrong.


    A suffocating silence settled over the room.


    Marigold turned to Mal next, her body jerking with unnatural spasms.


    ¡°You stink¡­¡± she twitched. ¡°Whiskey¡­¡± Another convulsion. ¡°¡­And blood.¡±


    Then her lips curled into a snicker.


    Her head slowly snapped toward Ronan.


    ¡°Nice camera.¡± A pause. Her voice dropped to a guttural growl. ¡°Stop recording.¡±


    The static warped, spiking with ear-splitting distortion.


    ¡°You kill!.¡±


    The words hung in the air, cold and undeniable. Ronan¡¯s breath hitched. The others exchanged frantic, horrified glances.


    Marigold¡¯s chest rose and fell erratically. Her hands shook. Ronan lunged forward to pull her out¡ª


    But before he could¡ª


    She ripped off the headphones and blindfold.


    Her eyes were clenched shut, her breathing shallow. She looked terrified.


    ¡°Marigold?¡± Ronan was beside her in an instant, his voice gentle but urgent. ¡°What happened? Are you okay?¡±


    She shook her head, unable to speak.


    ¡°Why¡¯d you take it off?¡± Elle snapped.


    Ronan shot her a glare. ¡°Shut the hell up.¡±


    Marigold swallowed hard. Her voice was barely above a whisper. ¡°It said something.¡±


    Ronan¡¯s chest tightened. ¡°What did it say?¡±


    Marigold¡¯s hands curled into fists, her body trembling. Tears welled in her eyes as she forced out the words:


    ¡°Nice feet.¡±


    She shot up and bolted up the stairs.


    The others were close behind, following her into the living room¡ª


    Where they found her frantically packing her things.


    Elle grabbed her arm. ¡°NO! You¡¯re not going anywhere!¡±


    Marigold turned and struck her.


    Elle hit the ground hard, blood streaming from her nose.


    ¡°You little bitch!¡± Elle spat.


    ¡°Stay the fuck away from me!¡± Marigold¡¯s voice was shaking, unhinged.


    She stormed to the front door, yanking the handle.


    Locked.


    Her breathing hitched. She twisted it again. Nothing.


    She slammed her shoulder into the wood, kicking, shoving, pulling¡ª


    Nothing.


    Frustrated, she grabbed the spirit box off the table and snapped it on.


    ¡°Open the door. NOW!¡± she screamed.


    The spirit box hissed with static.


    A monstrous, inhuman growl:


    ¡°I SAID STAY!¡±


    The house erupted into chaos.


    The walls shook violently, the very foundation groaning under an unseen force. Unearthly noises flooded the air¡ªmoans, snarling, pig-like snorts, guttural growls, and screeches, all at once. They twisted together, forming a symphony of horror, an ear-ripping cacophony that rattled their bones and clawed at their sanity.


    The air thickened¡ªa suffocating weight pressing down on their chests, making it hard to breathe. Their bodies felt trapped, as if invisible hands were pressing against their skin.


    Silence.


    The shift was so abrupt that it felt unnatural. The house fell still, like the moment before a predator strikes.


    Then¡­ the smell seeped in.


    A stench so pungent, foul, and unnatural, it coated their throats like rancid oil. It was thick, cloying, and warm, crawling up their nostrils with an unbearable stench of rot and corruption. It smelled of sweat, decay, and something disturbingly organic¡ªsomething unnatural, salty, and sour, like a festering wound left too long in the heat.


    Like flesh. Like filth. Like sin.


    Marigold shuddered; something felt¡­ off.


    She looked down. Her shoes were placed haphazardly beside her feet.


    Something was on her feet.


    Her breath hitched. Her heart slammed against her ribs.


    The realization crawled up her spine like ice.


    She let out a blood-curdling scream.

 Mural

    Marigold¡¯s feet were drenched in semen.


    She collapsed, sobbing, her fingers twitching as she reached out, as if she could wipe it all away. But there was too much.


    Ronan stood frozen, horror-struck, his mind refusing to process what he was seeing. Mal, ever the steady hand, ripped a handkerchief from his pocket and knelt beside her, his breath heavy, his face pale.


    ¡°I got you,¡± he whispered, voice even¡ªyet his hands shook violently as he pressed the cloth against her skin.


    It was useless. The fabric smeared rather than cleaned, the sickening stickiness refusing to leave.


    ¡°Ronan!¡± Mal snapped, his voice laced with urgency. ¡°Go get me some paper towels from the kitchen.¡±


    Ronan didn¡¯t move. His eyes remained locked on Marigold, on the way her body trembled, on her wide, unseeing stare.


    ¡°Ronan,¡± Mal barked again, sharper this time.


    Marigold choked on a sob, her mouth open, shaking, unable to close it. The sound that came out was almost inhuman.


    Ronan stumbled back to reality. He turned on shaky legs and hurried to the kitchen, his vision tunneling, the noise around him muffling into a dull, warped hum.


    Elle didn¡¯t move. Her stomach twisted, but not from horror¡ªfrom the smell.


    She could still see Marigold, wallowing on the floor, pitiful and broken. Part of her was glad. Marigold had hit her, and now? Now, she was the one suffering.


    But another part of Elle¡ªa quieter part¡ªfelt guilty for thinking that.


    Marigold¡¯s gaze lifted, locking onto Elle¡¯s, pleading for comfort.


    Elle met her eyes, feeling something stir in her chest. She should help. Marigold needed a woman right now. Elle could see that. But the feeling was faint, distant, as though she were watching the moment unfold from outside herself.


    She almost stepped forward. Almost.


    A creak from upstairs. A soft noise, out of place amidst the chaos. Elle¡¯s head snapped toward the sound. ¡°Did you hear that?¡±


    Marigold let her head fall, disappointed and defeated. Mal kept wiping at her feet, his lips moving in hurried prayers, his hands trembling with the effort. Marigold began to shake, her breathing became erratic and ragged.


    Ronan stumbled back in, paper towels crushed in his fists. He dropped to his knees beside her, chest heaving.


    Elle asked again, sharper this time. ¡°Did anyone else hear that?¡±


    No one responded. That was the moment Elle realized she was on her own. There was a difference between her and them. A deep, fundamental divide. They were consumed by their emotions. Elle was focused. She had a job to do. She owed it to the crew. To the Holts. To herself. She hesitated¡ªshould she stay? Should she kneel, pretend she felt the same way they did? Force herself into their world?


    Another sound from upstairs.


    Elle turned away. Her curiosity had already won. The others remained trapped in their hysteria as she climbed the stairs. The air grew colder with each step¡ªfreezing. Her breath fogged in the dim light. Then came the whispers. Soft. Unintelligible. Everywhere at once. One of the doors at the end of the hall was slightly ajar. Elle hesitated only a second before stepping inside. The air was dense and suffocating, pressing against her skin. In the far corner, something was standing. Watching. Elle¡¯s breath stuttered.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    A woman.


    Or¡ªsomething that used to be a woman.


    Thin, skeletal¡ªher skin stretched too tight, like old, dried leather.


    Her jaw hung slack, broken and dangling at an unnatural angle.


    Her eyes were too wide.


    Her fingers¡ªlonger than they should be¡ªtrembled and twitched as though testing the air.


    She was completely, disturbingly naked.


    Elle¡¯s instinct screamed at her to run.


    Instead, she tilted her head, forced a smirk, and murmured,


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you a pretty thing?¡±


    Elle''s attempt at breaking the tension felt hollow. She had to admit, at some point, that she was afraid.


    The woman shambled closer, each step jerky, convulsive, like a marionette pulled by invisible strings. It inhaled. Its mouth yawned open too wide, splitting at the corners, dragging in Elle¡¯s scent with a slow, grating wheeze. The sound was wet, violent, something between a death rattle and an animal¡¯s last breath. Elle didn¡¯t move. Not because she wasn¡¯t afraid, but because she was too afraid to do anything else.


    The woman gargled, breath bubbling in her throat.


    ¡°What are you?¡± Elle whispered.


    Tears streamed down her cheek, but she barely noticed. The weight of the moment grew heavier, more suffocating the longer it stretched. The woman jerked, gagged¡ªthen vomited a thick stream of blood. Elle recoiled, her breath stuttering in horror. Her mind flickered to the others. The team. They should be here. Supporting her. Instead, they were downstairs with pretty little Marigold.


    Here Elle was, faced with a monstrosity, standing at the edge of something truly incomprehensible¡ªand Marigold needed help because¡­?


    Elle knew she shouldn¡¯t be thinking like that. But faced with a death this hideous, how could she not resent them?


    Her throat tightened. She wanted to call for help. But she couldn¡¯t. And she didn¡¯t know why.


    The woman stepped aside, revealing something etched into the wall behind her.


    Elle¡¯s eyes widened. The fear drained from her body. In its place¡ªCuriosity.


    A mural. Ancient, blackened with time and somehow wet. A monstrous form of pure darkness, its eyes the only feature. Watching. Unwavering. Before it, figures carved with fingernails, not tools, knelt in worship. Hundreds. Thousands. Hands raised¡ªnot in fear, but in reverence. Some kind of religion?


    It looked demonic, yet it had been displayed with devotion. A whisper from behind her, layered and hollow, many voices at once. ¡°This was faith. Devotion. A way of life.¡± Elle¡¯s fingers trembled as she reached out, touching the mural¡¯s surface. And she felt something stir inside her. Had she been born thousands of years ago¡­ Would she have been one of them? Would she have worshiped? Would she have knelt? Did part of her still want to? The thought terrified her. She ripped her hand back, too fast, as if burned.


    No, no¡ªthat¡¯s ridiculous.


    Behind her, the woman moved closer, breath cold against Elle¡¯s skin. Then, in that same multi-layered voice, it whispered¡ª


    ¡°He does not take. He gives.¡± Elle¡¯s fingers curled into fists. She wanted to reject this. But deep down¡ª


    Something resonated.


    The woman shifted. One moment, she was grotesque, skeletal¡ªthe next, she was something else. A vision of beauty. Her amber-gold eyes gleamed under the dim light. Thick, black strands of hair floated weightlessly as if she were submerged in water. Her skin¡ªsmooth, pale, and perfect. Its smell shifted from rotten to earthy. Elle¡¯s breath skipped. She hated that this thing was playing with her. She hated that it was working. She didn¡¯t want to be one of the worshippers. Then, she remembered Marigold. The humiliation. Marigold hit her first. Maybe this was justice. Maybe this was balance. Elle exhaled, calming herself.


    The truth was, Elle didn¡¯t know what it was. Maybe she didn¡¯t agree with it, but she could see the sense in it. She turned back to the woman, meeting her gaze. The woman moved forward without stepping as if the air itself was pulling her closer. Her presence¡ªlooming, intoxicating. A whisper. Secrets once veiled, now being revealed. A voice like the wind through dead trees. Elle¡¯s eyes widened. A cold chill slid down her spine. Her stomach twisted¡ªnot in fear, but in understanding.


    Understanding. Not just of the whisper, but of something deeper. Something she had refused to acknowledge until now. The crew¡­ were not the people she thought they were. Not the people she had once believed them to be. The thought slithered in, uninvited but undeniable. The woman stepped back, head tilting. Watching. Waiting.


    Elle swallowed, her voice barely audible.


    ¡°You¡¯re beautiful.¡±


    She stepped closer. Elle¡¯s fingers brushed against the woman¡¯s skin. Smooth, cold¡ªlike marble left in the winter air. She hadn¡¯t meant to touch her. Not really. And yet¡­ her hand lingered.


    A slow, almost imperceptible movement. The ghost of a squeeze, a gentle test, feeling the weight of something unnatural yet inviting. She shuddered¡ªnot from revulsion, but from something else. Something worse. The thought slithered in before she could stop it:


    She feels good.


    Elle¡¯s breath came shallow. She hated that this thing preyed on her weakness. She hated that she wasn¡¯t strong enough to fight it.


    Like ice cream on a cold day, she was inviting in a strange way.


    Elle¡¯s lips parted. She barely recognized her own voice. ¡°What happens now?¡±


    The woman¡¯s gaze was blank. Unwavering.


    ¡°I will serve you¡­¡±

 Hurt

    Elle descended the stairs, her footsteps light and careful. The house was silent¡ªa heavy, suffocating quiet that pressed against her skull. The others were scattered throughout the living room, sitting in separate corners as if looking at one another might trigger something unspeakable. Mal sat hunched over, rolling his broken rosary between his fingers. His lips moved in a silent prayer, but his expression had no conviction¡ªjust exhaustion.


    Ronan sat with his camera cradled in his lap like a lifeline to reality, his grip tight. But he wasn¡¯t watching the footage. He hadn¡¯t reviewed a single second. He was afraid of what he might see. Marigold rocked back and forth, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She looked less like a person and more like a fragile, hollowed-out shell, barely clinging to what remained of her mind.


    Elle lowered herself into the armchair closest to the staircase, moving slowly, deliberately, as if careful not to disturb whatever fragile threads kept the room from shattering completely. The silence stretched, unbearable, until Mal finally spoke.


    ¡°We were arrogant,¡± he muttered, the words barely above a whisper. ¡°We severely underestimated this thing. Now, no one is coming for us, we can¡¯t leave, and we are no closer to solving this case.¡±


    He squeezed his rosary so tight his fingers lost colour. A slight tremor ran through him. ¡°God¡­ can defeat this thing,¡± he continued, but his voice wavered. ¡°The question is¡ªdo we have the strength to hold our faith so that he may, through us, do His bidding?¡±


    A choked, broken whisper cut through the room.


    ¡°It¡¯s still there¡­¡±


    Elle turned her head slightly. Marigold¡¯s face was streaked with silent tears, her lips trembling.


    ¡°Mari?¡± Ronan said softly, but she wasn¡¯t listening. Her rocking became more frantic, her breathing erratic.


    ¡°It¡¯s still there,¡± she repeated, her voice rising, panic threading through her words. ¡°I can feel it.¡±


    The tension in the room twisted like a knife.


    ¡°I can still feel it. I can still feel it! I CAN STILL FUCKING FEEL IT!¡±


    Marigold screamed, her hands clawing at her feet, nails raking against her skin. The raw, primal anguish in her voice made the room feel smaller and suffocating.


    Mal and Ronan sprang toward her, but she thrashed wildly, her strength fueled by blind panic.


    ¡°GET OFF ME!¡± she shrieked, and her fist lashed out, cracking against Ronan¡¯s nose. Blood splattered across the floor.


    Mal reached out to press his palm against her forehead in an attempt to soothe her, but she bit down¡ªhard¡ªon his finger. He yanked back with a curse, clutching his hand as fresh blood welled from the wound.


    ¡°GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!¡± Marigold wailed.


    Before anyone could stop her, she grabbed the spirit box and slammed it against her foot. The device shattered instantly, as did something in her bones. The sickening crack of breaking flesh filled the air.


    Her screams were no longer just pain. They were raw, guttural despair.


    Ronan and Mal hesitated. This¡­ wasn¡¯t the Marigold they knew.


    ¡°Is she possessed?¡± Ronan¡¯s voice was tight, desperate, like he needed an explanation that made sense.


    Mal¡¯s eyes flickered with something unreadable. ¡°I¡¯ve seen a hundred possessions in my day,¡± he said, shaking his head. ¡°This isn¡¯t that. She¡¯s breaking. And we need to help her.¡±


    Elle stood from her chair, arms folded, her gaze fixed on Marigold with something that wasn¡¯t quite concern. Something closer to curiosity.


    Ronan and Mal finally pinned Marigold down, restraining her before she could do any more damage. She thrashed against them, her screams turning hoarse, her sobs ragged and endless.


    ¡°GET OFF ME! PLEASE, GET OFF ME!¡± she wailed, her body still fighting even as her strength drained.


    ¡°Mari,¡± Ronan said, his voice low and strained. ¡°We would never hurt you. We love you. We would never do anything to hurt you.¡±


    Marigold blinked up at him, her gaze blurry and unfocused. For a moment¡ªa fleeting second¡ªher humanity returned. But her body didn¡¯t believe him. It still struggled, still recoiled.


    Elle blurted. ¡°Knock her out.¡±


    Ronan¡¯s head snapped toward her. His voice, sharp and filled with venom, cut through the room.


    ¡°Shut the fuck up.¡±


    Elle arched a brow, feigning offense. ¡°Hey, cool it, junkie¡­¡±


    Ronan froze.


    The words hit him like ice water down his spine.


    He turned slowly, his expression caught between shock and rage.


    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    Elle stared back, calm, indifferent. And then, with a small, knowing smirk, she added, ¡°I just don¡¯t want her getting worked up while we have an active case open.¡±


    Ronan didn¡¯t blink. He didn¡¯t breathe. Because deep inside, he knew¡ªElle shouldn¡¯t know that.


    At this point, Marigold was running out of strength. Her struggle became muted, and her lurching slowed. Eventually, she stared blankly at the ceiling, choking on her tears. Ronan rose to his feet while Mal placed a gentle hand on Marigold¡¯s forehead and began reciting prayers.


    Ronan walked over to Elle, his movements slow and deliberate. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of something dark and final.


    "I don¡¯t know¡­ how you know, but if you ever tell anyone," he paused, and for the first time, Elle felt something close to fear. His eyes, bloodshot and hollow, locked onto hers. "I¡¯ll send you to hell myself."


    Elle leaned in closer, her lips just shy of his ear, her breath warm against his neck. "Then I¡¯ll wait for you¡­ Killer."


    Ronan stiffened, his entire body going rigid. His pupils shrank, and a flicker of something unspoken passed through his gaze. Elle simply smiled, slow and knowing, and mouthed the words: I know.


    He stumbled back a step, his breathing uneven. His hands curled into fists before releasing again. Then, without another word, he turned away, walking stiffly back to his spot. He sat down heavily, burying his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with quiet, suppressed sobs.


    Mal lifted Marigold, carefully guiding her trembling form toward the couch. She sagged against the backrest, not in comfort, but in necessity¡ªher body too weak to support itself. Mal straightened, turned to Elle, and fixed her with a hard, measured look before walking over to her.


    "What happened upstairs?" he asked, his voice level but firm.


    Elle tilted her head. "Why does it matter? You weren¡¯t there."


    "What happened?" he pressed, his patience thinning.


    Elle exhaled sharply, irritation flickering across her features. "If you wanted to know so badly, you should¡¯ve been there."


    Mal inhaled deeply, steadying himself. "Listen," he began, his tone softer now. "You and I have been at this a long time. I remember when you came to me, just a young woman, looking for a new start, oddly fixated on demonology, asking this poor retired exorcist for help. I couldn¡¯t let you drown in this world alone, so I stuck around and helped you navigate it. And yeah, you¡¯re not the easiest person to deal with, but I¡¯ve always considered you a friend. But what happened to Mari was heinous and cruel, and you did nothing to help the situation when she needed you. So, please¡­ tell me what happened."


    A breath¡ªhot, damp and inhuman¡ªghosted against Elle¡¯s ear. A voice, slithering and layered.


    "You can¡¯t trust him¡±


    She shuddered, barely perceptible, but enough.


    "You want to know what I found?" Elle finally spoke, her voice low, almost amused.


    Mal nodded, his gaze unwavering.


    "I found out the truth. And I know you¡¯re not the saint you want us to believe you are. Neither is ¡®Boy Band¡¯ or ¡®Goldilocks¡¯ over there." She tilted her head toward Ronan and Marigold, her smirk cold. "So, ¡®friend¡¯¡­ keep up the act. Just know that I know who you are now, thanks to¡ª" She caught herself, cutting off abruptly. Her stomach twisted. She let it slip.


    Mal¡¯s eyes darkened with realization. He flicked a glance toward Ronan before turning his full attention back to Elle, his expression unreadable.


    "You¡¯re consorting with the demon?" His voice was thick with disbelief, anger laced beneath the surface.


    Elle held his gaze, not knowing what to do. Her thoughts were a storm, violent and chaotic. Then another whisper, insidious and tempting. ¡°Kill him. He¡¯s going to be a problem. Give him to us.¡±


    Mal¡¯s stare bore into her, unwavering. "You can¡¯t let it," he said softly, almost pleading.


    Elle¡¯s breath hitched. The gentleness in his voice¡ªthe sheer sincerity¡ªcut through her like a knife. Her stress almost melted away in an instant. Almost.


    ¡°I must speak with you¡­ alone.¡± The whisper slithered into her skull, curling around her thoughts.


    "I¡¯m scared," she admitted, her voice cracking. "I can¡¯t fight it. I can¡¯t."


    "Yes, you can." Mal gripped her shoulders, giving her a slight shake. "You have to."


    "No, Mal, you don¡¯t understand¡­" A single tear slid down her cheek. "It knows me. It knows what I am. It knows my weaknesses. And it¡¯s using them against me."


    Mal¡¯s fingers tightened, his grip firm but not unkind. "Then don¡¯t let it win."


    "SHUT UP!" The whisper¡ªnow just a voice in her head, devoid of its previous seduction¡ªsnapped through her skull like a whip.


    "Please, help me." Elle¡¯s voice was desperate, barely more than a breath.


    Mal looked at her with gentle but unwavering eyes. "Eleanor Black. You listen to me. You are not lost. You have not been forsaken¡ª"


    "You¡¯ll fucking pay for this."


    "You have to fight this, I know you can."


    "You¡¯ll croak for what you¡¯ve done!"


    "Do not waver, and do not lose faith."


    "We¡¯ll have you for all eternity!"


    "¡ªAnd know that with God''s guiding hand¡ª"


    "We¡¯ll break you for all eternity!"


    "¡ªAny adversity¡ª"


    "And you will suffer a fate worse than your dear, dead husband!"


    "¡ªcan be persevered."


    "Fuck you, Eleanor. You will be punished for this."


    Elle¡¯s body trembled violently now, tears welling in her eyes, suspended just at the edge of falling. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she was drowning in the war raging inside her head. She exhaled shakily. "Thank you," she whispered. It was all she could manage.


    Mal studied her carefully. Something wasn¡¯t right.


    "Eleanor, are you okay?" he asked, concern lining his face.


    Elle hesitated, her voice quiet and brittle. "I think I need to be alone for a while. I¡¯m so sorry, Malcolm. For what I¡¯ve done¡­ and for what I will fail to do."


    Mal opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, she turned and walked somberly toward the kitchen. "Please, just give me some time alone. I need to think."


    Mal watched her, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "I can¡¯t let you¡ª"


    Elle turned back, forcing a small, disarming smile¡ªfalse, but convincing. "Don¡¯t worry, Mal," she said gently. "I¡¯ll be right in the kitchen if I need you. I¡¯ll be okay."


    Something in her tone reassured him, or maybe he simply wanted to believe her.


    With a reluctant nod, Mal turned back to Marigold, kneeling beside her ruined feet, marred with deep lacerations and broken bones. His hands hovered over them for a moment before he started tending to her wounds as best as he could.


    Meanwhile, Elle sat at the kitchen table, her head sinking into her hands. The weight of everything bore down on her, pressing into her bones, into her soul. A choked sob ripped from her throat.


    "I¡¯m so sorry, Aaron," she muttered into her palms. "I¡¯m so sorry..."


    The air in the kitchen shifted.


    "You¡¯re gonna be."


    Elle¡¯s head snapped up, and her breath stuttered.


    The pale woman stood in the corner of the kitchen.


    Still beautiful. Still eerily perfect. But gone was the coy, seductive gaze. Gone was the sense of servitude.


    Now, her golden eyes burned with dominance. With fury.

 Reckoning

    Elle sat frozen as the Pale Lady loomed before her, drifting toward the kitchen table with slow, deliberate steps. The air around her thickened, pressing against her chest, suffocating. She tried to shrink into her seat, but the Pale Lady¡¯s presence swallowed the space between them. When she was close enough for Elle to feel the unnatural chill radiating from her skin, she spoke.


    "We wanted to serve you. We wanted to help you gain favor with our lord." The voice was layered and filled with a sickening reverence. "But now? Now you will do as you are told, or you will suffer our wrath."


    Elle¡¯s body trembled. The Pale Lady had been horrifying when she was monstrous and grotesque. But now, in her unnatural beauty, she was worse. Her patience was gone, replaced with something more forceful, more demanding. Elle swallowed back a sob, but the tears still spilled freely.


    "P-please¡­ I can¡¯t control myself," she stammered.


    "No one will hear your screams."


    The Pale Lady lunged, clawed fingers digging into Elle¡¯s scalp, wrenching her head back. Fire shot through Elle¡¯s skull as images flooded her mind¡ªvisions twisted beyond recognition, distorted memories steeped in guilt and filth. They weren¡¯t lies. Not entirely. But they weren¡¯t the truth, either.


    "NO!" Elle shrieked. "It wasn¡¯t like that! It wasn¡¯t my fault!"


    Aaron¡¯s face appeared in her mind, but warped¡ªhis limbs bent at inhuman angles, his eyes wide and empty, his body twisted into a grotesque parody of submission. And her, towering over him, something cruel and unfamiliar in her expression.


    "You will learn to love him. You will understand the extent of his almighty glory." The Pale Lady''s voice grew deeper, splitting into something horrid. "You will SERVE HIM!"


    A new image burned itself into Elle¡¯s mind¡ªa pair of slitted, predatory eyes, white-hot against an abyss of endless black.  The very presence of them slithered through her, sank into her bones and her blood until it reached her core. Low, groaning moans echoed like a ship bowing beneath a storm, the sound rattling inside her chest and skull. Something coiled deep inside her, ancient and patient. And for a terrible moment, it wanted her.


    Then, just as quickly, it stopped.


    Elle sat rigid in the chair, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. Her stomach lurched, bile burning up her throat, and she understood¡ªthis wasn¡¯t happening because she was weak.


    She was chosen.


    The realization sent a fresh wave of nausea through her. She thought of Aaron. She thought of the crew. And she thought of herself.


    How could she judge them for their sins when she was the worst of them all?


    Malcolm finished patching up Marigold¡¯s feet as best he could, though their first aid supplies were running dangerously low. It had barely been over twenty-four hours since the investigation began, and already, they were breaking. He let out a slow breath as he rose stiffly to his feet, joints aching from exhaustion.


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    ¡°That should do the trick... for now,¡± he muttered, glancing at Marigold¡¯s pale, withdrawn face. ¡°I¡¯ll redress it later, but for now, I need to rest. Will you two be okay?¡±


    Ronan nodded, though the weariness in his eyes was unmistakable. Marigold, still hollow and detached, did not respond. Malcolm shifted his attention to Ronan, his gaze heavy with meaning.


    ¡°Take care of her.¡±


    ¡°I will.¡± Ronan¡¯s voice was steady, but there was an unspoken uncertainty behind it.


    With that, Malcolm turned and made his way toward the laundry room, adjacent to the staircase. The door to the basement loomed beneath the steps like an open maw, a reminder of what lay below. He ignored it, stepping inside the dimly lit laundry room and shutting the door behind him. The air in the small space felt heavier, thick with unspoken prayers and fractured faith.


    Reaching into his pocket, Malcolm pulled out his rosary. The once-pristine beads were chipped, the chain barely holding together. It seemed even more damaged than before, despite having endured nothing further since the demon¡¯s claws had torn his chest. He turned it over in his hands, tracing the worn surface with his thumb.


    ¡°I don¡¯t feel you, Lord.¡± His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of a soul on the verge of breaking. A single tear slipped down his weathered cheek. ¡°I can¡¯t feel you with me. Is this my punishment? Is this how you make me pay for my sins? Have I not served you well enough? After everything I¡¯ve been through? Have I not suffered enough? Is this what you want?¡±


    His throat tightened as anger flared beneath his sorrow. His grip on the rosary hardened until his knuckles turned white. In a sudden burst of rage, he yanked at either end, trying to snap it in half, but it held. Furious, he threw it to the ground, the beads clattering against the floor like tiny bones rattling in a grave. He ground his heel into it, his voice barely more than a raw whisper.


    ¡°I wish I never found you. I wish I never followed you. I wish I never did your bidding. I regret the day I ever took you as my savior. I wish I never knew you, I wish I never married, I wish¡­ I wish¡­¡± His breath shuddered. His rage cracked, splintering into something deeper, something hollow. ¡°I don¡¯t wish. I hate you.¡±


    The words tasted like poison on his tongue, bitter and final.


    He stood there, heaving, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The rosary lay beneath his boot, whole and unbroken, as if mocking him. Slowly, the anger drained from his body, leaving only exhaustion and an unbearable, crushing remorse. His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, trembling hands reaching for the rosary he had just cursed.


    Tears blurred his vision as he pressed the crucifix to his lips, kissing it over and over between desperate murmurs. ¡°Father, please forgive me, for I have sinned. Father, I am lost¡­ please guide me. Show me the way to salvation. Please, Father, hear my prayer and forgive me of my sins. Or¡­ or, at the very least, help me help my friends. Get us out of this forsaken place. Please, Father. Please.¡±


    A faint creak made his breath hitch. He stilled, eyes flicking toward the barely open door. Slowly, he crawled forward, peering through the narrow gap.


    Ronan sat with his arm around Marigold, his camera in his lap. He was adjusting the settings, flipping through filters, casting her face in unnatural hues¡ªreds, blues, greens. A small ghost of a smile tugged at her lips, a flicker of something warm in the sea of cold, numbing despair. It wasn¡¯t much, but to Malcolm, it was everything.


    In that moment, those two broken souls filled him with something he had thought was lost¡ªhope.


    His chest tightened. His faith, so fragile only moments ago, now felt like something worth clinging to again. If he couldn¡¯t find salvation for himself, then he would find it for them. He would guide them out of this. He would be strong for them, even if it meant shouldering the burden alone.


    Lowering his head, Malcolm closed his eyes, pressing the rosary to his heart. ¡°Thank you, Father,¡± he whispered. ¡°Your love is true and unconditional. I shall be your shepherd, and with the power descended from Your hand, may my deeds swiftly carry out Your commands.¡±


    With newfound resolve, he pushed himself up and sat down on the washing machine, his eyes tilting toward the ceiling. As the house groaned around him, whispering its threats in the walls and shadows, Malcolm prayed.

 Medium

    ¡°It¡¯s called a Dutch tilt,¡± Ronan continued. ¡°Some directors film the entire movie like this, but really you should only apply it in scenes to give the viewers an uneasy feeling, like something isn¡¯t right, or something ominous is looming just ahead.¡±


    Marigold scoffed, ¡°Maybe you should start filming this whole experience with a Dutch tilt.¡±


    Ronan muffled his chuckle awkwardly, ¡°Yeah, honestly, I don¡¯t wanna film a single second more.¡±


    ¡°Mmm¡±, Marigold grunted softly.


    Ronan looked at her, her face expressing deep thought, and yet still apathetic.


    ¡°We shouldn¡¯t be here¡­¡± he sighed. ¡°We should be back in Colorado, skiing the slopes, drinking hot chocolate and reading books by the fire.¡±


    ¡°Wow, you¡¯re such a dork.¡± Marigold nodded in sarcastic realization.


    Ronan glanced at her, mildly offended and pleasantly surprised at her wit. ¡°Oh, okay, little Miss Sunshine,¡± he laughed. ¡°What would you rather be doing?¡±


    Ronan just realized she was laughing too; her scrunched nose and bouncing shoulders shed a light of sincerity on the situation. ¡°No, no, yours sounded nice,¡± she uttered. ¡°I do miss the snow, and the fireplace, the fuzzy socks, the hot chocolate. I miss how clean it felt.¡±


    Ronan furrowed his brow. ¡°It felt clean?¡±


    Marigold swished her head back and forth slightly before fixing her big eyes on Ronan. ¡°I mean spiritually. Spiritually, it felt clean, like the souls were happy to be there. Maybe it just feels that way now after this place.¡±


    Ronan stared at her, admiring her. ¡°It must be hard.¡±


    Marigold gave her interest to Ronan, ¡°What must be?¡±


    He sat silent for a few moments, ¡°Being a medium in a place like this.¡±


    Marigold widened her eyes in understanding. ¡°Oh, yeah. It totally sucks. I feel like I can barely breathe most of the time.¡±


    Ronan rubbed his thumb on her shoulder. ¡°Were you¡­¡± He thought about what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it. ¡°Were you always a medium?¡±


    Marigold gave him a smile that hid some deep pain. ¡°Uh, no, actually. I can remember the first time I ever saw a dead person.¡±


    Ronan blinked, trying not to be awkward. ¡°Would you be willing to talk about it?¡±


    Marigold reeled, ¡°Oh.¡± she said sharply.


    ¡°I mean, if it¡¯s okay with you, I don¡¯t wanna force you to do anything or¡­¡± Ronan wished he hadn¡¯t asked.


    ¡°Oh, no, it¡¯s totally okay, I could¡­ I mean, I like you.¡± Ronan seemed shocked at the remark, shooting her a curious look.


    ¡°I mean like, I trust you¡­ you know?¡± she said, trying to keep it casual.


    ¡°Oh yeah, well I hope so, I¡¯m glad,¡± he uttered awkwardly.


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    Marigold hesitated, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her dress. ¡°I¡­ I guess it started when my mom died.¡±


    She realized the topic was heavy and the situation was awkward now. She closed her eyes lightly in realization.


    ¡°Oh God, Mari, I¡¯m so sorry. I shouldn¡¯t have¡­¡± Ronan felt guilty for bringing it up.


    ¡°No, oh my God, Ronan, no, it¡¯s completely fine. Seriously, don¡¯t worry about it.¡± She didn¡¯t want him feeling bad, and she was rather happy to be sharing her story.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t really told anyone this story, so I guess it would be kinda nice,¡± she reassured him.


    ¡°Uh, yeah, okay, sure. Go ahead,¡± he said, gesturing his hand for her to carry on.


    ¡°Okay, so.¡± she paused for a moment; her thoughts became deep, her emotions felt like coming out.


    ¡°My mom¡­ I didn¡¯t like my mom that much honestly,¡± she said with a shy chuckle. ¡°She wasn¡¯t like, abusive or anything like that, but she had this thing, where, in my early twenties, she wouldn¡¯t give me the freedom I wanted. The kind of freedom that every twenty-something wants and honestly needs. I lived with her because we didn¡¯t have a lot of money, and I couldn¡¯t get a job that paid enough for me to get by. It was simple things. Things like not letting me watch what I wanted to watch on the TV or not getting to decide what to have for dinner, not getting to decide what kind of a lifestyle I wanted to live. I mean, she gave me a curfew; she never let me stay overnight with my friends. She was just a nightmare, honestly. And she was a witch. Like an actual pagan witch. And she did all kinds of witchy things, but it never really directly affected my life. But, sometimes it felt like it influenced her perspective on reality. Everything she did was for my protection. From what? I have no idea. I mean, we lived in a small town in Wyoming; there wasn¡¯t really a lot to be afraid of. I guess she thought my soul was in danger or something like that, but it was stopping me from living my life. It was my life and she felt she could just control it because of her fucked up beliefs or whatever.¡±


    Marigold stared into the distance, reliving the past in her head.


    ¡°It was my dream to be an actor, and I was saving up all the money I earned from my job at the thrift store, until eventually I had enough for a ticket to L.A. and some set aside to support me for a few months. It took me four years to raise that kind of money, fresh out of high school, and I finally had the opportunity to do something about it. So, I packed my things and left. My mom disowned me, told me I was a bad omen.¡±


    She shook her head disapprovingly.


    ¡°But,¡± she continued enthusiastically, ¡°L.A. was awesome. Filled with a bunch of open-minded people, which was a bit of a shock to me. A lot of them dressed weird, which is rich coming from me, I know. But it was so amazing how free I felt, how alive I felt. Except, reality kicked in quickly. I was burning through my savings faster than I anticipated. Thankfully, I got a job in marketing with some finance company; they sold courses online or something like that, I don¡¯t really even remember, and I¡¯m sure they weren¡¯t completely legitimate either. But it paid the bills, and I was happy. Although, my dream of becoming an actress was slipping through my fingers fast.¡±


    Ronan listened intently. ¡°It sounds like it worked out pretty well then.¡±


    ¡°For a while,¡± Marigold remarked. Her face dropped into something more somber. ¡°One day, I got a call from my old high school¡¯s guidance counsellor. She said my mom had been shot in the head in a mall shooting.¡±


    A single tear ran down Marigold¡¯s cheek. She shook her head slightly.


    ¡°I hung up the phone. I felt sad, but not because my mom was dead. I felt sad¡­ because I was relieved that she had died.¡± She choked out through a brief sob, sniffing it away.


    ¡°I felt horrible, but it wasn¡¯t my fault I felt that way; it was hers.¡±


    Ronan wiped her tear away with his sleeve.


    ¡°That night, I stepped out of the shower, steam everywhere. The mirror was fogged, but when I wiped it clean, I saw her. My mother. Standing behind me. Her hair was soaked with blood, and there was a hole in her head. I could see the wall through it.


    Her lips curled in a snarl. ¡®You¡¯ll never be free of me.¡¯


    And then she was gone.


    I tell myself I¡¯ve never seen her since. I tell myself that every night.¡±


    Marigold realized how serious the situation was, so she quipped, ¡°And that is my origin story.¡± With an awkward laugh, she wiped her tears away.


    Ronan smiled with understanding. He said nothing but held her hand and embraced her. She was hesitant at first but soon buried her face in his shoulder.


    ¡°Thank you for telling me,¡± he said softly, sincerely. Marigold lingered in Ronan¡¯s arms a little longer than necessary. Ronan could feel his heart pounding just before she pulled away.


    The two released one another slowly, blushing. They both gave a final giggle, and something unspoken yet warm passed between them.

 Sleep

    The morning sun had pushed its way through the thin drapes of the Holt household, casting golden hues into the living room. Ronan and Marigold shared a realization that sleep had eluded them. They stayed situated on the couch for a while, letting the quiet settle between them, the sun slightly easing them of the ominous air around them. Marigold¡¯s head dangled lazily in front of Ronan¡¯s throat; he could see she needed sleep.


    ¡°We¡¯ve gotta get some rest if we¡¯re going to solve this case and get the fuck outta here,¡± he told himself, although Mari nodded in agreement.


    ¡°I¡¯m gonna go find Mal,¡± he said, gently placing Mari in a reclined position on the couch, softly placing her head on the armrest. He brushed a strand of rogue hair behind her ear and turned around, only to find Malcolm exiting the laundry room.


    ¡°Mal!¡± Ronan called out quietly. ¡°Hey, morning. Listen, we gotta do something about the sleep situation, man. I''m sure we¡¯re all exhausted.¡±


    Mal nodded in greeting, slowly making his way over to Ronan, his hand placed on his back. The strain from his fit in the laundry room had taken its toll. ¡°Yeah, I know.¡±


    ¡°What do you suppose we do?¡± Ronan inquired.


    Mal pressed his lips. ¡°Well, whenever we had multiple exorcists working on a case, we¡¯d often take shifts sleeping, I suppose, during the day, we take turns; sleep for six hours and rotate. One of us sleeps while the rest work the case.¡±


    ¡°Sounds good. I think Mari has already taken the first shift, so what say you and I go into the kitchen and see what Elle is up to?¡± Ronan said, stepping eagerly in the direction of the kitchen.


    Malcolm grabbed Ronan on the shoulder, ¡°Hold it.¡±


    Ronan gave a confused glance.


    Malcolm licked his lips, eyeing the kitchen suspiciously. ¡°Elle is¡­¡±


    ¡°Elle is what?¡± Ronan inquired, tilting his head up slightly in intrigue.


    Malcolm glared at the kitchen entrance, shaking his head slightly. ¡°She¡¯s not right, son.¡±


    Ronan raised a brow at the statement.


    ¡°This house is getting to her, I¡¯m afraid, and she needs help more than any of us.¡±


    Ronan furrowed his brow. ¡°Are you kidding? Honestly, I¡¯d say she feels right at home in this place.¡±


    Malcolm gestured for Ronan to take it easy. ¡°Look, kid. I¡¯ve known Eleanor longer than you and Mari. I know she¡¯s not easy.¡±


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    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s an understatement,¡± Ronan remarked


    ¡°But she¡¯s also going through it in this house. She¡¯s handling it different, I¡¯ll give you that, and maybe she¡¯s not handling it at all, but I¡¯m telling you; she needs our help.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, fine. But don¡¯t think I¡¯ll excuse her for leaving Mari when¡­¡± Ronan didn¡¯t know how to finish the sentence, so he didn¡¯t.


    ¡°I got it. I¡¯m just telling you, she hasn¡¯t had it easy in this house either. Let¡¯s deal with this smart; don¡¯t go in guns blazing.¡±


    Ronan gave Mal a slow nod in understanding, a silent agreement passing through the space between them.


    They strode into the kitchen only to find Elle sitting in one of the chairs, pale. Very pale. Her eyes had black rings around them, the whites looked more like a vomit yellow. She was hunched over, each vertebra visible through her skin. She was completely topless. Bruises formed from under her breasts to her throat. Saliva dripped from her lip. Cold sweat beaded her entire body.


    ¡°Jesus!¡± Ronan exclaimed in shock.


    The pair immediately tended to her. Ronan grabbed water from one of the backpacks, tilting her head back and streaming it gently into her mouth. She was able to swallow, but the look on her face spoke of a pain in her throat each time. Malcolm picked up her bra, shirt and jacket, which lay uneatable on the floor. He dressed her with as much grace as he had left in him.


    ¡°Eleanor, what happened?¡± Mal asked desperately.


    Eleanor slowly drifted her empy gaze until her corrupted eyes met his. ¡°It¡¯s in me.¡±


    Marigold began dreaming. She was back in L.A., working her old job as an assistant to a movie producer. She brought him his coffee, and his trailer was bigger on the inside than it was on the outside.


    ¡°It¡¯s called movie magic,¡± he chuckled. His portly body plonked into his tiny director¡¯s chair. He wasn¡¯t even a director. Sipping his coffee, his loose strands of shaggy hair dipped into the cup, being pulled out only to drip coffee into his sideburns. Marigold stood there quietly watching him. She felt nauseated just looking at him.


    He smiled widely at her. ¡°Thirsty?¡± he said, offering his cup to her.


    She took it from his hands, the cup was now filled with a disgusting black liquid, which behaved like honey when she attempted to swirl it in the glass.


    When she looked back up at the producer, her was standing, staring at her blankly. It wasn¡¯t just a stare. He was fixated on her. His bloodshot, rage-filled eyes locked onto her with an intensity that felt almost sentient, like an animal caught between hunger and hatred. His head twitched slightly, breath heaving, his body rigid with barely contained violence. It wasn¡¯t blank like a zombie, it was something more aware. For a long, awful moment, he was still, as if processing her presence, his muscles coiled, his chest rising and falling in erratic, shuddering breaths. And then¡ªlike a switch had flipped¡ªhe exploded into motion, shrieking with unhinged fury as he launched toward her, his body convulsing with pure, unchecked aggression.


    Marigold jerked herself awake, barely aware of her surroundings. She turned to her left, only to find him in the living room of the house, hunched over, now right beside her. His teeth were bare, his eyes wide, red save only the tiny black pupils. His skin was a dark ash. He opened his mouth wide as if yearning to rip off a hunk of flesh from her body. She let out a blood-curdling scream, which no one seemed to hear. In that instant, he lurched away from her, hissing at her angrily before hideously crawling up the walls, making his way upstairs. His head peered back into view from the top of the stairs by the rail. He fixated on her once more.


    She couldn¡¯t look away. She stared back at him, unable to comprehend how absolutely terrified she was. Something primal in her woke up. Something pleading, begging her to survive. He wouldn¡¯t look away. He stared. Silent. He slowly disappeared behind the railing, pulling away out of sight, and when she couldn¡¯t see him anymore.


    ¡°RONAN!¡± she screamed.

 Agent

    Ronan stormed into the living room, breathless, his pulse hammering. "What? What is it?"


    Marigold didn¡¯t answer. She couldn¡¯t. Her gaze was locked at the top of the stairs, her lips parted as if the words had been stolen from her throat. Her entire body had gone rigid, trembling just enough for Ronan to see.


    Ronan followed her line of sight, but there was nothing. Just the yawning dark of the upstairs hall.


    He moved closer, slowly, crouching beside her. "Mari, what do you see?"


    She tried to speak, but the sounds that escaped her lips were broken, fragmented, strangled syllables that meant nothing. Her breath hitched, her chest rising and falling in panicked, uneven bursts. The tears had already started, streaming down her face in silent streaks.


    Ronan hesitated before reaching for her shoulder, but the moment his fingers brushed against her, she recoiled violently, flinching away as though burned. She turned her wide, glassy eyes on him, and for a split second, Ronan swore she didn¡¯t recognize him. Like she was staring at a stranger¡ªor worse, something she feared.


    "Hey," he murmured, drawing back his hand. "It¡¯s just me, okay? You¡¯re safe."


    She barely blinked. Barely breathed.


    "Take a deep breath with me," he coaxed. He inhaled slowly, deeply, exaggerating it so she could follow. Marigold¡¯s body shuddered, but after a moment, she mirrored him, drawing in air like she¡¯d forgotten how to breathe. They held it together before exhaling in unison, Ronan lowering his hand as if guiding the weight off her chest.


    Her eyes drifted shut. For a moment, the terror ebbed, just slightly. When she opened them again, she finally met his gaze with something closer to recognition.


    "It knows us," she whispered.


    Ronan felt his stomach twist. "What do you mean?"


    Marigold swallowed hard, her throat clicking. "When I fell asleep, I had this dream about¡­" She trailed off, a visible shudder racking her frame. "Someone I used to know. Someone I hated." Her voice faltered. "And they were attacking me."


    Ronan clenched his jaw. "Mari¡­"


    "That¡¯s not all," she rasped, her voice breaking. "When I woke up¡ª" A sharp inhale. "He was right next to me."


    She crumpled forward, sobs wracking her body, her hands covering her face. Ronan wrapped an arm around her back, rubbing slow, careful circles.


    Malcolm emerged from the kitchen. His steps were measured, but his face¡ª


    His face was wrong.


    Ronan noticed it immediately, that distant, thousand-yard stare, like Malcolm had just witnessed something he couldn¡¯t explain. Something he couldn¡¯t unsee.


    "Mal," Ronan called, his voice quiet, uncertain. "Mal, over here. We need you."


    Malcolm didn¡¯t react at first, only turning toward them after a long, weighted pause. He made his way over with heavy, deliberate strides.


    "Mal, you okay?" Ronan asked.


    For the longest moment, Malcolm didn¡¯t answer. Ronan could feel it, the thick, suffocating tension, like something was pressing into the room, closing in.


    Finally, Malcolm spoke. "What happened with Mari?"


    The question was simple, but something in his tone was wrong. It wasn¡¯t concern¡ªit was something sharper, something more urgent.


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    Ronan hesitated, glancing at Marigold, who had gone eerily still, her breath coming in small, quiet gulps.


    "She saw something," Ronan said carefully. "Someone from her past. Someone she hated."


    Malcolm¡¯s expression darkened. His fingers curled into his palms. "This is what I feared."


    Ronan¡¯s blood ran cold. "What do you mean? What¡¯s happening?"


    Malcolm met his eyes, and the look on his face sent a ripple of dread through Ronan¡¯s spine.


    "I don¡¯t know how," Malcolm murmured, "but this thing¡ªit¡¯s moving through the stages faster than I¡¯ve ever seen. More rapid than any case I¡¯ve worked before. And the worst part? It¡¯s already strong enough. It could¡¯ve taken us by now. All of us."


    A slow, creeping horror settled into Ronan¡¯s chest. "Then¡­ why hasn¡¯t it?"


    Malcolm shook his head. "That¡¯s what scares me. If it¡¯s not taking us, then what does it want?"


    Silence stretched between them.


    "No," Malcolm finally said. "This thing is more intelligent, more powerful than anything I¡¯ve encountered before."


    Ronan swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper. "But¡­ you said God is stronger. You said He could stop this thing. That we just needed to act through Him."


    Malcolm¡¯s jaw tightened. His breath was shallow, unsteady.


    When he spoke, the words shattered something in Ronan¡¯s gut.


    "We¡¯re on our own."


    Ronan¡¯s world collapsed around him. The weight of the moment pressed against his chest, suffocating him. A deep, gnawing pit had dug its way into his stomach, twisting with a kind of dread he didn¡¯t know how to process. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    Malcolm¡¯s gaze was steady, yet something in his expression¡ªsome quiet, reverent horror¡ªunsettled Ronan more than any scream ever could. ¡°This thing. It¡¯s not a demon. It¡¯s something else. I¡¯m afraid, whatever it is, it¡¯s not of any realm or plane that God has created and, therefore, does not abide by the laws of our universe. Not at all.¡±


    Ronan¡¯s breath stilled. ¡°What the fuck?¡± he whispered, as he sank onto the couch next to Marigold. The room felt smaller. Heavier. ¡°So, what do we do?¡±


    He already knew what Malcolm was going to say, but that didn¡¯t stop the nausea from creeping up his throat.


    ¡°We need to challenge it,¡± Malcolm said plainly. ¡°We need to face it head-on.¡±


    Ronan stared at his feet, his pulse roaring in his ears. ¡°Did Elle tell you this?¡±


    Malcolm shook his head. ¡°No. The agent told me.¡±


    Ronan lifted his head, dread pooling in his stomach. ¡°The agent?¡±


    Malcolm didn¡¯t answer right away. Instead, he gestured toward the kitchen. ¡°Go see for yourself.¡±


    Ronan followed the motion with his eyes. The kitchen entrance felt impossibly far away, as if the space between him and it had stretched, warped by something unseen. His limbs felt weighted as he pushed himself to his feet; each step forward was measured and hesitant. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end before he even reached the doorway.


    Then, he saw her.


    Elle sat slouched in the same kitchen chair as before, her skin pale, slick with cold sweat. But she wasn¡¯t alone.


    The thing that stood beside her¡ªwatching her¡ªwas something that had once been a woman. But no longer.


    Its putrid yellow eyes sank deep into its skull, its skin leathery and slick with grease. Wisps of brittle hair clung in tangled strands to its gaunt face. Its form was grotesque, unnaturally elongated, something that should not be. As Ronan stepped further into the room, it snapped its attention toward him, its jaw slack, hanging unnaturally low as if unhinged. When it spoke, the words did not come from a mouth but from the depths of its being, a chorus of layered, discordant voices that slithered through the air.


    ¡°Your fearless leader is ours to take,¡± it intoned. ¡°She made her choice a long time ago. Now it is time for the rest of you to choose. The Lord will reveal the truth. The Lord will take those who earn his favor, just as he has done with your friend.¡±


    The agent placed a gnarled hand atop Elle¡¯s head, fingers curling over her scalp like a master petting a loyal dog. But to Elle¡ªto Elle, the hand was still pale. Soft. Cold, but not unpleasant. Not at all.


    She shuddered, but not in revulsion.


    Ronan¡¯s stomach turned. He couldn¡¯t tear his eyes away from her, from the subtle, almost imperceptible way her body reacted to the touch¡ªsomething twisted, something wrong. He could barely breathe past the disgust rising in his throat.


    ¡°Why won¡¯t you just let us go?¡± he choked out, his voice strained.


    The agent laughed, a sound so utterly wrong that it curdled the air itself.


    ¡°You don¡¯t deserve it.¡±


    The simplicity of the statement made it all the more horrifying. The voices layered beneath it¡ªsome shrieking, some whispering, some guttural and ancient¡ªdug into Ronan¡¯s skin like cold needles.


    His breath came sharp and ragged. He turned his eyes back to Elle. She sat still and silent, her body tense, her gaze unfocused and subservient.


    ¡°Leave her alone,¡± Ronan said firmly. ¡°She¡¯s not yours.¡±


    He forced himself to meet the agent¡¯s eyes, those putrid, sunken things that gleamed with amusement, with knowledge, with something so much worse than hunger.


    The thing only tilted its head, lips curling into a grotesque semblance of a smile.


    ¡°She made her choice a long time ago. As did you all¡­¡±

 Time

    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¡ªfar 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¡ªonly the sensation of being watched and scrutinized from all sides. The agent¡¯s voice climbed, layered with more voices¡ªhundreds, thousands¡ªuntil 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¡ªan 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¡ªbut 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¡ªsomething 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¡ªdamp 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¡ª¡±


    ¡°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¡ªthose sharp, knowing eyes¡ªwere 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¡ªnot yet. Something else had come first.


    Another thud¡ªcloser 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¡ªdisappearing 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¡ª


    ¡ªand 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¡ªwhat? 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¡ª


    ¡ªand 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¡ª¡± 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¡ªhadn¡¯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¡ªtwice. 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¡ªlooping. 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¡ªthis 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¡ªwide, bloodshot, and brimming with something unreadable¡ªsnapped 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¡ªa 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.

 Ronan

    Ronan lay in the dark, his breath ragged, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven gasps. The silence was thick, suffocating, pressing in on him like a weight. He could hear his own heartbeat hammering in his ears, each thump heavy and uncertain. Then, a shift. The air in the room turned dense, charged with something unseen. The darkness wasn¡¯t just an absence of light¡ªit was alive, coiling around him like something sentient. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, but the floor beneath him didn¡¯t feel like wood anymore. It was softer, damp, pulsing with an unnatural warmth. A slow, wet breath exhaled from the abyss, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once.


    Then, a whisper. Not words, not yet. Just the suggestion of sound, curling at the edges of his perception, as if something massive was looming just beyond the threshold of reality. He tried to move, but the floor beneath him seemed to stretch, shifting under his palms like the skin of some great, slumbering beast. His stomach twisted. Light. Not real light¡ªsomething dim, sickly, flickering like a dying bulb in an abandoned hallway. It revealed only fragments, glimpses of something forming in the dark. A shape, indistinct at first, shifting in and out of focus. Then the pieces started coming together. A doorway. A flickering neon sign humming faintly in the distance. A room he knew too well.


    Ronan¡¯s breath caught in his throat as the scene solidified around him. He wasn¡¯t in the house anymore. He was back in a dingy motel room, the air stale with cigarette smoke. The bed was unmade, sheets tangled, the nightstand littered with empty bottles and crushed pill packets. And standing by the window, her arms crossed over her stomach, was Clara. She turned slowly, her eyes meeting his, and he felt his insides twist.


    ¡°Ronan,¡± she whispered, voice brittle, fragile. ¡°You promised.¡± Ronan staggered back, his pulse spiking. ¡°No,¡± he breathed. ¡°This isn¡¯t real.¡±


    Clara¡¯s face contorted, hurt bleeding into something colder, something sharp. ¡°You said it was real,¡± she said, taking a step toward him. ¡°You told me I meant something to you.¡±


    Ronan¡¯s head spun. He could still hear the whispering in the dark, the presence curling around the edges of the memory like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.


    ¡°You said we¡¯d figure it out together,¡± Clara continued, her voice cracking. ¡°You told me you¡¯d be there.¡± Her hands trembled as she touched her stomach. ¡°And then you told me to get rid of it.¡± Ronan clenched his jaw, his breathing ragged. ¡°Stop,¡± he muttered. ¡°This isn¡¯t¡ªthis isn¡¯t real.¡±


    Clara¡¯s expression darkened. The flickering light overhead cast harsh shadows across her face, her eyes sinking deeper, her skin turning colourless. ¡°You threatened me,¡± she said, her voice no longer fragile, no longer weak. ¡°You told me if I didn¡¯t do it, I¡¯d regret it.¡±


    The room distorted, warping around them. The walls cracked, peeling, black mold spreading like veins. Clara¡¯s eyes darkened, bleeding into the abyss.


    ¡°Tell me, Ronan,¡± she whispered, stepping closer, her face inches from his. ¡°Do you regret it?¡±


    Ronan stumbled backwards, but there was nowhere to go. The floor swallowed his feet, the walls stretched, and Clara¡¯s voice multiplied, layering over itself in distorted echoes.


    The whispering stopped.


    A voice, deep and ancient, slithered through the air.


    ¡°You should.¡±


    And with that, the world collapsed.


    Ronan stood in the darkness, but the past had already wrapped its claws around him, dragging him back into the filth he¡¯d spent years trying to outrun. The shadows shifted, and suddenly, he wasn¡¯t in the house anymore. He was somewhere else¡ªsomewhere worse.


    The penthouse. Golden light streamed in through floor-to-ceiling windows, a view of the city stretching endlessly beneath him. Glass coffee tables cluttered with half-empty bottles, powder-lined mirrors, and cigarette butts. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, booze, and something acrid, something chemical. And Clara. She was curled up in the corner, knees to her chest, wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts¡ªhis name scrawled across the front in bold lettering, a cruel joke. Her face was swollen, one eye ringed with deep purple, a cut splitting her lower lip.


    Ronan exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. ¡°Please. Please stop!¡± But then she looked up. And it was real. It had always been real. Clara¡¯s fingers trembled as she wiped at the blood smeared across her cheek. Her body was too thin, her ribs visible beneath her skin stretched tight from starvation and stress. She hadn¡¯t eaten in days. He hadn¡¯t let her.


    ¡°Why are you doing this?¡± Her voice was barely above a whisper.


    Ronan remembered this. Not just the moment¡ªbut the feeling. The rush. Because he liked it. The way she cowered when he raised his voice. The way her breath hitched in her throat whenever he so much as moved. The knowledge that she was his, that she couldn¡¯t leave unless he let her. And he wouldn¡¯t.


    Clara¡¯s tears fell freely now, but she didn¡¯t sob¡ªshe had learned not to.


    ¡°You¡¯re so fucking dramatic,¡± his voice sneered from somewhere behind him. The past playing out like a nightmare on repeat. ¡°This is your fault, Clara. You know how I get when you push me.¡±


    His stomach turned, bile rising in his throat.


    He watched himself stalk toward her, the version of him that had been lost in the coke-fueled frenzy of power and possession. He had already forgotten why he was angry¡ªthere had been no reason. There was never a reason. She just was. And that was enough.


    ¡°I loved you,¡± Ronan murmured, barely recognizing his own voice.


    The past-Ronan scoffed. ¡°You don¡¯t fucking leave the people you love, Clara.¡±


    She flinched, shoulders curling inward as his fingers ghosted the bruises on her arms.


    Ronan¡¯s breath hitched. He wanted to stop this, to tear himself out of the memory, but it was alive now. It would play itself out, no matter what he did.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t want to be this,¡± he whispered to himself. But that was a lie.


    He had wanted it. The power. The control. He had loved how easy it was to break her down, to keep her caged. Fame had made him a god. Fortune had given him worshippers. And drugs¡­


    Drugs had made him invincible. Until Clara tried to kill him. The memory twisted. The penthouse melted, reshaping itself into a different night. Cold tile beneath his back. The bathroom floor. Clara standing over him, hands shaking, one clutching a kitchen knife so tight her knuckles had gone white.


    ¡°I can¡¯t do this anymore,¡± she had whispered.


    The blade pressed against his throat. A warning. A promise. For the first time in years, Ronan had felt afraid. But he had laughed. Even now, he could still feel the sting of it, the rush of knowing she was just as desperate as he was. That she needed him just as much as he needed her.


    "You won¡¯t do it," he had told her, voice slurred with drugs and exhaustion. "You don¡¯t have it in you."


    She had stood there, frozen, for what felt like forever. And then she dropped the knife.


    Ronan blinked. And by the time he lifted his head, she was gone. She had escaped.


    The drugs had gotten worse after that. The scene shifted again, snapping him forward in time. He was in a dimly lit apartment now¡ªMatt¡¯s apartment. His best friend, his only friend, sitting on the couch, a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, looking at Ronan with barely concealed exhaustion.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, man,¡± Matt muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. ¡°That shit¡¯s heavy.¡±


    Ronan shoved a needle into his arm, barely flinching as the rush kicked in, his entire body weightless, untouchable. ¡°You trust me, don¡¯t you?¡±


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    Matt hesitated.


    Ronan grinned lazily, leaning back against the cushions. ¡°Come on, Mattie. Just one time.¡±


    Matt exhaled slowly. He didn¡¯t want to do this. But Ronan knew him. Knew how to break him down.


    ¡°We¡¯ve been through everything together, right?¡± Ronan¡¯s voice was slow, smooth, slipping between them like silk. ¡°I¡¯d never let anything happen to you.¡±


    Matt swallowed hard. His fingers curled around the syringe.


    And he nodded. Ronan felt his stomach drop. He wanted to scream. To stop this. But it was already too late. It had always been too late. The memory shattered. And Ronan fell.


    Ronan¡¯s hands gripped the sink, knuckles white, his breath heavy and slow. The nightclub bathroom smelled like piss, sweat, and the artificial sweetness of cheap perfume. His reflection in the mirror was barely recognizable¡ªskin pale under the flickering fluorescent light, eyes glassy, jaw slack. His pupils were blown wide, evidence of whatever the hell he had taken an hour ago. He didn¡¯t care. He barely felt anything at all.


    Behind him, the girl was fixing her hair, dragging a trembling hand through strands that had stuck to her forehead. Her makeup was smeared, dark streaks of mascara trailing down her cheeks, her lipstick a blurry stain. She wasn¡¯t crying, but she looked like she should be.


    She was gorgeous. Too gorgeous for him. Skin smooth, body perfect, lips plump and red. She had thrown herself at him earlier, whispering something about how she had been following him for years, how she couldn¡¯t believe she was finally here, with him. She had laughed at all his jokes, touched his arm every time he spoke, and made sure he knew she wanted him.


    But now, standing there in the filthy bathroom, she looked used up. Hollow. Like she had given something away she didn¡¯t quite realize she couldn¡¯t get back.


    Ronan turned, eyes sweeping over her. He didn¡¯t say anything. He didn¡¯t know what to say.


    The sex had been quick, rough and meaningless. He had pulled up her skirt, shoved her against the wall, and taken what she so eagerly offered. She had gasped, had clutched onto him, but it had all been mechanical. No connection. No pleasure. Just friction, motion, an empty performance. Her moans had sounded rehearsed; like she had learned them from watching too many porn videos, playing the role of the starstruck girl who got lucky. He had barely felt anything. She probably hadn¡¯t either. Still, she had smiled at the end. A tired, forced thing. Like she knew what was expected of her. Ronan lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. The taste was stale. He exhaled through his nose, flicking ash onto the cracked tile floor before glancing back at her. She was still standing there, looking at herself in the mirror, adjusting her skirt like she could make herself look untouched again.


    ¡°Was it good for you?¡± he muttered, voice thick with exhaustion.


    She hesitated, just for a second. Then, her lips curled into something resembling a smirk, her eyes were wide with forced enthusiasm. ¡°Oh, yeah. You rocked my world!¡± she said, voice light, almost teasing. Ronan stared at her. He wanted to say something¡ªwanted to tell her not to bullshit him, not to pretend this was anything but what it was. But instead, he just took another drag of his cigarette. He grabbed her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up to meet his. Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn¡¯t pull away. He held her there, just for a moment, studying her, before letting go.


    Then, he turned, tossing the cigarette onto the floor. It landed near her feet, still smouldering.


    ¡°See you around,¡± he muttered as he pushed the door open.


    The music hit him like a wave, pulsing, drowning out everything else.


    ¡°Jesus, man.¡±


    Matt was suddenly in front of him, hands up, eyes darting around. ¡°Put your dick away.¡±


    Ronan blinked, looking down. He hadn¡¯t even realized his fly was still open.


    Matt sighed, reaching out and quickly yanking up Ronan¡¯s zipper. ¡°Get your shit together.¡±


    Ronan barely heard him. His mind was elsewhere, floating in some hazy fog. The bass of the music vibrated through his chest, but it all felt distant.


    The girl stepped out of the bathroom, head high, expression unreadable. Her friends were waiting just outside, giggling, whispering, watching her expectantly. She adjusted her skirt one last time, then turned to them with a smirk.


    ¡°You look like shit,¡± one of them teased.


    She didn¡¯t acknowledge the comment. Instead, she looked at Ronan. Their eyes met, and for the first time, he saw the regret flicker beneath her practised smile.


    But then she squared her shoulders, smirk widening. ¡°What can I say? He likes it rough,¡± she declared, loud enough for everyone around to hear. ¡°He was amazing. Best I¡¯ve ever had.¡±


    The words felt rehearsed. He knew what she was doing. She had to say it like that. Had to make it sound like a brag. If she admitted she felt used, it would all come crashing down.


    One of her friends squealed in excitement, pulling out her phone. ¡°Everybody! This bitch just fucked RoRo-Styles?¡±


    The girl grinned, but it didn¡¯t reach her eyes. Ronan looked at her, really looked at her, and for the first time in a long time, he felt something. A tight, sick feeling curled in his gut.


    He wanted to tell her she didn¡¯t have to do this. She didn¡¯t have to pretend. She could just hate him. Instead, he just nodded once, like it was all true, like it was all fine.


    Then he turned to Matt.


    ¡°Let¡¯s get out of here.¡±


    Matt followed Ronan outside, the thick club air still clinging to their clothes. The night was damp, the pavement glistening beneath the neon haze of a flickering streetlamp. The bass from the club still throbbed behind them, but out here, the noise felt distant, like a dream bleeding away into the edges of something much darker. The sky above was heavy with thick clouds, the city beyond a blur of smeared lights, restless and uncaring. Ronan pulled out a joint, lighting it with hands that barely shook. He took a slow drag, inhaling deep before passing it to Matt. The smoke curled between them, an unspoken truce, a ritual they had repeated countless times before. But this time, it felt different. This time, it felt like something was ending.


    "I miss her, man," Ronan admitted, his voice quieter than it had been all night. "Clara."


    Matt took a drag, exhaling through his nose, watching the smoke disperse into the night. "Yeah¡­ I know, Buddy."


    Ronan let his head lull back, staring up at the empty sky. "I did her dirty, man. I did her so fucking dirty. And she¡ªshe fucking loved me, man. And I just..." He clenched his jaw, swallowing hard. "I kept her locked in that house like she was mine to own. And¡ªI liked it. I liked knowing she needed me, that I could stop her from leaving. I liked having that power. And then one day she just¡ªshe tried to fucking kill me."


    Matt turned his head, studying him. "That¡¯s not love, Ro. That¡¯s toxicity."


    Ronan barked out a humourless laugh. "No shit."


    Matt reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded pamphlet, pressing it into Ronan¡¯s palm. Ronan looked down at it. Rehab. Some private clinic upstate.


    "You should go," Matt said simply. "It''s not too late."


    Ronan scoffed, but there was no real fight in it. "What if I don¡¯t deserve to be saved?"


    Matt shook his head. "Ronan¡­ you¡¯re my best friend. My brother. I want you to be saved."


    Ronan had no answer. The weight of the paper in his hand felt heavier than it should have been. He threw it in the car through the lightly opened window.


    "Alright," he muttered. "One last dance before I clean up?" he brandished a bag of acid.


    Matt frowned. "Let¡¯s just go home, man."


    "Nah." Ronan shook his head, grinning, though it didn¡¯t reach his eyes. "Come on. Let¡¯s drive. Windows down, and feel. Feel everything."


    Matt hesitated, and that was all it took. Ronan pulled out two tabs of acid, pressing one into Matt¡¯s palm. "One last ride. One last dance before I get clean. Come on, Mattie. One more time, let¡¯s just go all out, and then I swear, I¡¯ll get clean. Please, just feel this with me, brother. One last time. What do you say?"


    Matt sighed but nodded. "Alright. One last time."


    They drove to the lookout point, where the city sprawled below them in an ocean of golden lights. The acid was starting to kick in, making everything too bright, too alive. Matt sat on the hood of the car, knees bouncing, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.


    "Man, I don¡¯t like this," he muttered, rubbing his hands over his face. "Feels wrong."


    Ronan lit a glass pipe and held it out. "Here. This¡¯ll even it out."


    Matt stared at the crack rock burning, at the way the smoke curled like a beckoning finger. He shook his head. "No, man."


    "Come on," Ronan coaxed. "You trust me, right? You''re my baby, and Daddy will take care of you." he teased, leaning closer to Matt.


    Matt pushed Ronan away hard. Ronan just laughed hysterically, but the pipe had somehow made its way into Matt¡¯s hand. He hesitated. Then, reluctantly, he took the pipe and inhaled.


    The drive back was a blur of neon smears and laughter that didn''t belong to them. The car felt weightless like it was floating, the music on the radio blending into the pulse in Ronan¡¯s veins. Matt was singing along, off-key, laughing too hard at nothing at all.


    "Red light," Matt said, voice still tinged with amusement.


    Ronan barely registered him.


    "Ronan. Red light."


    The words stretched.


    "RONAN! RED LIGHT!"


    A blinding impact. A sound like metal screaming. Glass exploding. The world flipping over itself.


    Ronan crawled out of the wreck, his body buzzing, his limbs disconnected from him. The music was still playing from the ruined car, distant and warped. He took a few shaky steps forward, his brain still swimming in chemicals, laughing at the sheer strength of the trip.


    "Ronan..."


    The voice was hoarse and ragged.


    He turned. Matt was crushed in the wreck, his body twisted, pinned between the mangled metal, one arm outstretched toward him. Blood bubbled at the corner of his lips, his breaths wet and uneven.


    "Help me... please..."


    Ronan stared. The world swayed, pulsing. It didn¡¯t feel real. Couldn¡¯t be real.


    Matt¡¯s fingers twitched. A shuddering inhale.


    "Ro, please¡ª"


    Ronan turned away, giggling at the vivid hallucination, still high, still weightless.


    He walked away. The music faded. The laughter died.


    Ronan lay on the cold floor, curled inward, sobbing into his palms. The room was empty and silent, save for the weight of his own guilt pressing down on him like a crushing tide. He had walked away. And now, in the suffocating dark, he finally understood¡ªhe had never truly left that night. It had followed him, festered inside him, hollowing him out until there was nothing left but this. A sob wrenched from his chest, raw and broken.


    He was alone.

 The Overwhelming Sense of Something Waiting Just Beyond Perception

    Malcolm threw his shoulder against the door once more, the force reverberating up his arm and into his ribs. The impact sent a dull ache through his muscles, but the door did not budge. He stepped back, panting, staring at the solid, unmoving wood as if sheer willpower alone could make it yield. His breath fogged in the cold air, curling toward the ceiling before vanishing. Inside, Ronan was silent. Malcolm wiped the sweat from his brow, his pulse thrumming hard against his skull. He pressed his ear to the door, hoping to catch some indication that Ronan was still there, still breathing, still fighting. But there was nothing. Only the thick, unnatural quiet that had overtaken the house like a disease.


    He braced himself and slammed his shoulder into the door again. Harder this time. It rattled in its frame but did not give. Something about the resistance felt wrong as if the door wasn¡¯t merely locked but held shut by something unseen, something far stronger than any deadbolt. The house felt heavier now, pressing in from all sides, its breath thick with damp rot and something older. The sound of footsteps ascending the stairs made him turn. Marigold appeared first, her face pale, dark circles bruising the skin beneath her eyes. Elle followed a moment later, moving with an eerie stillness as if she already knew what she would find. Her gaze flicked from Malcolm to the door, her lips slightly parted, and then she took a slow breath.


    "What happened?" Marigold asked, rubbing her arms as though she could banish the chill that had settled into her bones.


    "It won¡¯t open," Malcolm said, voice hoarse. "It just won¡¯t open."


    Marigold¡¯s eyes darted between him and the door. "Is he¡ªdid you hear anything?"


    "No." Malcolm swallowed, forcing down the bile creeping up his throat. "Nothing."


    Elle stepped forward. She placed a hand against the door, fingers splayed, almost reverent. Her eyelids fluttered shut for a moment, and when she opened them, something dark and hollow lurked behind her gaze.


    "He¡¯s gone," she said quietly.


    Marigold recoiled. "Don¡¯t fucking say that."


    "I¡¯m not saying it to be cruel." Elle turned her gaze to her, voice flat, almost too calm. "I¡¯m saying it because it¡¯s the truth."


    "We don¡¯t know that," Malcolm snapped. "We don¡¯t know what¡¯s happening in there."


    Elle exhaled slowly as if trying to be patient as if explaining something obvious to a child. "You¡¯re thinking about this like it¡¯s normal. Like we¡¯re still dealing with doors and locks and rooms that behave the way they should. We¡¯re not. We never were."


    The words settled like dust, heavy and choking. Marigold crossed her arms, her nails digging into her skin. "So what? We just leave him? We just¡ªjust accept it?"


    Elle tilted her head slightly, considering. "Do you think we have a choice?"


    No one answered. The weight of it pressed into them, into their bones, into the spaces between their ribs. The house was making the rules now. And it did not care what they wanted.


    Malcolm let out a slow, shuddering breath, his shoulders slumping. "So what do we do?"


    "We wait," Elle said simply. "We let it play out."


    Malcolm clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists. He hated how she said it, how easy she made it sound. But deep down, he knew she was right.


    They had never been in control. And now, the house was making sure they understood that.


    Malcolm exhaled sharply, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes as if the pressure might steady him, might silence the frustration clawing up his throat. The house was making the rules now. The words rattled in his skull, each syllable scraping against the raw edges of his fear. He hated it. He hated all of it. His fingers twitched at his sides, restless, searching for something¡ªanything¡ªthey could do. Waiting felt like surrender, like sitting still in the wake of a slow-moving disaster, watching it creep closer and pretending there was nothing to be done. His breath left him in a quiet growl, and then he turned back to the door.


    "No," he muttered. "I refuse." He braced his foot against the floor, squared his shoulders, and threw himself against the door again, putting every ounce of weight behind it. A sickening crack rippled through his bones, the impact jarring up his spine, but the door didn¡¯t even groan in its frame.


    Marigold flinched at the sound. "Mal¡ª"


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Again. He rammed into the wood, shoulder-first, ignoring the way his joints screamed in protest. Still, the door stood firm, solid as stone, as if it had been built into the very foundation of the house itself. A sharp breath. Another. A curse bit through clenched teeth.


    "We could break the hinges," Marigold said suddenly. Her voice was thin but urgent, grasping. "If we can¡¯t break the door, maybe we take it apart instead. Get something to pry it off."


    Malcolm nodded once, too fast, latching onto the idea like it was a lifeline. "There¡¯s a toolbox in the kitchen¡ª"


    "It won¡¯t work," Elle interrupted.


    Both of them turned toward her. She wasn¡¯t looking at them¡ªher eyes were still on the door. She didn¡¯t even seem fully present, like something inside her was listening, feeling, searching for something unseen.


    "Elle," Malcolm pressed, voice tight with exhaustion. "We have to at least try."


    She didn¡¯t argue. But she didn¡¯t agree, either.


    Marigold turned on her heel before Elle could say anything else, heading for the stairs. "I¡¯ll get the tools."


    She made it two steps before the hallway lights flickered, casting the shadows around them into unnatural shapes. The air shifted, subtly at first¡ªa slow tightening, a barely perceptible pressure curling around the edges of their lungs. And then, like a tide rolling in, it swelled. The temperature dropped, the walls narrowing, the weight of the house pressing into their ribs like unseen hands, curling around their throats, seeping into their skin. The lights above them dimmed further, pulsing as if the house itself had started to breathe.


    Marigold stopped dead in her tracks, arms stiff at her sides. "Oh, fuck," she whispered.


    Malcolm¡¯s pulse roared in his ears. The moment stretched long and empty between them, the silence pressing into the spaces between heartbeats.


    Elle finally stepped back from the door, slow and measured. She met Malcolm¡¯s eyes, her own dark and hollow.


    "Do you feel it now?" she asked softly.


    Malcolm swallowed against the dryness in his throat. The house wasn¡¯t just keeping them out. The weight of it all settled over them, cold and crushing. There was nothing left to try. No tricks, no strength, no plan. It was useless. Marigold¡¯s shoulders trembled before she even realized she was shaking. Her breath hitched once, and then she crumpled, sinking to the floor with her hands clutched to her face. The first sob was nearly silent, swallowed whole by the oppressive stillness.


    "He''s gone," she whispered. "Ronan is gone."


    Neither Malcolm nor Elle said anything. What could they say? The floor beneath Malcolm¡¯s feet felt unsteady as if the very foundation of the house had shifted. He forced a breath through his teeth, forcing himself to move, to do something, anything. His throat was dry. He needed water. Without another word, he turned and headed for the stairs, his steps hollow against the floorboards. He barely made it out of earshot before Marigold heard it.


    A voice. Soft. Familiar. "Marigold."


    Her breath caught in her throat, her body going rigid. She turned, eyes wide, searching the shadows.


    "Marigold," Ronan¡¯s voice came again, barely above a whisper. Low. Beckoning. Coming from the other side of the hallway. But not from where she had last heard him. Not where he should be.


    Marigold stood slowly, her breath uneven, her limbs heavy. The voice was soft, coaxing, curling at the edges of the dark like a thread waiting to be pulled.


    "Marigold."


    She glanced toward the others. Malcolm was already gone, his footsteps fading into the lower floor. Elle stood at the end of the hall, silent, unmoving. Watching. Not with concern. Not with fear. With something else. The way her chin tilted ever so slightly downward. The way her lips pressed together just so. The way her eyes¡ªthose dull, knowing eyes¡ªfixed on her like a dingo watching a baby left too close to the edge of the den. Waiting. Marigold swallowed. She could feel it¡ªwhatever was happening, whatever force had its fingers in this house, it was toying with her. Luring her away from the others like a fish on a hook. But what else was she supposed to do? Stand still? Wait for the walls to close in further, for the house to swallow them all whole?


    She turned back to the hallway, toward the voice. It wasn¡¯t coming from Ronan¡¯s door anymore. It was further now. Deeper. Marigold took a step. Elle didn¡¯t move, didn¡¯t stop her. The voice called again.


    "Marigold. Please."


    She moved forward, the hallway stretching longer with each step. The walls on either side loomed closer, the dim bulbs above flickering weakly, casting trembling shadows. She passed the closed doors one by one, each one silent, each one watching her with its absent mouth.


    Then, she reached it. An open door. A room she didn¡¯t remember seeing before.


    The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of dust and something older, something damp and rotting beneath the surface. The darkness pooled heavier here, sinking into the corners like it had been waiting for her to step inside. And in the farthest corner, just barely visible in the gloom¡ª


    Ronan. He stood stiff, his arms hanging limp at his sides, his shadow stretching the wrong way, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. His clothes were the same. His hair was the same. But something was wrong.


    She hesitated, her fingers curling into her sleeves. "Ronan?"


    He didn¡¯t move. She took another step. The floor creaked beneath her weight, and at the sound, his head jerked slightly, just enough for his chin to lift, just enough for her to see the gleam of his teeth through the dim light. Her stomach twisted. The voice came again, barely above a whisper.


    "Close the door."


    Marigold''s breath hitched. The door slammed shut behind her. She gasped, whirling to face it, her fingers fumbling for the knob. She twisted, yanked¡ªnothing. It wouldn¡¯t budge. Her heart pounded, her breath coming fast and shallow. And then¡ª


    A breath. Hot and wet against her neck. She turned back. Ronan wasn¡¯t in the corner anymore. He was right in front of her. His lips had peeled back, his mouth stretching wider and wider, the skin at the edges splitting, tearing, opening into something far too large, something inhuman. The cavern of his throat was pitch-black, yawning and bottomless, a chasm of writhing shadows and the faint glisten of teeth, so many teeth¡ª


    A sound built in his throat, something guttural, something wet.


    Marigold screamed.

 Marigold

    Marigold opened her eyes. The gaping maw that had consumed her vision moments ago was gone, replaced by blinding stage lights burning hot above her head. Their glow seared down unnaturally, hovering in an abyss of darkness where a ceiling should have been. She wasn¡¯t in the house anymore. The walls around her stretched endlessly, but somehow, the space still felt tight and suffocating. A faint beep... beep... beep... echoed through the vast emptiness, and her stomach twisted. It was a heart monitor. She turned. There, in the centre of a pristine hospital bed, lay her mother. Marigold¡¯s breath hitched. The sheets were tucked too neatly, the medical equipment gleamed under the artificial lights, too clean. But none of that mattered¡ªbecause in the middle of her mother¡¯s forehead, just above her brows, was a hole. A neat, precise wound, its edges dark with dried blood, its depth unknowable. The monitor beside her pulsed in a steady rhythm, oblivious to the impossibility of it all.


    Marigold stepped forward, her throat tightening. ¡°Mom?¡±


    Her mother stirred, then turned her head toward her. The motion was slow, almost mechanical. Her face was just as Marigold remembered¡ªgaunt, worn, but familiar. Her lips curled into something that might have been a smile if not for the vacancy behind her eyes.


    ¡°You¡¯re late,¡± she said dryly. ¡°Though I guess that¡¯s nothing new, huh?¡±


    Laughter erupted from somewhere behind Marigold. It was loud, jarring. The sound wasn¡¯t organic¡ªit was too crisp, too produced. Marigold spun around. Rows of faceless figures sat in the shadows of an invisible studio audience. They sat unnaturally still, except for their shoulders, which bobbed in perfect, synchronized laughter. When the sound cut off, it did so all at once, like a switch had been flipped. Marigold¡¯s skin crawled. She turned back to her mother, whose lips were now moving¡ªbut not speaking. Just... mouthing something. It took Marigold a second to understand.


    Her mother was cueing her. A fresh wave of laughter burst from the unseen audience, as if they, too, were waiting. Marigold shook her head. ¡°What the hell is this?¡±


    Her mother¡¯s expression barely shifted, but her eyes gleamed with something cold. ¡°A conversation, dear,¡± she replied, voice laced with mockery. ¡°Or is talking another thing you¡¯ve abandoned?¡±


    Another eruption of laughter. Marigold winced. It was too loud, pressing against her skull like a vice. Her hands curled into fists.


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand¡ª¡±


    ¡°Oh, you don¡¯t understand?¡± Her mother¡¯s voice sharpened. ¡°That¡¯s rich.¡±


    The laughter swelled, deafening, layered with something distorted¡ªsome voices too deep, others shrill and manic. Marigold¡¯s knees buckled. Her mother sat up now, moving stiffly, unnaturally, the heart monitor still beeping in a steady rhythm.


    ¡°You know, I spent years protecting you,¡± she continued, her voice low and venomous. ¡°Praying over you, fighting for you, shielding you from things you didn¡¯t even know existed.¡±


    The studio dimmed. Shadows grew long, stretching unnaturally toward Marigold, curling at the edges of her vision like grasping fingers. She tried to step back, but her feet wouldn¡¯t move.


    ¡°I warned you about the world, about what lurked just beneath the surface. And yet, the second I was gone¡ªpoof!¡± Her mother made an exaggerated motion with her hands, her grin widening. ¡°You ran. You left. You forgot me.¡±


    Marigold felt her breath falter. ¡°That¡¯s not true.¡±


    Her mother leaned in, the hole in her head splitting slightly, something dark and wet glistening beneath. ¡°Isn¡¯t it?¡±


    Marigold opened her mouth, but before she could speak, her mother¡¯s face twisted into something hateful.


    ¡°You wanted me dead, didn¡¯t you?¡± she spat. ¡°You wanted freedom from me. From my rules. My warnings. My love.¡±


    The laughter roared, shrieking, distorting into something monstrous. Marigold squeezed her eyes shut, covering her ears, but it did nothing to drown out the sound, nothing to silence the suffocating weight of it.


    Her mother¡¯s voice cut through it all, sharp and venomous.


    ¡°You left me alone. And I died. Alone!¡±


    Marigold gasped. The laughter stopped. The silence hit harder than the noise.


    She opened her eyes. Her mother sat still, her expression blank, empty, but the damage had already been done.


    Marigold trembled, her hands curling against her chest. ¡°Mom, please¡ª¡±


    A cue card flipped in the darkness.


    It read: APOLOGIZE.


    The audience waited.


    A hush settled over the studio. Marigold stared at the cue card, the letters shifting, swimming, refusing to form words she could understand. The audience waited, their breath held in quiet anticipation. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, a voice boomed from the darkness beyond the stage.


    ¡°CUT!¡±


    The word cracked through the air like a whip. Marigold flinched, her grip on her cardigan¡¯s sleeve tightening as she turned toward the sound. From the shadows, a figure stepped forward, his presence thick and cloying, filling the space like a suffocating fog. The director. He moved with an unhurried confidence, adjusting the buttons on his blazer, smoothing a hand through his limp, curly afro. He gave her a warm, indulgent smile¡ªone that never reached his eyes.


    "Sweetheart," he drawled, his voice syrupy with false affection. "That was good. Really, really good. But it¡¯s missing something. I feel like you¡¯re holding back on me."


    Marigold swallowed hard, her tongue leaden in her mouth. From nowhere, two faceless goons held her in place, wrapping their grips around her arms. The walls of the studio pressed in closer. The director tapped a finger against his chin, pretending to consider. Then his expression lit up as if struck by divine inspiration.


    ¡°I know what this scene needs,¡± he said, snapping his fingers. ¡°More romance.¡±


    Before she could react, he pulled a revolver from his jacket and shot her mother in the head.


    Marigold flinched as the sound cracked through the air, the force sending her mother¡¯s body jerking violently against the hospital bed. Blood sprayed across the pristine white sheets, soaking into the fabric like ink. The audience howled with laughter. The director grinned, holstering the gun as casually as if he had just swatted a fly. "There we go," he said, satisfied. "Much better. But I still think we can do more, don¡¯t you?"


    Marigold¡¯s breath came in ragged gasps. Her mother¡ªher mother¡ªwas slumped sideways, lifeless, the back of her skull reduced to pulp. But something was wrong. Her body moved, shifting slightly as if some unseen hands were working the mechanics beneath her skin. A moment later, the hospital bed rolled itself offstage, disappearing into the darkness, as though she had never been there at all.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Marigold trembled. "What is this?" she whispered.


    The director smiled and turned to the shadows behind him.


    ¡°Bring her in.¡±


    A figure stepped onto the stage. Marigold froze.


    It was her. Younger. Barefoot, except for a pair of knee-high socks, her body adorned with accessories meant to humiliate rather than embellish¡ªa cat-ear headband, a cheap bell collar jingling around her throat. She had the same soft, hopeful features Marigold once carried, untouched by the years that would harden her. The girl smiled up at them, head tilted in a way that was too innocent, too obedient. The director whistled, and the younger Marigold immediately dropped to all fours. She crawled toward him, the bell at her throat chiming softly with each movement.


    Marigold recoiled. ¡°No¡ªstop this. Leave her alone!¡±


    The audience erupted into laughter.


    The director, watching her reaction, sighed dramatically. ¡°Still not quite right,¡± he mused. He snapped his fingers again. Another Marigold entered. Younger still. The collar had been replaced with a full leather harness. A leash trailed from her throat to the director¡¯s hand, which he gave an idle tug, making the girl stumble forward with a soft whimper. She pouted, looking up at him through wide, glassy eyes. The audience went wild.


    Marigold¡¯s pulse pounded in her ears. ¡°Please,¡± she begged, voice barely above a whisper. ¡°Make it stop.¡±


    The director turned to her, his lips quirking in amusement. ¡°You¡¯re still not happy,¡± he said, mock disappointment dripping from his voice. "Wow. Tough crowd."


    Then, he waved his hand once more. The final Marigold stepped forward. Not some twisted caricature. It was her. Exactly as she had been back then, in those bright, naive years before she had learned what real power looked like. This version of her stood at the centre of the stage, trembling, eyes darting between the director and the faceless crowd. She knew what was coming. Marigold couldn¡¯t breathe. The director circled her like a vulture, his movements slow, deliberate. He toyed with the ends of her hair, inhaling the scent of it. Then, his fingers trailed lower¡ªdown her throat, over her collarbones, pausing just below her chin.


    ¡°This one¡¯s different, isn¡¯t she?¡± he murmured, looking at Marigold now, not her past self. "She¡¯s got bite."


    The audience roared in approval. Marigold¡¯s past self flinched away from his touch. The laughter grew. A sinking horror bloomed in Marigold¡¯s gut. They liked it when she fought.


    The director¡¯s smile widened. ¡°Let¡¯s see just how much fight she has.¡±


    He snapped his fingers. More faceless men grabbed her past self, shoving her to her knees in front of him. She struggled, her teeth bared, her breath coming in quick, desperate gasps.


    Marigold screamed for them to stop, but her voice was drowned beneath the laughter, the applause, the cheering. The director extended his boot, pressing it against her past self¡¯s chin, forcing her head back. ¡°Go on,¡± he cooed. ¡°You know your cue.¡±


    The past Marigold shook.


    The director¡¯s voice darkened. ¡°Beg.¡±


    Tears slipped down her younger self¡¯s face, but still, she opened her mouth, lips trembling around the words. "Please," she whispered. "Please let me go."


    The crowd erupted with applause. Marigold turned away, unable to watch, but unseen hands forced her head forward, forced her to bear witness.


    The director¡¯s foot lifted, hovering in front of her past self¡¯s lips. She hesitated, body rigid, hands clenched into fists at her sides. Another snap of his fingers. The men shoved her downward, and her lips pressed against the polished leather. The laughter peaked. Marigold¡¯s stomach lurched. The world tilted, warped, her vision swimming with static. The director turned to her at last, beaming. His skin was damp with sweat, his pupils blown wide with pleasure. He crouched beside her, so close she could smell him. He leaned in, whispering against the shell of her ear.


    "Your mother tried to warn you about the evils of this world¡­ Had you listened to her, you wouldn¡¯t even be here right now."


    Marigold knelt in silence, her throat raw, her breath shuddering in uneven gasps. The laughter had died down. The lights had dimmed. The spotlight remained fixed on her, but everything else¡ªthe set, the faceless audience, the chains of reality itself¡ªfelt distant, insubstantial. Like a dream rotting at the edges. The director stood before her, watching. Not gloating, not revelling¡ªjust watching. Then, he sighed. A deep, weary sound, as if he had just taken a long drag from a cigarette.


    ¡°Well,¡± he muttered, adjusting his cuffs. ¡°That was a bit much, wasn¡¯t it?¡±


    Marigold swallowed hard, unable to lift her gaze. The humiliation still clung to her like a second skin. Her own breath felt foreign in her lungs. The director crouched before her, resting his elbows on his knees, looking at her with something almost resembling concern. His voice softened. ¡°I mean it, Mari. That was... ugly. I feel bad.¡±


    She flinched at the sound of her name on his lips.


    ¡°I¡¯m not trying to be a monster, you know,¡± he continued. ¡°But let¡¯s be honest. You take some rich prick, put him in a position of power, give him access to anyone he wants? Well.¡± He gestured vaguely as if the conclusion were obvious. ¡°You get me. A monster.¡±


    Marigold forced herself to meet his eyes. And for the first time, he didn¡¯t look like a towering force of cruelty. He looked small. Tired. There was something hollow in his expression, something raw beneath all the arrogance and the filth.


    ¡°I think, somewhere in my head, I convinced myself that if I took what I wanted, I¡¯d be satisfied,¡± he murmured. ¡°But it wasn¡¯t about that, was it?¡± His lips curled into something resembling a smile, but it was brittle, humourless. ¡°I liked you, Marigold. I really did. But you¡ª¡± He chuckled, shaking his head. ¡°You never would¡¯ve wanted me. And deep down, I knew that.¡±


    Her skin crawled.


    ¡°So I did what any monster would do.¡± He tilted his head slightly. ¡°I hurt you.¡±


    Marigold gritted her teeth, her fingers curling into trembling fists.


    He exhaled again, rubbing the bridge of his nose. ¡°God, when you say it out loud, it sounds so... pathetic, doesn¡¯t it? ¡®I couldn¡¯t have you, so I broke you instead.¡¯¡± He gave a bitter laugh. ¡°How twisted is that?¡±


    He shook his head, standing again. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Marigold.¡±


    The words hit her like a slap. The laughter was gone. The audience was silent. The air had shifted. For a second¡ªfor one agonizing second¡ªshe almost believed him. Then, he clapped his hands together, grinning like a magician at the end of a trick.


    ¡°And that¡¯s why I¡¯ve let them go,¡± he said, gesturing toward the stage, now empty of the other Marigolds. ¡°Because I am sorry. And, you know, making amends and all that.¡±


    Marigold stared at the empty space where her reflections had once been. A strange relief curled at the edges of her ribs, an exhale she hadn¡¯t even realized she was holding.


    Until¡ª


    He tilted his head. ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m not a monster.¡±


    A slow clap. And just like that¡ª


    She wasn¡¯t on the stage anymore. She was back in her office. Her hands trembled over a half-packed box of personal belongings. Reality settled in wrong¡ªlike a jacket a size too tight, familiar but smothering. The artificial hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The L.A. skyline stretched beyond the window. The smell of stale coffee lingered in the air. And she remembered. She remembered exactly what came next. The door behind her creaked open. And she knew who was standing there.


    "HI."


    Marigold turned.


    "My name''s Amber, I''m the new PA."


    The girl stood in the doorway, bright-eyed and eager, clutching a notepad to her chest like it was armour. She was younger than Marigold had been when she first took the job, maybe twenty if that. Soft-faced. Hopeful. Her blouse was crisp, her slacks neatly pressed, her hair pinned back in an effort to appear professional.


    Marigold stared at her.


    Amber shifted on her feet. "I, um¡ªI know I¡¯m kind of early, but I wanted to get a head start. The last girl¡ªuh, you¡ªleft in a bit of a hurry, so I figured I should get settled in quickly." She laughed, a nervous little thing. "They said I¡¯d be working really closely with Mr. Calloway."


    Her voice stretched over the name like she was trying it on for size. The room tilted. The air tasted stale, thick with old coffee and printer toner. The walls were too close, too yellowed, the fluorescent lighting buzzing like flies in a carcass.


    Marigold¡¯s fingers curled around the strap of her bag.


    Amber frowned slightly. "Are you okay?"


    Marigold blinked. She was still here. At this moment. In this body. The set was gone, the audience was gone, the collar, the leash, the director¡¯s breath on her skin¡ªit was all gone.


    Amber was still looking at her expectedly.


    Her throat was dry.


    She could say something.


    She could warn her.


    She could say, Don''t take the job.


    She could say, Leave now, while you still can.


    She could say, He will ruin you.


    She parted her lips.


    Amber smiled, expectant.


    Marigold swallowed.


    "Good luck," she said. Smiling.


    She walked past her, out of the office, down the hall, and out into the daylight, leaving Amber behind. She didn¡¯t look back.


    ¡°She¡¯ll be fine,¡± she told herself.