r/mrcreeps

Part 1 - 3

My knees felt weak. “Did you kill him?” I said, my voice faltering.
 
“I can’t tell you, it’s a secret,” it giggled in response.
 
Out of nowhere, its little body began to twitch, fast. It jerked its head around so hard, I half-expected it to tear right off and fall on the floor. I watched in horror as needle-like teeth began to poke through its soft, pink gums.
 
Its bones started to crack and bend, creating unimaginable angles and shapes. Pieces stuck through the skin everywhere, creating a puddle of drool and blood.
 
They would take on a new form before breaking again, the sound making me feel sick to my stomach. It was almost touching the ceiling.
 
Its ten little fingers and toes grew longer and longer, turning into razor sharp claws.
 
The skin of its previous form was too small to withstand its transformation. I heard the flesh pop and rip, revealing organs that squirmed like maggots. It began to patch itself back together with skin that came in all different shapes and colors.
 
“Is that the skin of all the people he imitated before Damien?” I shuddered at the thought.
 
I beheld the atrocity standing in the doorway, coming to the realization I was very unprepared to attack what was in front of me. At most, I would be lucky to survive.
 
Before I had time to think, it swung at me, throwing me into the wall. I dropped the knife as I cried out. The impact sent pain ricocheting throughout my body and evicted the air from my lungs.
 
Fumbling around, I tried to grab the knife as it charged at me again. I had just managed to wrap my fingers around the handle when it pinned me down. I could feel a claw sinking deeper and deeper into my shoulder.
 
It held up my arm and sliced it with surgical precision, slitting my wrist. I managed to reach up and stab its abdomen, a trickle of black liquid pouring out. It didn’t seem to faze it though. I tried again and again, but the warm fluid made it difficult to keep a grip on the knife.
 
It grabbed a fist full of my hair and drug me into the kitchen.
 
“Let me go!” I screamed “I can forget this ever happened and you can keep playing pretend,” tears filled my eyes.
 
It said nothing, as it began to examine our utensils.
 
Instead of choosing a sharp steak knife, it picked up a spoon. It admired its choice before lifting me up to meet its gaze.
 
I screamed and thrashed as it slowly moved the edge of the spoon to my eye. My mind was racing.
 
“Is this how I die? Is this the end?”
 
I held my eyes shut as tightly as possible, knowing it wouldn’t stop the inevitable. I prayed that Sam would find Damien after I died. If he was truly gone though, at least we were about to be reunited.
 
A car door slammed shut. I dropped to the ground.
 
“SAM, HELP ME!” I screamed, hoping he would hear me.
 
He threw open the door, taking in the scene. Color drained from his face. The living room and kitchen had splintered wood and broken picture frames littering the floor. Blood was spilled everywhere, most of it my own. He ran over to me and grabbed a dish towel, trying to put pressure on my wound.
 
“Liz, what happened? Where’s Damien?”
 
He got up with a sense of urgency and started to search the kitchen.
 
“Thank God you’re home,” I said, trying to catch my breath.
 
“I was right…that thing…. replaced Damien. We have to find him.”
 
“What thing? Liz, where is our son?” Sam said. He was rummaging through cabinets and the trash can, only adding to the chaotic scene.
 
“I don’t know Sam, we have to find him.” I reached out my hand and waited for help.
 
It never came.
 
Ignoring me, he moved room to room, turning the whole house upside down.
 
“Sam what are you doing? Damien’s not here, we have to-”
 
He stopped in his tracks and finally acknowledged me.
 
“Elizabeth. What have you done with him? WHERE IS OUR SON?”
 
I was taken aback. Why didn’t he understand? Why didn’t he believe me?
 
“Tell me where he is, or I’m calling the cops.” He said with a mixture of heartbreak and hatred.
 
“Sam, I told you, I don’t know. I PROMISE I would never hurt our baby. I mean look at this place, look at ME. Do you really think I did this myself?” I cried out, begging to be believed.
 
He stared at me and tears began to fill his eyes.
 
“I don’t know Elizabeth, but what I DO know is that Damien is missing, and all that blood out there? There’s no way it’s just yours.”
 
He pulled out his phone and dialed 911.
 
“Please… no…”
 
I was at a loss for words. In a matter of days, my whole life had fallen apart.
 
Our miracle baby was gone, or worse. My husband believed I killed him, and I was about to be arrested for a crime I didn’t commit.
 
Red and blue flashed through our windows.
 
“Please find our baby, Sam, please don’t stop until you find him.” I pleaded as they put me in the back of the car.
 
He said nothing, turning away from me.
 
In the following weeks, I was interviewed by numerous detectives and psychiatrists.
 
Eventually, it was determined that I had experienced an extreme case of postpartum psychosis. I was found not guilty by plea of insanity, and as a result, they committed me to the State’s psychiatric hospital.
 
Sam visited me the day I got admitted.
 
“Have they found Damien?” I asked as soon as he was seated.
 
“Uh… no, not yet. They’re still looking. That’s actually why I’m here.” He said, refusing to meet my gaze.
 
“Do you have any idea where you might’ve hidden him? I just want to put Damien to rest… please.”
 
“Sam, I told you. I didn’t do anything. I don’t know where he is.” I sighed.
 
“Okay. If that’s all you have to say.” He nodded to the supervisor, indicating he was ready to leave.
 
Before he walked out of the door, he turned back to me. I could see the tears in his eyes.
 
“Goodbye Elizabeth.”
 
I never saw him again.
 
I’m not quite sure how long I’ve been in here. They have me on a heavy medication regime so it’s hard to keep track of time. It doesn’t stop the nightmares from coming though.
 
I know what happened was real. I know what I lived through. I know Damien is out there somewhere. Growing up without his parents. All I can hope is that he’s had a good life.
 
Most importantly, I know that creature is still out there somewhere.
 
Impersonating someone new.
 
I just pray they put things together before it’s too late.

Before we begin, I think I should introduce myself, or at least the name I plan on using for these little posts. My name is Michael, just Michael for the foreseeable future, and the other names typed here won't be real either.

When you think of monsters, what usually comes to mind? Maybe a little goblin thing, a fierce dragon perhaps, one of the demons from Hell itself out to get you and your soul? Or maybe it's the dread of knowing that you're about to die and there's nothing you can do about it.

Well, that last bit was more or less personal to me, see this particular branch of the Government doesn't really...recruit, more like you're dragged into it one day and not allowed to quit. You see, I was briefly part of the FBI, not high on the hierarchy but high enough to be assigned to missing persons cases.

Which was fine, not why I initially joined, but well, I was doing some good work at the very least, found a few people, and...for the people I didn't, I gave the family some kind of closure. This case happened in 2020. I was sent to a place called Swan Falls, a small town next to a large forest, so plenty of places for a kid to hide and get lost in.

Sammy Roseland, a ten-year-old girl, was outside playing before she disappeared. Mom was in the Kitchen making breakfast or something, and Dad was still asleep. The parents didn't know she had gone missing until about two minutes later, when the Mom went to check on her. They spent an hour searching for her before calling the local Sheriff, who then got a whole search party out, and eventually it all snowballed towards my desk.

I was sent out to help the locals search for her. Now, this wasn't the first time I sent out for a missing or possibly kidnapped kid. This one thought was a bit weird. I arrived in town on a Monday morning, it looked like your typical small town, one Motel I could stay at with the occasional bug here and there, lots of mom and pop shops.

The town wasn't cut off from the rest of the world, had decent internet, and all but the road I took wasn't paved, so not a lot of tourists or out-of-towners. I did my best to do some research before arriving in town, a small place with some other disappearances in the past, but nothing that couldn't be written off as due to local wildlife.

The fact of the matter was, I wasn't sure this girl was maybe eaten by a Bear or something else, sad as it is, it does happen sometimes. Stepping out of my black Jeep, I was greeted by the local Sheriff, Martin, an older man, maybe in his fifties, with a small gray/white beard. He was wearing what you typically thought of as a sheriff's uniform, maybe the jacket he was wearing was a bit dirty, although my own jacket hadn't seen the washer in a bit.

"You the agent they sent?" He said in a gruff but somber tone, and I could immediately tell he had given up finding Sammy. It was sad seeing that look, no matter how many times I've seen it at this point.

"Yes, I am, Special Agent Michael, good to meet you, Sheriff, I'm guessing?" I said as I held out my hand for a handshake, and with a somber nod, he took my hand. He had a decent grip, but I could tell he was losing strength, or maybe losing hope would be a better way to put it. His eyes had bags under them, and I could see whatever light was in them fading quickly. Not that he was dying, but rather that he was losing hope, as I said.

We walked and talked with Sheriff Martin, explaining that they searched the more explored part of the forest for anything, even some torn clothes. He even brought out a map with a bunch of small red xs scattered all over it, showing teh areas they had explored so far, but that they still had plenty of ground to cover.

I also noticed this one little area, which, in all honesty, looked like a little light brown stain. Martin saw that I was looking closely at the stain. "That's an old mine, closed down in I think 1967, once the well dried up, the company in charge of it basically sealed it off, no way in, no way out."

Well, I immediately told myself that I'd check it out, see if it was actually sealed up or not, and if not, see if the kid was down there, maybe lost or pinned up a rock. Still didn't give me hope of finding them alive, but it was as good a shot as anything else. Thanking him for the talk, he gave me the map in case I wanted to join the search party, but said I didn't have to and could just wait out in my motel room.

Still don't understand why they called one of us down there if they felt they weren't going to find her. Might've been someone else and not a local or something, could be that the Government branch I now work for was looking for recruits or something.

Anyway, I grabbed the flashlight, some climbing gear I packed in the jeep, and made my way to the mines, wanting to take a look for myself. When I got deep into the forest, it didn't take me long to lose sight of the town and a few of the houses near the outskirts. The forest was huge, the grass nearly reached my ankles, and the trees towered over me like giants. I heard the distant chirping of a robin, I think, and the skittering of some small animal.

The weirdness started as soon as I got close to the abandoned mines. I started noticing that everything around it was dying. Fungus started to overtake everything. I felt like I needed a hazmat suit just to walk through it at some point. Animal bones and still rotting corpses were spread out, and the trees were starting to tear apart, with dozens of small to large branches scattered.

The whole place stank; it felt like my nose was burning and cementing itself in my nostrils. I'm not afraid to say that I was shaking at this point as I kept walking through the fungi forest, even though I was sure no child would ever willingly walk into such a place. Which meant that her being kidnapped was starting to look more likely with each passing second. I eventually reached the mines, and that place was...dead, there was no better word for it.

The whole place was slowly rotting away, even the metal was starting to rust through with a hole big enough you could fit a fat bear through it. Taking a breather, I approached the cave slowly, making sure no one was goign to sneak up on me as I brought my flashlight out and my Glock 17m, making sure the safety was on just in case there was a rabid animal in there or something else.

The pace was dark as expected and was basically just one large tunnel downward, with some old mining lights hanging overhead and well. On the side of the walls were various strange symbols I didn't recognize. I would've called them satanic, but the way they were drawn? No painted on the walls made me think it was more like a whole other language instead.

Going further in, the whole thing just got freakier as the symbols became more erratically painted on. Felt like I was going through the mind of a mental patient, pretty sure several of the symbols were drawn over each other several times as I went deeper in. Eventually, I came across a large...room? Yeah, room was the best way to describe the place, it was too nice to be an abandoned mineshaft and too...odd.

The whole place was circular and ritualistic, covered in dark grey concrete with several torches around the room still lit somehow. "What the fuck..." I muttered to myself as I went deeper, spotting a trail of blood leading to the center and dozens of bones in the center of the room. Some looked like old animal bones, others looked human, and in teh center of it all was a gigantic hole with strange iron bars covering it.

Now, when I say gigantic, I don't mean you could fit an elephant inside it; you could fit about five all at once if it didn't have the iron bars. The whole thing felt like a still-active satanic ritual spot, and the people who made it could come back any minute. Good news was the blood was old, and I mean old, just from a courtesy look at so that meany little Sammy wasn't here.

Still didn't explain what the hell was goign on here or who was still using this whole area for whatever weird occult ritual was happening. Making the stupid decision to approach the large cage, I shone my light down it and saw an endless dark hole with dry blood all over the walls and more of those same strange symbols, written more crudely than the stuff I saw before.

That's when a pale hand shot upward right through the bars. It was skinny and frail, looking like it hadn't seen sunlight for years. It had hair, but it was that long white one you'd see in movies, you know the kind that whatever it was on only had a few strands of. The fingers were the worst bit because it may have only one thumb, but it had dozens upon dozens of fingers.

It was nauseating to look at, and I am not afraid to admit that I puked seeing each of those little fingers squirm around the arm, trying to reach for me. It then began speaking in some strange language that I couldn't understand; it sounded...alien, like I was talking with a creature from another planet or dimension.

"Listen, I can't understand a word you're saying *Gurgle*, but I am asking you to calm down and to stop reaching for me." I said as I swallowed some vomit before taking a few steps back as the arm kept extending out of this-this thing's cage, revealing several small arms attached to it. That's when I saw it, oen of the arms had a...had a mouth on it, small with a few teeth and a whole tonuge, but it was a fully functioning mouth.

"Holy fuckign shit!" I screamed as I pointed my gun at the thing because it for sure wasn't human. Then two more smaller arms appeared, each one with eyes attached to it as they started looking me up and down, forming a fucking makeshift face.

"Ahhhh...such an odd tongue to use, oh Child of Adam, what has happened to the others, to the men who hide their faces?" It spoke with...it wasn't male or female, no, it felt different, like I was speaking with a thing that was a bit higher on the totem pole than me.

"You do not wear the leather of those odd black creatures, nor do you wield the weapons of Azazel that spray fire?" Yet it spoke with what I could only describe as an elegant nobleman, and...and that name Azazel, I didn't know it at the time, but I had heard it somewhere before.

Azazel was one of the fallen, one of the watchers who gave man warfare and taught us how to make weapons and stuff. Now I didn't know what the hell this thing was talking about at the time, but it didn't matter because I was terrified and shaking, just wanting to fire off a shot.

"No... No, you do wield one of those unwieldy weapons, smaller and weaker, yes, but the same." That's when I noticed the arm, no, the arms, as more started crawling out of the arm, none of them touching the iron bars for some reason. Each of them is just as monstrous and alien-like as the first one.

"What-What in the living hell are you?" I asked, stuttering as I continued taking more steps backward, unsure just what I stumbled on.

Then it started laughing, and it felt liek my soul was being torn apart as I could feel its malic pouring out of its cage. The arms started to slowly recede as it did, I-I don't think it was preparing to attack of anything like that. Like it knew it couldn't escape whatever the hell those bars were, but then it began speaking with a more demonic voice, the kidn yu'd recongize in a movie or TV show, except more...monstrous.

"I am that which destroyed the temples of Men, whom sullied the grounds of God itself and cause evil unbound by mortal laws, I am the son of Gadreel whom gave weapons to man and wage his own conquest wth you."

"I am the son of a Daughter of Adam, whom laid with my father not for love...but for pleasure and lust, sinking thyself into the domains of Hell."

"Nothing more than an abomination whom God sought to drown, weakened and imprisoned beneath the Earth and forever tied to the Mortal world till the End!" It shouted with such malice and evil I fell to my knees, thinking I was being choked by that-that monster.

Its hands around my throat, shouting in my ears as venom dripped out of its various mouths. The very Earth beneath us shaking as it moved, its prison far larger then I intially saw when I got close. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder, shoving me upward and back to the entrance, forcing me away from that hellish creature.

Disorted for a hot second, I shook my had taking a deep breath as I felt like I could finally breath again. I then saw a man wearign all black gear and...riot equipment, it was the best thing I could compare it to at the time. Whoever they were, they were covered in various symbols each one from a different relgiious affiliation which I still don't know how it works. On the back in white letters were the letters P.R.C. At the time I was just thankful just to get away from the thingthat I didn't notice the rifle in their hand.

At least not right away, when I got a seond look at them, it didn't look like any weapon I had ever seen. It was sleak, and felt like I was looking at a piece of alien tecnology a hundred years ahead of whatever the military had. They got a radio out a second later and began speaking in a feminine voice, I think they were a bit older then me maybe in their late 40s or something close to that. Either that or they smoked a pack of cigs everyday for years or something but that didn't matter as the creature went strangely...silent.

"Command, we have a breach at site 067, I repeat a breach at site 067, seems like one of ours got a bit...What do you mean new recruit!" They shouted after pausing for a second, probably just as confused as I was.

They turned around after getting a quick check at the things cage, probably making it wasn't damaged by me being an idiot or if that thing somehow got a way to break through them. Afterwards tehy essentially dragged my ass outside, my face the picture of confusion, if you looked it up my face would be the first thing that popped up as I nearly shit my pants not minutes earlier and now was being rescued by some person in weird-looking tattical gear armed with advanced weaponrny.

"Alright then, I'm assuming you here for the littel girl that was reported missing in the area?" She said taking off her helemet, revealing an older woamn in her later 40s just as I thought, with short red hair adn a face littered with scars and an actual hole in her left cheek.

"Ye-Yes? Do you know where she is...did...did that thing eat her?!" I said both as a question and shocked/disgusted by the idea having not considered it earlier.

"No luckily for you and me she was found before the thing could drag her beeneath the Earth and do...God knows what none of us have any clue what they want."

"She's just being...have you ever seen Men in Black? Because right now her minds being erased of the experience before being set back here." She said taking a more relazed demanor taking a cig out and lightning it.

"Sorry about all this, usually we have someone from *Huff* our group introduce themselves before showing you all this." She gesturted to the cave entrance, god I could still smell teh sulfure now, just another stench etched into my mind same as the accurrsed fungi forest.

"Wh-Who are you people?" I said still processing all this new information, and the veyr idea fo the supernatural being real alongside Demons, Angels, and...and God.

"Well you had a hell of a first day even if you didn't know, Agent Michael you've been fired from the FBI and placed into the Paranomal Research and Contaiment divions of these United States."

So yeah that was my first day in my new job and my first into my descent into Hell and the monstrous things that were imprisoned and roamed this Earth.

In the shadowed high-rises of Kyiv, a rumor has slithered from one generation to the next—a vast, spectral spider, larger than any man could imagine, prowls the forgotten lifts and corridors of old apartment blocks. They say one night, when the city sleeps, you’ll feel the faint vibration in the elevator, a breath of cold air, and a dark shadow creeping behind you. And once you hear it, you'll never forget.

Part 1

They left just before midnight.

Mara stayed with Deena.

That was the hardest part.

Micaiah had expected her to argue. To tell him he was being reckless. To stand in the doorway and demand he choose between his wife and whatever waited inside Gavrillo’s mansion.

Instead, she helped him fasten his tactical vest.

Mara had been against the whole plan at first.

Not gently, either.

She had called it madness dressed up as grace. A vendetta with Bible verses wrapped around it. For days she begged Micaiah to wait, to pray longer, to find another way—any other way.

Then Mara saw the thing inside her sister-in-law get worse day by day.

Soon, she stopped arguing.

She looked at Micaiah with red eyes and trembling hands, then helped buckle the vest across his chest.

She took his face in both hands and looked at him the way she had looked at him in India when a Hindutva mob started gathering outside a church and threatened to burn it down with everyone inside.

“Come back whole,” she said.

Micaiah knew what she meant.

Not just alive.

Whole.

He kissed her.

“I’ll try.”

“No,” Mara said. “Do more than try. Come back whole or don’t come back at all.”

—

The mansion sat high above Bel Air behind walls, cameras, and money.

From the road below, it looked peaceful. Warm windows. Tall hedges. Stone driveway curving up through the dark. The kind of place people saw in magazines and called beautiful because they never had to wonder what happened behind the glass.

Micaiah lay flat in the brush beside Nathan and watched the property through night vision goggles.

No moon.

That helped.

Wind moved through the eucalyptus trees on the hillside, covering small sounds. A dog barked somewhere down the canyon, then stopped.

Nathan checked his watch.

“Two minutes,” he whispered.

Micaiah nodded.

His rifle rested against the dirt beside him. His chest felt tight, but his hands were steady.

Inhale.

Even though I walk through the darkest valley…

Exhale.

I will fear no evil, for you are with me.

Below them, one of Gavrillo’s guards walked the inside edge of the wall with a flashlight angled low, a submachine gun slung on his shoulder. He looked bored. That was good. Bored men missed things. Bored men trusted routines.

Nathan had tracked those routines for weeks.

Micaiah had broken the rest.

Before he’d been called to spread the Gospel, Micaiah had worked in cybersecurity for a defense contractor in El Segundo. He had been good at it. Too good, maybe.

He knew how systems lied.

He knew how expensive security made rich men feel invincible.

Cameras. Access panels. Motion sensors. Private networks. Encrypted controls. Badge logs. Smart gates. All of it looked impenetrable from the outside.

But every system had seams.

People reused passwords. Vendors took shortcuts. Contractors left maintenance access buried in places nobody checked. Executives demanded convenience, then called it security.

Gavrillo’s house had all of that.

It was a fortress with a wide open gate.

Micaiah had spent the last seven nights in front of a laptop at the kitchen table while Deena screamed through the walls. He did not sleep much.

He mapped what he could. Guessed what he couldn’t. Found weak points without touching anything that would warn them too early. He never thought of it as hacking anymore.

That word belonged to another life.

This felt more like picking a lock on a burning house.

Nathan shifted beside him.

“Now.”

Micaiah pulled out the phone.

The screen was dimmed almost black. His thumb hovered for one second.

He tapped once.

Down at the mansion, nothing dramatic happened.

No alarms.

No sparks.

No sudden darkness.

Just a tiny change.

The driveway camera turned three degrees toward the empty gate.

The side-yard motion grid paused for a maintenance check that no one had ordered.

A service door near the pool house unlocked.

They saw it on the feed and moved.

They slid down the hillside low and fast, using the trees as cover. Loose dirt shifted under Micaiah’s boots. He caught himself with one hand before a rock could tumble down the slope.

Nathan froze.

Micaiah froze too.

The rock rolled once.

Stopped.

Below them, the guard lifted his head.

The flashlight beam swept the hillside.

Micaiah pressed himself into the dirt and held his breath.

The beam moved over the brush ten feet to his left.

Then five.

Then closer.

Nathan did not move. Not a blink. Not a twitch.

The guard took one step toward the wall.

Micaiah felt sweat crawl down his temple.

The phone in his pocket vibrated once.

A warning.

The maintenance pause was ending.

The guard lifted the flashlight higher.

Micaiah’s finger tightened around the pistol grip.

The guard took another step.

Micaiah did not think about what he was about to do. Thinking would break him.

He brought the AR up slowly. The suppressor added length but kept the profile low. He aligned the red dot with the guard’s chest. Not the head. Too much chance of a miss in the dark.

The flashlight beam swept past his position.

Micaiah exhaled.

The shot was quieter than he expected. A hard cough swallowed by the wind through the eucalyptus.

The guard’s body jerked. His knees buckled. The flashlight tumbled from his hand and hit the dirt with a soft thump. He went down face-first and did not move again.

Nathan was already moving.

He grabbed the guard under the arms and dragged him into the brush before the light could roll downhill. Micaiah grabbed the flashlight, killed the beam, and shoved it into his jacket pocket.

Blood spread dark across the back of the guard’s shirt. Chest shot. Lungs. He would have been unconscious in seconds. Dead in under a minute.

Micaiah did not check for a pulse.

He just said a quick prayer over the body.

He helped Nathan drag it deeper into the cover of the trees, behind a thick cluster of manzanita. Dead leaves and loose soil covered the blood trail fast enough.

Micaiah pulled a tarp from his pack and rolled the body onto it. No time to bury. They folded the edges over and wedged the bundle between two rocks.

For a second, guilt opened inside him.

He had a name. A wife and kids, maybe. Someone who would wonder why he never came home.

Then Micaiah remembered Deena curled in the corner, burned and bleeding.

No one worked for Gavrillo by accident.

Micaiah nodded and pulled the thermal monocular from the pouch on his vest. The rubber eyecup was cold against his face. He angled it upward, past the balcony rail, past the dark glass of the second-floor windows.

At first he saw only the expected things.

Hot pipes in the walls. A cooling unit bleeding warmth near the roofline. One guard moving inside the guest wing, his body a bright human shape behind thin plaster.

Then he found the master bedroom.

Micaiah stopped breathing.

Through the thermal lens, the room was full.

At least a dozen shapes stood around the bed. Not human.

Too tall. Too narrow. Some bent at angles that human bodies could not hold. Their heat signatures flickered strangely, bright at the joints and cold in the center, like their bodies were pretending to be alive and getting the details wrong.

One crouched on the ceiling.

Another stood at the foot of the bed with its arms hanging almost to the floor.

Two more were pressed close to the walls, motionless except for their heads, which turned slowly in unison.

And in the middle of them, on the bed, was a small human shape.

Female.

Pinned flat on her back.

Her arms were spread wide. Her legs kicked weakly. Something held her down at the wrists and ankles, though Micaiah could not make out hands. Only pressure. Only the way her heat flared where unseen things touched her skin.

“Nathan,” he said. “You need to see this…”

Nathan took the monocular from him and looked.

For three seconds, he said nothing.

Then his face changed.

Old anger moved through it, but this time it had direction.

“He’s in there,” Nathan whispered with venom.

They moved toward the wall.

The stone barrier stood twelve feet high, topped with decorative iron spikes that looked sharp enough to hurt. Nathan had studied the mortar joints for weeks. He found the weak section near the southeast corner where rainwater had eaten channels into the old repairs.

Micaiah knelt and laced his fingers together. Nathan stepped into his hands and went up silent, finding cracks in the stone with his boots. He gripped the top edge, pulled himself high enough to clear the spikes, and dropped to the other side with a soft thud.

The duffel came next. Nathan caught it one-handed, then Micaiah followed.

They landed in a service corridor between the main house and the guest wing. Potted ficus trees lined the walkway. Automatic lights on motion sensors—but Micaiah had looped those into the maintenance pause. The path stayed dark.

They moved.

The mansion rose above them in pale stucco and dark glass. Three stories. A rooftop terrace with potted olive trees.

Nathan was already at the base of the wall beneath the guest wing balcony. He pulled the climbing kit from the duffel and handed Micaiah one of the compact harnesses without looking at him.

They had practiced this until speech became unnecessary.

Micaiah stepped into the harness, tightened it around his thighs and waist, then clipped the thin black line to the front. Nathan fitted the grappling hook together with quick, quiet movements. It looked too small for what they needed it to do. Too fragile.

Nathan aimed at the underside of the third-floor balcony.

Micaiah looked up.

The master bedroom was there.

At least, he believed it was.

Deena had described it once during one of the lucid moments. Not a full description. Just pieces.

Tall windows.

White curtains.

A painting of a woman with no face.

A balcony above the pool.

The smell of flowers.

The ceiling fan turning slow.

She had said all of that with her hands clenched in Mara’s lap and her eyes fixed on nothing.

Micaiah looked at the balcony again.

White curtains moved behind the glass.

No lights inside.

Nathan fired the grappling hook.

The sound was small. A tight metallic snap, almost lost beneath the wind moving over the hillside.

The hook shot upward in a black blur. It cleared the balcony rail, struck stone, skipped once, then caught beneath the outer lip with a dull click.

Both men froze.

Micaiah listened.

No alarm.

No shout.

No footsteps from inside.

Nathan tugged the line once. Then twice. The hook held.

He clipped the ascender to his harness and looked at Micaiah.

“After me,” he whispered.

Micaiah nodded.

Nathan went up first, boots against the wall, body tight to the stucco. He climbed fast but not careless. One hand over the other. Feet finding pressure where there was almost none. The line barely moved under his weight.

Micaiah waited below with his rifle angled down, watching the dark glass above him.

His mouth went dry.

The feeling came back then. The same pressure he had felt in Deena’s room, only stronger. It pressed against his chest. Against his teeth. Against the back of his eyes.

Not fear exactly.

Fear had edges. Fear made sense.

This was different.

It felt like standing outside a slaughterhouse and knowing you're next on the conveyor belt.

Nathan reached the balcony and pulled himself over the rail. He stayed low, disappearing behind the stone ledge. A second later, the line jerked twice.

Clear.

Micaiah clipped in.

He started climbing.

The wall was cold under his boots. His gloves scraped faintly against the line. Below him, the pool sat black and still. The whole property seemed to hold its breath.

Halfway up, the pressure worsened.

Micaiah’s stomach turned. His hands tightened around the ascender. For a moment, he thought he heard Deena crying.

From behind him.

He almost looked down.

Don’t.

He closed his eyes for one second.

The Lord is faithful, and he will strengthen you and protect you from the evil one.

The sound stopped.

He climbed faster.

By the time he reached the balcony, sweat had soaked the back of his shirt. Nathan grabbed his vest and helped pull him over the rail.

Micaiah landed in a crouch beside him.

Neither of them spoke.

The balcony was wide, paved in pale stone. Planters lined the edges. White flowers grew from them in heavy clusters, their smell too sweet in the night air. The scent reminded him of funeral arrangements left too long in a warm room.

Ahead of them stood the sliding glass window.

Beyond it, the master bedroom waited in darkness.

The curtains were thin enough to show shapes but not details. Somewhere inside were the things Micaiah had seen through the thermal lens.

And Gavrillo.

Micaiah could feel him now.

A center of rot.

The evil coming from that room was no longer pressure. It was weight. It settled over Micaiah’s thoughts until even simple things became hard. Breathing. Swallowing. Remembering why they had come.

His vision narrowed.

For a second, he forgot Nathan was beside him. Forgot the weapon in his hands. Forgot the line clipped to his harness.

All he knew was the glass.

The room.

The thing behind it.

Then Nathan touched his shoulder.

Micaiah flinched.

Nathan’s face was close to his. Calm, but pale around the mouth.

“You good?” he breathed.

Micaiah wanted to say yes.

Instead, he shook his head once.

Nathan nodded like he understood.

“Me neither.”

From inside the bedroom came a sound.

Faint.

Rhythmic.

Chanting.

Several of them.

Low and steady, rising and falling together.

A call.

A response.

A call.

A response.

Under it all, something else breathed.

Slow.

Deep.

Huge.

Micaiah raised his rifle.

Nathan held up three fingers.

Micaiah saw.

One.

Two.

Three.

They hit the glass together.

The sliding door exploded inward—not in a Hollywood spray of clean shards, but in jagged chunks that skittered across the marble floor. The curtain rod tore from its mounts and clattered sideways. Cold wind rushed into the room behind them.

Micaiah saw it all in the first two seconds.

The smell was the worst part.

Not rot. Not sulfur. Something sweeter underneath it. Ozone and burnt sugar and the thick iron of blood left too long in open air.

His boots crunched on broken glass.

The room was enormous. Vaulted ceiling. Dark wood beams. A fireplace big enough to stand inside, though no fire burned there. Candles instead. Hundreds of them. Black candles clustered on every surface—dresser, nightstands, window sills, the floor. Their flames burned low and green at the edges.

The things in the room moved.

Micaiah had not registered them at first. Too much visual noise. Too much horror competing for his attention. But now he saw.

They were everywhere.

Crawling over the footboard. Clinging to the canopy above the bed. Male and female in ways that did not match human anatomy. Their skin was the color of bruises—purple at the edges, yellow where it stretched over bone. Some had too many limbs. Some had too few. One crouched at the foot of the bed with its spine arched the wrong direction, its head twisted around to face Micaiah while its chest pointed at the floor.

They were not wearing flesh.

They were wearing approximations of flesh.

Like clothes that did not fit.

One crawled across the ceiling, its fingers and toes finding purchase in the wood grain. Another sat in the corner with its knees pulled to its chest, rocking slowly, its mouth open too wide to be natural. No sound came out of it. Just breath. Just the wet click of a jaw that had unhinged.

A dozen of them were kneeling in a circle around the bed like worshipers at an altar.

The woman was on the mattress.

Young. Early twenties maybe. Naked. Her body was turned at an angle that suggested dislocated joints. Her face had been carved—not cut, carved—with symbols Micaiah recognized from Deena's walls. She was still conscious. Her eyes moved, tracking him, but no sound came from her mouth.

A leather strap was tied around her throat.

Tight enough to bruise.

Tight enough to kill if she struggled too hard.

Gavrillo was on top of her.

He looked almost human from a distance. But Micaiah was not at a distance. He was close enough to see the fur growing in patches along the man's shoulders. The way his jaw moved—not up and down, but side to side, like a goat chewing on cud. His eyes were yellow in the candlelight. Not jaundiced. Yellow like an animal's. No white left at all.

His back was bare.

Thin lines of raised scar tissue ran from his spine outward, arranged in patterns that almost looked like the beginnings of wings.

Something had tried to grow there.

Or something had been cut off.

Gavrillo froze when the glass broke.

He sat up slowly. The woman beneath him made a sound then. Small. Broken. Her hand twitched toward nothing.

He turned to face Micaiah and Nathan, he unhinged his jaw.

His teeth were too many.

Nathan raised his shotgun.

One of the things on the ceiling dropped.

It landed between Nathan and the bed with a wet slap of bare feet on marble. Thin. Tall. Its face was almost beautiful except for the eyes—too large, too dark, too aware. Its mouth opened and closed like a fish on a dock.

Nathan fired before it finished opening its mouth. The shotgun blast hit the demon high in the chest and tore it apart. Not cleanly. It came apart like something full of black water and rotten muscle. Pieces slapped against the marble and kept twitching. Micaiah didn’t give the others a chance to react. He opened fire.

The rifle kicked against his shoulder in short, controlled bursts. The suppressor swallowed the worst of the noise, but inside the room it still sounded like thunder trapped in a box. Muzzle flashes strobed across the walls. Candles went out in clusters. Shadows jumped and broke.

The demon on the ceiling skittered sideways.

Micaiah tracked it and fired.

Its fingers lost their grip first. Then its face split open. It dropped onto the bedframe and hit the floor screaming.

Nathan moved beside him with righteous fury.

Not rage without aim. Not the old Nathan swinging at anything close enough to hurt.

This was worse.

This was focused.

He stepped over the thing he’d blown apart and fired again. Pumped. Fired. Pumped. Fired. Each blast cut another demon down. One tried to leap across the foot of the bed. Nathan caught it midair and folded it backward. Another crawled toward the woman with one long arm reaching for her throat. Nathan put a slug through its spine and crushed its skull under his boot before it stopped moving.

The room broke into panic.

Some of them rushed forward.

Some tried to flee.

One climbed the wall with its knees bent the wrong way, digging black nails into plaster as it scrambled toward the ceiling vent. Micaiah put three rounds through its back. It fell and hit the dresser, knocking candles and glass to the floor.

Another ran for the hallway door.

Nathan turned and fired from the hip.

The demon’s legs vanished under it. It slid face-first across the marble, clawing at the floor, still trying to get away. Nathan walked after it and ended it with another shot.

Gavrillo was off the woman now.

He stood beside the bed, bleating.

He was afraid now.

That made Micaiah fire faster.

A demon came from the left, low and quick. He saw it too late. It crossed the room on all fours, fast enough to blur, and slammed into him before he could swing the rifle around.

Pain opened across his ribs.

Hot. Shallow. A graze, but deep enough to steal his breath.

Its hand had cut through his vest like a hook through cloth.

The thing’s face pressed close to his. Its breath smelled like old blood and wet ashes. It made a clicking sound, excited, almost childlike.

Micaiah drove his knee into its gut.

It didn’t care.

Its jaw stretched wider.

Nathan dragged it off of Micaiah by one ankle and shot it through the mouth.

Another one made it to the broken balcony door. It shoved itself through the torn curtains, leaving streaks of black fluid on the glass. Micaiah turned and cut it down before it reached the railing. Its body tumbled over the railing and vanished into the dark below.

Micaiah reloaded without thinking. Empty magazine out. Fresh magazine in. Charging handle. Sweeping the room with the rifle.

The demons lay in pieces across the room. Black fluid ran between broken glass and candle wax. Some of them still twitched, but none got back up.

Then one shape rose behind the bed.

Gavrillo.

He looked from one brother to the other like a cornered animal.

The confidence had cracked. Black blood ran from a hole in his side. One of Micaiah’s rounds had caught him after all.

He looked toward the hallway. Then the balcony. Then the ruined bedroom around him.

There was nowhere to go.

Gavrillo’s yellow eyes settled on Micaiah.

Then he moved.

Not toward them.

Toward the woman on the bed.

“Don’t move!” Micaiah shouted, but Gavrillo was already there. He grabbed her by the red hair and pulled her upright. She cried out as her legs folded under her. Gavrillo dragged her against his chest and wrapped one arm across her throat.

Her eyes went wide.

She was alive. Barely.

Gavrillo pressed his face against the side of her head. His jaw worked. Too many teeth showed when he spoke.

“Back,” he said.

Nathan kept the shotgun on him.

Gavrillo tightened his grip.

The woman made a thin sound in the back of her throat. Not a scream. She did not have enough strength left for that. Just a frightened whimper.

“Get back,” Gavrillo said again, louder this time. “Or I open her.”

Micaiah froze.

The rifle felt heavier in his hands.

He could see her face now. Young. Terrified. Blood on her lips. Her eyes moved from Micaiah to Nathan and back again, begging without words.

For a moment, Micaiah saw Deena.

Not as she was now.

Before all of this.

Laughing in their mother’s kitchen. Alive in the way people looked alive before evil found them.

His finger eased off the trigger.

Gavrillo started backing toward the hallway with the woman held in front of him.

The woman shook her head as much as she could.

Her mouth formed one word.

Please.

Micaiah could not move.

But he saw Nathan raise his shotgun, his old gangster self bleeding through.

“Nate…” Micaiah shouted. “Wait!”

But Nathan fired away.

The blast filled the room.

The buckshot hit the woman first. Her body jerked hard against Gavrillo’s grip. The shot passed through her and struck him behind her, punching him backward into the wall.

Both of them collapsed.

The woman hit the floor without catching herself.

Gavrillo landed next to her, one arm still twisted around her throat. His chest was torn open where the shot had gone through. Black blood pumped between his ribs.

For a second, nobody spoke.

Micaiah stared at Nathan.

Nathan pumped the shotgun once.

The spent shell bounced across the marble.

Micaiah moved first.

He did not remember deciding to move. One second he was staring at Nathan. The next he was running across broken glass toward the woman on the floor.

“No, no, no—”

The rifle dropped against its sling. His knees hit the marble hard. Pain flashed up both legs. He ignored it.

Blood spread beneath her in a dark sheet. Too much. Far too much.

Micaiah pressed both hands over the worst of it.

“Stay with me,” he said. “Look at me. Look at me.”

Her eyes were open.

That made it worse.

She was looking at him like she had been waiting for someone to come through that door for hours, maybe longer, and now that someone had come, they’d shot her.

He tore open the med pouch on his vest with one hand and pulled out gauze. He packed the wound because training told him to. He pressed harder because panic told him to. His hands slipped. The gauze turned red too fast.

The woman tried to breathe.

Couldn’t.

“Hey,” Micaiah said, softer now. “Hey. You’re not alone.”

Her fingers twitched against the floor.

He took her hand.

She was cold already.

“Nate!” Micaiah called out. “Help me!”

Nathan ignored him.

“What's your name?” he asked.

For a moment, he wasn't sure she heard him.

Her lips moved.

The woman's eyes focused on him with surprising clarity.

“Veronika…” she managed to whisper through a mouthful of blood.

“Veronika,” he repeated. “Okay. Veronika. Stay with me.”

A weak smile touched the corner of her mouth.

As though hearing her own name spoken aloud mattered.

As though someone remembering it mattered.

“Veronika,” he said again. “Do you have family?”

Her eyes fluttered.

“My mom...” she whispered.

The words broke apart beneath a wet cough.

“She’s… She’s in Arkhangelsk. I need to see her…”

Micaiah closed his eyes for half a second.

“You will,” he said, even though he knew that was a lie.

“You're going home.”

A mother somewhere was probably waiting for a phone call that would never come.

“Your mother loves you,” he said.

Veronika looked at him.

A tear slipped from the corner of her eye.

“I want... to go home.”

Across the room, Nathan grabbed Gavrillo by a hooved foot and dragged him out from under the woman’s blood.

Nathan crouched over him.

Gavrillo spat black blood onto the marble.

Nathan pressed the shotgun barrel against his chest.

“You know who we are?” Nathan asked.

Gavrillo bleated like a demonic goat.

It came out wet and low.

Nathan kicked him in the ribs.

The bleating stopped.

“Say her name.”

Gavrillo smiled.

Micaiah looked over then.

He wished he hadn’t.

Gavrillo’s body was torn open in places that should have killed a man outright. But he was not a man. His legs dragged uselessly.

Nathan leaned closer.

“Say ‘Deena.’”

Gavrillo’s smile widened.

“Which one was she?”

Nathan hit him with the stock of the shotgun.

The sound was flat and ugly.

Micaiah flinched. The woman in his arms flinched too, or maybe that was just her body failing.

Nathan grabbed Gavrillo by the hair and forced his face toward the bed.

Micaiah stayed on his knees beside the woman.

“Don’t listen to him,” he whispered to her. “Don’t hear any of that. Just listen to me.”

His hands were still pressed to her wound, even though there was no reason to press anymore.

“Listen to me,” he said. His voice shook. “Jesus sees you. And He loves you.”

Veronika's fingers tightened weakly around his hand.

“Lord, receive my sister, Veronika,” Micaiah whispered. “Please. Please receive her.”

Her eyes remained fixed on his.

For one final moment, the fear left them.

Then her grip loosened.

And she was gone.

“Nate,” he called out.

Nathan didn’t hear him.

Or he chose not to.

With one hand still locked in Gavrillo’s hair, Nathan reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. His fingers shook once before they found what he was looking for.

A photograph.

Creased at the corners. Soft from being handled too many times.

He unfolded it and held it in front of Gavrillo’s face.

Deena.

The graduation photo.

Nathan pressed the photo so close to Gavrillo’s eyes that the paper bent against his brow.

“Her,” Nathan said. “Say her name.”

Gavrillo blinked slowly.

For a second, something like recognition passed through his face.

Then he laughed.

It came out wet. Broken. Animal-like.

Gavrillo looked at the picture again.

“Was she the one who cried for her mother?” he asked.

Nathan’s face changed.

Not rage. Something worse. Something blank.

Nathan shot Gavrillo point blank in the crotch.

The sound punched through the room.

Gavrillo’s scream was not human. It tore out of him in two voices, one high and one deep, both full of hate. His hands clawed at the marble. Black blood spread under him.

Nathan chambered another round.

“Say it.”

Gavrillo’s teeth clicked together.

Blood ran over his teeth.

Then he spoke, “Chaíre… Sataná!” Hail… Satan!

Nathan did not answer.

He placed the barrel against Gavrillo’s forehead and fired.

Gavrillo’s head snapped back, splatting black viscous brain matter against the wall.

The room went quiet after that.

Not peaceful quiet.

The kind of quiet that comes after a door has been shut and locked from the other side.

Micaiah looked down.

The woman was gone.

Her eyes were still open, but the fear had left them. He closed them with two fingers.

Neither brother spoke.

There was nothing left to say.

—

The first body started smoking near the dresser.

Micaiah saw it only because he was still kneeling on the floor beside the dead woman. At first he thought one of the candles had tipped over into the black blood. Then the smoke thickened. It curled up from the remains of one of the demons Nathan had shot apart.

The flesh hissed.

Nathan turned.

“What the hell is that?”

The demon’s skin split open along the ribs. Orange light glowed underneath, thin at first, then brighter. The smell changed from blood and rot to burning hair.

Another body began to smoke near the foot of the bed.

Then another.

Micaiah rose slowly.

The pieces of Gavrillo were smoking too.

His headless body jerked once on the marble. Not alive. Not even close. Just some final chemical reaction in the meat. Black blood bubbled out of the wound in his neck. Wherever it touched the floor, the marble darkened and cracked.

“Mickey,” Nathan said. “We need to go.”

Micaiah was still staring at the woman.

At what he had done.

“Nate—”

“Now.”

One of the demon bodies caught fire.

It went up too fast. Like gasoline had been poured inside it. Flames burst through the chest and ran across the slick trail of black blood. The fire hit the curtains near the broken balcony door and climbed them in seconds.

Nathan grabbed the shotgun and the duffel.

Micaiah looked back once at the woman on the floor.

He wanted to carry her out. He wanted to do something decent. Cover her. Anything.

But the fire had already reached the bed.

The sheets went up. Then the canopy. Then the wall behind it.

“Mickey!”

Nathan grabbed his vest and pulled him back.

Micaiah stumbled over broken glass. Heat slapped across his face. A demon’s severed arm burned beside his boot, fingers curling in the flames like a dead spider.

The smoke came fast.

Not normal smoke.

Thick. Greasy. Low to the ground, then everywhere at once.

They ran for the balcony.

Micaiah reached the shattered sliding door and nearly slipped on the blood and glass. Nathan shoved him through onto the balcony.

Cold night air hit his face.

For one second, he could breathe again.

Then the window behind them blew out.

Heat and glass burst across the balcony. Micaiah ducked, arms over his head. Shards sliced across his jacket and sleeves. Nathan cursed and pulled him toward the rope.

Below them, lights came on across the property.

Someone shouted from the driveway.

An alarm began to wail.

Nathan clipped Micaiah in first.

“Go!” he shouted.

Micaiah didn’t argue. He looked back once.

The master bedroom was gone behind fire.

The smoke moved wrong. Shapes twisted inside it.

He swung over the rail and dropped fast, braking hard with one gloved hand around the line.

He heard Deena’s voice again.

Mickey! Help me!

The heat followed him down.

Halfway to the ground, the balcony above cracked.

Stone split somewhere behind him. A chunk of burning plaster fell past his shoulder and exploded against the tiles below.

Nathan followed close behind, hitting the ground hard enough to hear his knees pop. Micaiah caught his arm before he fell.

They ran.

A guard came around the corner near the pool house with a pistol in his hands.

Nathan fired once.

The man dropped.

Micaiah didn’t look at him.

They sprinted along the side path, past the dark pool, past the hedges, past the service door.

The mansion groaned behind them.

Not like a building.

Like something wounded.

They reached the wall.

Nathan went up first, using the same cracks in the stone. Micaiah covered him from below, rifle raised, breath ragged.

Another shout came from the driveway.

Then gunfire.

Rounds snapped against the wall above Micaiah’s head. “Go!” Nathan shouted from the top.

Micaiah slung the rifle, jumped, and caught Nathan’s hand.

Nathan dragged him up with a grunt.

For a second they balanced on the wall together, the iron spikes inches from Micaiah’s legs.

They dropped to the other side and rolled into the brush.

Branches tore at Micaiah’s face. Dirt filled his mouth. He forced himself up and followed Nathan down the slope.

The truck waited where they had left it, hidden under a camo tarp between two trees.

Nathan ripped the tarp away and threw open the driver’s door.

Micaiah climbed into the passenger seat.

Nathan started the engine.

The headlights stayed off.

He backed out hard, tires slipping in the dirt, then turned onto the narrow road leading away from the property.

Neither of them spoke.

The mansion burned in the rearview mirror.

Micaiah didn’t care anymore.

Orange light flickered through the trees as they descended into the canyon. Sirens wailed somewhere far below. More would come soon. Police. Fire. News helicopters. People who would never know what had really happened in that bedroom.

Micaiah looked at his hands.

They were covered in blood.

Most of it was the woman’s.

Nathan drove with both hands on the wheel. His face looked empty.

Micaiah stared at him.

He had told himself they were going there to stop evil.

He had told himself God had sent them.

Maybe that was true.

But Nathan had shot through a living woman to get to Gavrillo.

Micaiah could still feel her hand in his.

He turned toward the window.

The city lights blurred below them.

Nathan said nothing.

Micaiah said nothing back.

The silence sat between them like a third person. Micaiah waited until they were five miles from the mansion.

“Pull over.”

Nathan kept driving.

“I said pull over.”

Nathan’s eyes stayed on the road. “Not now.”

Micaiah grabbed the wheel and yanked it hard enough that the truck swerved onto the shoulder. Gravel spat under the tires. Nathan slammed the brakes.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Micaiah hit him first.

His fist caught Nathan across the mouth and drove his head into the window.

Nathan sat there for a moment, breathing hard. Then he wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

He didn’t do anything.

That made Micaiah angrier.

“You killed her.”

Nathan looked straight ahead.

Micaiah hit him again.

This time Nathan dodged the blow and punched back.

The blow caught Micaiah under the eye and knocked him against the passenger door. He came back fast, grabbing Nathan by the vest and slamming him into the steering wheel. The horn barked once, loud in the canyon.

Nathan drove his elbow into Micaiah’s ribs.

Micaiah gasped and swung blind.

They fought across the seats, boots scraping the floorboards, fists hitting bone, glass, dashboard. Nathan shoved him into the glove box hard enough to crack it. Micaiah grabbed Nathan’s hair and smashed his face into the wheel.

Blood spotted the console.

The truck rocked on its shocks. Their guns banged against the floorboard. Somewhere outside, sirens moved through the hills.

Micaiah grabbed Nathan’s shirt with both hands.

“She had a name!”

Nathan’s eyes stayed cold.

“Veronika,” Micaiah said. “Her name was Veronika.”

Nathan breathed hard.

“She had a mother waiting for her.” Micaiah said. “And you shot her!”

Nathan punched him in the stomach.

Micaiah folded,

“She was dead already,” Nathan said, blood running over his mouth.

Micaiah grabbed Nathan’s collar and headbutted him. Nathan’s nose broke with a wet crack.

“She was alive!”

“She was gone… Just like Deena….”

Micaiah hit him again when he heard that.

Nathan shoved him hard into the passenger window. Glass cracked. Micaiah came back swinging. His knuckles split on Nathan’s cheek. Nathan drove a knee into his ribs. Micaiah caught him by the throat and forced him down across the center console.

Micaiah stared at him with one eye swollen shut.

“What I did was mercy,” Nathan said, the words landing worse than the shot.

Micaiah’s voice dropped. “Mercy?”

“You think mercy always looks clean?”

Micaiah shoved him back.

Nathan grabbed his wrist and held it.

“If that had been Deena,” Micaiah asked, “would you do the same?”

The question stopped Nathan in his tracks. He let go of Micaiah’s wrist.

The truck went quiet except for their breathing.

Nathan opened his mouth.

Micaiah’s phone rang.

Both of them froze.

Micaiah pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen was cracked, smeared with blood.

Mara.

His chest tightened.

He answered.

“Babe? What’s wrong?”

For a second, all he heard was breathing.

Fast.

Panicked.

Then Mara spoke.

“Mickey...”

He sat up straighter.

“What happened?”

Nathan had already driven the truck back on the road.

“Mara, talk to me.”

There was a crash on the other end. Something breaking. A door maybe. Then Deena screamed in the background.

Not the demon.

Deena.

Mara started crying.

“Something’s wrong with her.”

Part 3

Part 1

Part 2

Micaiah was out of the truck before Nathan had fully stopped.

The tires jumped the curb outside the apartment complex. Nathan killed the engine and grabbed the shotgun from the back seat.

The stairwell smelled like old paint and rainwater. His boots hit each step hard enough to echo. Behind him, Nathan followed slower, heavier, still carrying the same silence from the truck.

Micaiah reached the third floor and turned the corner.

Mara stood outside Deena’s room.

She was barefoot. Her hair had come loose. One sleeve of her sweatshirt was wet near the wrist. At first Micaiah thought it was water.

Then he saw the blood.

“Mara.”

She looked at him and nearly collapsed.

He caught her before she hit the wall.

“I only stepped out for a minute,” she said.

Her voice came too fast.

“What happened?”

“I went downstairs for bandages. The first aid kit in the room was empty. She tore the old ones off. She was bleeding again, and I thought—” Mara pressed both hands against her mouth. “I thought she was sleeping. Told myself I’d be right back.”

Micaiah looked past her.

From inside came a sound.

A wet, strained choking sound.

Micaiah’s blood went cold.

He moved to the door and hit it with his fist.

“Deena!” he shouted.

The sound stopped.

For one second there was only silence.

Then something scraped against the floor.

Mara stood behind him, crying without sound.

Micaiah tried the handle. It didn’t move.

Deena had wedged it shut.

Probably barricaded with a chair.

He hit the door again.

“Dee. It’s Mickey. Open the door.”

Something thumped against the wall inside.

Then the choking started again.

Nathan hit the door with the butt of his shotgun.

The wood shook in the frame but held.

Micaiah stepped back, lifted his boot, and drove it into the space beside the lock.

The wood split.

Nathan hit it again with his shoulder. The chair on the other side scraped hard across the floor, then toppled. The door burst inward.

Micaiah went in first.

For half a second, he did not understand what he was seeing.

Deena hung from the ceiling fan by a twisted bedsheet.

Her toes scraped weakly against the floor.

Her hands twitched at her sides.

She was still alive.

The ceiling fan groaned under Deena’s weight. The sheet had cut deep into her neck. Her face was swollen. Her eyes were half open but unfocused.

Micaiah dropped his rifle and grabbed her legs, lifting her to take the weight off her throat.

“I’ve got her,” he said. “Untie it!”

Deena’s eyes rolled toward him.

“Mickey…”

“I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

Her swollen lips barely moved.

Micaiah felt it before he understood the words.

The thing inside Deena pushed back against his hands. A hard, living pressure under the skin, forcing outward through her stomach and ribs. Her mouth opened wide, and for one terrible second Micaiah saw something black moving behind her tongue.

“Don’t let it out!” She croaked.

His arms burned from holding Deena up. The sheet was still tight around her throat. Mara was on the bed, fingers slick with sweat and blood, trying to work the knot loose.

“It’s too tight,” she said.

“Knife,” Micaiah said. “Nathan, knife!”

No answer.

“Nate!”

Micaiah looked back.

Nathan stood just inside the doorway.

He hadn’t moved.

The same look from the bedroom. The one Micaiah had seen right before he raised the shotgun at the woman. The old Nathan bleeding through the new one like poison through a cracked cup.

“Nate,” Micaiah snapped. “For God's sake help me!”

Nathan’s eyes stayed on Deena.

His lips moved.

“There’s only one way to stop this...”

Micaiah felt the room drop out from under him.

He watched Nathan's right hand drift toward his shoulder. Toward the holster. Toward the pistol pressed against his ribs beneath the jacket.

Nathan drew halfway.

Micaiah let go of Deena with one hand and reached for his own pistol with his other.

Nathan looked at him then.

For one second, he was his brother again.

Tired. Broken. Certain he was doing the only thing left.

Deena’s eyes found Nathan.

“Nate,” she rasped.

Nathan’s hand tightened around the pistol.

Mara climbed down from the bed, shaking her head. “No. No, don’t you dare.”

Deena’s lips trembled. Blood ran from the sheet-burn around her throat.

“Please,” she whispered. “Shoot me.”

“Mickey,” Nathan said. “Move out of the way.”

“Nate,” Micaiah said. “Please don’t make me choose between you and Deena.”

Nathan's hand kept moving, ignoring his brother’s plea.

Micaiah saw it happen in pieces. The way Nathan's fingers curled around the grip. The way his shoulder dipped slightly, muscle memory from a thousand draws in empty lots and shooting ranges. The way his eyes went had that resigned look. Like he had already done the math and decided the only answer left was one Micaiah would never accept.

Time didn't slow down.

That was a lie that movies told.

Time stayed exactly the same. Fast. Brutal. Merciless.

Micaiah's hand crossed his body, reaching for the pistol that sat low on his thigh, angled forward, exactly where he had trained it a thousand times.

Nathan's pistol cleared leather first.

Micaiah saw the muzzle rise.

Then his own hand caught up.

Micaiah didn’t aim.

There wasn’t time.

He fired from the hip.

The pistol bucked once in his hand, loud enough to split the room open. Nathan’s body jerked like he’d been yanked backward by a rope. The round hit him square in the chest, punching him off balance and slamming him into the doorframe.

Nathan's pistol fired.

The shot went wide. Past Micaiah's ear. Into the wall behind him. Plaster cracked. Something shattered in the living room.

For half a second, Nathan just stared at Micaiah, more shocked than hurt.

Then his knees gave out. His pistol clattered to the floor.

Micaiah caught Deena’s weight again before she dropped.

“Nate,” he whispered.

Nathan slid down the wall, one bloody hand pressed to his chest, eyes locked on his brother like he still couldn’t believe Micaiah had actually done it.

Micaiah stood frozen.

The pistol was still trained on his brother with one hand. The front sight trembled over Nathan's body.

"Mickey!" Mara screamed.

He didn't hear her.

Nathan was on his back. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Blood bubbled between his lips.

Micaiah came back into himself all at once.

Deena was still hanging.

Her legs kicked weakly against his arms. The sheet was still tight around her throat. Mara was still on the bed, fighting the knot with shaking fingers.

For one second, Micaiah could not move.

Then Deena made a thin choking sound.

“Mara,” he said.

His voice sounded far away.

Mara looked at him, wild-eyed.

“Get Nathan’s knife.”

“What?”

“His knife,” Micaiah said. “On his belt. Get it now.”

Mara stared down at Nathan’s body like she had not understood he was real until that moment.

“Mara!”

She flinched, then scrambled off the bed. She dropped to her knees beside Nathan's body and rolled him toward her with both hands. Blood smeared across her palms. She sobbed once but kept searching.

“I can’t find it.”

“Left side,” Micaiah said. “Inside the jacket.”

Mara shoved her hand beneath Nathan’s body. Her fingers slipped against the wet fabric. She gagged, then forced herself to keep going.

Nathan’s lifeless eyes were wide open.

For one awful second, Mara looked at his face.

Then she found the knife.

“I have it.”

“Cut her down.”

Mara climbed back onto the bed. She opened the blade with both hands and sawed at the sheet above Deena’s neck.

The fabric stretched.

Then snapped.

Deena dropped.

Micaiah caught her badly. Her weight hit him in the chest and drove him to one knee. He lowered her to the floor as gently as he could.

“Deena,” he said. “Breathe. Come on. Breathe.”

Her throat worked.

Nothing happened.

Mara bent over her and tried to loosen what remained of the sheet. Micaiah pulled it away from the deep red line around Deena’s neck.

Deena sucked in one breath.

Then another.

Mara laughed and cried at the same time.

“She’s breathing.”

Micaiah pressed his forehead to Deena’s.

“Thank You,” he whispered. “Thank You, Lord.”

Her eyelids fluttered.

Then opened. Her eyes found his.

For one second—one clean, impossible second—she was there. His sister. The girl who ‘borrowed’ his hoodies and never gave them back. The girl who learned to drive stick shift in a church parking lot because she refused to let their Jeep go to scrap because it was the only thing their deadbeat Wasian dad left them.

“Mickey?” she whispered.

“I’m here.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“I heard Mom,” she whispered. “When it was dark. I saw her…”

Micaiah could not breathe.

Deena’s hand closed weakly around his wrist.

“She said she was waiting for me in Heaven.”

Micaiah shook his head. Tears cut down his face.

“No,” he said. “Dee, you have to stay with me.”

Her fingers moved against his sleeve.

“I’m sorry. I tried to fight back.”

She was crying now. Tears cut pale tracks through the grime on her face.

“I know you did.”

He leaned closer. His forehead touched hers. Her breath smelled like rot and something else. Something sweet underneath. Like flowers left too long in water.

Then her eyes changed.

Her fingers found his wrist. Squeezed. Her grip was stronger than it should have been. Stronger than anything that thin had any right to produce.

Like a switch flipped behind her pupils. The warmth drained out of them. Her grip changed.

Her fingers curled into his skin like hooks. Her whole body went rigid against his chest. Her back arched.

Her eyes rolled back.

Then her head snapped forward.

Her face was inches from his. Her mouth opened. Her jaw unhinged like a python. The smell coming off her was no longer sweet. It was the smell of Gavrillo's bedroom. Ozone and burnt sugar and old blood.

When she spoke, the voice was not hers.

It was not one voice.

It was many.

And they were laughing.

“Ádis kaí Apóleia ouk empímplantai.” Death and Destruction are never satisfied.

Her belly moved.

Something inside her rolled against the skin, searching.

“Mara, run!” Micaiah screamed.

Mara stared at him, frozen.

“Run!”

Deena’s stomach split.

The sound was worse than the sight.

A hard tearing, like wet cloth pulled apart by hands.

Micaiah felt heat first. Then pressure. Then pain so complete it erased his existence.

Something ripped out of Deena and tore right through him.

Not past him.

Through him.

A limb. A horn. A hooked piece of living bone. He could not tell. It punched under his ribs and out his back, lifting him against Deena’s body like they had been nailed together.

Micaiah looked down.

His blood was on her.

Her blood was on him.

Between them, something pale and slick pushed free from her open belly. Too many eyes blinked in the mess. A small mouth opened and closed without sound. Tiny hands gripped the torn edges of Deena’s skin and pulled itself farther out.

Deena was still alive.

So was Micaiah.

For one second, they looked at each other.

Her eyes were hers again.

She was crying.

"I love you, big bro..." she mouthed.

Micaiah tried to answer.

Blood filled his throat.

His pistol slipped from his hand.

Mara crawled toward them anyway.

“No,” she sobbed. “No, no, no—”

Deena’s back arched so hard her spine cracked against the floor.

Two hard points pushed up beneath her shirt, stretching the fabric until it tore. Blood sprayed across the floorboards as something black and wet forced its way out of her back.

Wings.

Bat-like. Veined. Too large for her body.

They unfolded with a sound like umbrellas opening inside raw meat.

Then the wings started flapping.

They beat against the walls, the bedframe, the ceiling, knocking pictures loose and splattering blood in wide, horrible arcs.

The force knocked Mara backward into the dresser. Wood cracked. Glass rained down from the mirror.

Deena’s arms tightened around Micaiah one last time.

Not the demon.

Her.

A hug.

A goodbye.

Micaiah’s body jerked against hers. Something inside him gave way. His legs stopped working. His vision narrowed to Deena’s face. Her eyes fixed on him with terror and love.

Micaiah and Deena were impaled and tangled together, brother and sister locked chest to chest in blood.

Mara screamed until her voice broke.

Then Mara saw Micaiah’s head lift.

Not by itself.

Something behind his jaw pulled it up. His mouth opened, loose and wrong, blood spilling over his teeth. His eyes were empty.

The abomination forced itself out through both of them, wearing their torn bodies like the remains of a birth sac. Micaiah’s dead face twitched into a smile that did not fit him.

Then it spoke mockingly in Micaiah’s voice.

“Igérthi.”

He has risen.

The thing laughed with his mouth as it climbed free.

The thing turned its head toward Mara.

And smiled.

Mara could not move.

Her back was against the broken dresser. Splinters pressed through the sweatshirt into her skin. Mirror glass covered her lap and hands. She could feel blood running down her neck from where one shard had cut her, but the pain was small and far away.

Mara sobbed.

The thing breathed.

Its chest opened and closed like an open wound. Wet skin stretched over bones that kept shifting under it. Wings dragged across the floor behind it, leaving red arcs in the carpet. Its head was too large for its body. Its mouth was too small until it opened.

Then it was all mouth.

Rows of tiny teeth.

A sound came out of it.

A baby’s cooing.

Mara’s bladder let go.

She barely noticed.

The thing stepped toward her, dragging Micaiah and Deena’s corpses with it for one horrible second before the limb pulled free.

The thing shook itself. Blood sprayed the wall, the bed, Mara’s face. Then it started crawling towards her.

Its wings folded tight against its back. Its little hands slapped wetly against the carpet. Its knees bent backward, then forward, then backward again as if it had not decided what shape it wanted to keep. Each movement made a clicking sound inside its body.

The thing saw her terror.

Its head tilted.

The laughter came again, soft and pleased.

Mara scrambled sideways.

Her palm landed on glass. It cut deep. She screamed and kept moving. The thing lunged.

She threw herself flat. It hit the dresser above her and punched through the wood with both hands. Drawers burst open. Clothes and splinters flew over her. The mirror frame collapsed and struck the thing across the back.

It did not care.

Mara crawled on her elbows.

Her hand slipped in Nathan’s blood.

His body lay near the doorway where he had fallen. One arm bent under him. His jacket was open. His face was turned toward the room, eyes half-lidded, mouth dark with blood.

His pistol was on the carpet beside the wall.

Mara saw it.

The thing screamed behind her with hunger.

She crawled faster.

Her knees slid in blood. Her fingers clawed at the carpet. The pistol was six feet away. Then four. Then two.

The thing landed on her back.

The weight drove the air out of her.

Its hands grabbed her shoulders. The fingers were small, almost like a child’s, but they went in deep. Nails punched through the sweatshirt and into meat.

Mara screamed into the carpet.

Its mouth pressed against the side of her head.

Hot breath filled her ear.

Then she reached the gun.

Her fingers hit the grip.

The thing bit off a chunk of her ear.

Not all of it.

Enough.

Pain flashed white behind her eyes. She screamed and rolled hard onto her back, bringing the pistol up between them.

The thing sat on her chest.

Its face was inches from hers.

Up close, she saw all of it. The eyes were not eyes. They were holes with red light moving at the bottom. Its lips were thin and gray. Its gums were black. A string of tissue still hung from its bellybutton, trailing back toward Deena’s body.

It opened its mouth.

Mara shoved the pistol into it.

The thing froze.

For one second, everything stopped.

Mara’s hands shook so badly the barrel clicked against its teeth.

She pulled the trigger.

The shot blew the back of its head open.

Not cleanly.

The skull split like wet plaster. Black fluid and pale fragments hit the ceiling. One eye popped loose and slid down Mara’s cheek. The thing’s mouth clamped once around the barrel, hard enough to scrape metal. Then it went limp.

Its body collapsed onto her.

Mara fired again.

And again.

And again.

The last shot went through the thing’s face and into the floor beside her head.

Then the gun clicked empty.

Mara kept pulling the trigger anyway.

Click.

Click.

Click.

She shoved the corpse off her chest with both hands. It rolled onto its side, leaking black blood and something thicker. Its wings trembled once. Its little fingers curled inward.

Then it was still.

Mara lie there gasping.

The room stank of blood, feces, urine.

Mara pushed herself upright with shaking arms.

All around her, she was surrounded by the mutilated corpses of everyone she loved.

Somewhere in the apartment, a worship song began playing again from the broken speaker.

Tinny.

Distorted.

Almost unrecognizable.

My chains are gone, I’ve been set free

My God, My Savior has rescued me

“Jesus help me,” Mara choked.