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—visions 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—his 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—a 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—this 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—reds, 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—hope.

  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.