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—like a switch had flipped—he 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.