Chapter 5 | Shane

I pull on a weather-worn grey tee and loop the heavy chain around my neck, letting the links settle against my chest. The weight of the metal feels grounding. I slip in my septum ring and try to style my hair in a way that doesn’t look like total shit.

Yesterday was fucking weird. 

My fingers won’t stop twitching. I feel restless, anxious. I need my bass. Need to bleed some of this static out through the strings. Acoustic’s fine in a pinch, but it’s not the same. Not even close.

Noah should be back any minute. We can go straight to Greaves, ask him about the ballroom. We need somewhere to set up soon before I lose my mind. If he says no, it’s going to be a long few days. There’s no way I’m making it to Friday like this, and I don’t even want to imagine how rough we’ll sound without practice.

I stare at my reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror. I feel less myself in these walls. Like the hotel is bleeding into my skin, soaking through, until I’m just a piece of the furniture.

I rake a hand through my hair one last time, then slip on my rings, their familiarity feels good, makes me feel more myself. I reach for my bass, I need something to do with my hands.

I pluck a few notes, slow and aimless. The strings hum in the quiet, their twangs filling the stillness. I’m not playing anything in particular but it helps.

I hadn’t said much to Noah about last night. I figured he had enough on his mind. Especially with Branford falling through. It wasn’t the first time a venue bailed on us last minute, but this one hit hard. Branford was half the reason we ended up all the way out here in the first place. God knows it wasn’t for Saint Pyre.

I close my eyes and focus on the rhythm, trying to quiet my thoughts. Just the weight of the notes, the steady pulse of sound. Time drags. Still no sign of Noah.

I’m halfway through the intro to my favourite Tool song when the door creaks open and he finally strolls in.

“Thought maybe the ghosts got you,” I say, not looking up.

Noah lets out a soft, awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah. Just went for a wander.”

I pluck at a string, let it hum for a second.

“Uh-huh. Did you find Greaves?”

“Nope. Not yet,” he says, then nods toward the hallway. “Wanna come with?”

I set my bass aside and push to my feet. “Yeah, let’s go.”

He throws something metal onto the bed and holds the door open for me. We step into the hallway and start down the corridor. 

We walk a few paces in silence before Noah speaks.

“You ever heard of a band called Dread Legion?” he asks, like he’s just remembered something.

I frown. “Don’t think so. Should I have?”

“Maybe,” he says, fishing around in his back pocket. He pulls out a crumpled piece of paper and hands it to me.

It’s a flyer. Aged, torn, the kind of thing you’d find stapled to a power pole.

In the centre, a grimacing mouth screams silently at the viewer, lips painted black, teeth sharp and white. Just below the tour dates, barely visible in the grainy black ink, four figures stand: two men, two women. One grips a guitar. Another has a bass slung low across their hips. 

“Looks cool,” I say, flipping it over. “You find this lying around?”

“Yeah, just in—” He catches himself. “Yeah. Doesn’t it seem... off to you?”

I shrug. “Maybe. I don’t know, probably just some local band, right?”

He gives me a look, then gestures at the flyer. “Does this scream Saint Pyre to you? C’mon. Tell me you don’t feel like something’s wrong with this place.”

I let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, I think there’s plenty wrong with this place.”

“No,” he says, quieter now. “I mean… something really doesn’t add up.”

I debate telling him what I saw last night, but before I can say anything, Greaves is just… there. Right in front of us.

I shove the flyer into my pocket as Noah greets him with a friendly, “Morning.”

Greaves looks between us with that unreadable look he always seems to carry, like he’s sizing up meat.

“Well,” he says smoothly. “If it isn’t our resident rockstars. Out for a morning stroll, are we?”

“Something like that,” Noah says. “Actually, we were hoping to catch you.”

Greaves lifts an eyebrow.

Noah glances over at me like he’s checking if I want to take over. I don’t, so he presses on.

“We were wondering if the ballroom’s usable. For rehearsals, I mean. It’s probably a long shot, just figured we’d ask.”

Greaves blinks slowly. “The ballroom?”

“Yeah.” Noah clears his throat. “We’ll be careful. We wouldn’t trash anything. We don’t have much cash but we can throw in what we have if that makes a difference.”

Greaves lets the silence stretch. He studies us like we’re insects under glass. His eyes rest on me just a moment too long, then shift back to Noah. A slow smile creeps across his lips.

“That room’s been locked a long while,” he says. “You know, doors like that swell over time. Close themselves off, become a kind of barrier. Protective, in their way. Did you know that?”

Neither of us says anything.

He gives a small nod. “Maren has a key. I’ll have her open it up for you. Her and Eddie can help you get settled.”

“Seriously?” Noah says. “Thank you.”

Greaves raises a hand like he’s dismissing the notion entirely.

“Please. Musicians have always found their way to Stag’s End,” he says. “There are many echoes in these weary walls. We’d be honoured to host your noise.”

And with that, he turns and drifts back down the corridor, coat dragging like a shadow behind him.

Noah glances over at me, brow raised. “That went... well?”

“The doors,” I say, putting on my best haunted hotel manager voice, “they swell… they protect…”

Noah snorts and elbows me in the shoulder. “Come on dickhead, let’s go unload our gear.”

—

Noah’s buried waist-deep in the van, digging through gear like he’s unearthing ancient relics. He passes me the amp first, it’s heavy, but nothing I can’t handle.

“Got it,” I grunt, setting it down on the cracked pavement beside the growing pile. I wipe my hands on my jeans and glance back, ready for the next piece.

He slides the pedalboard out. I grab it and drop it with the rest, but my attention catches on movement across the courtyard. Mara and Moxie have just stepped out of reception, side by side, deep in conversation.

Moxie’s in her usual apocalypse-chic. Black leather jacket, ripped jeans clinging to long legs, towering goth platforms clunking with each step. She’s got her shades on like she’s expecting paparazzi.

Mara matches her in black, messy eyeliner, oversized Ramones tee knotted at the waist, and chains slung around her neck

I’m still watching when the mic stand jabs me in the ribs.

“Shit—ow.”

“You good?” Noah asks, turning to face me, the offending stand grasped in his hands.

I blink and shake it off. “Yeah. Girls are here.” I give them a quick wave. “Hey!”

“Hey,” Mara calls back, smiling. “You got the go ahead from Greaves?”

“Sure did,” I say as Noah climbs out of the van, brushing dust off his hands. “Though from the sound of it, it’s not been used in a hundred years.”

“What are we talking about? Shane’s brain?” Moxie calls, strolling over as she pushes her sunglasses up onto her forehead.

I don’t even look at her. “The ballroom. At least my brain knows how to hold a rhythm.”

She snorts. “Yeah, nice comeback dipshit.” 

Noah winces, laughing. “Okay, save it for soundcheck.”

Moxie shrugs, bending down to lift the amp.

“I got it,” I say, reaching to grab it back.

“With those noodle arms?” She smirks, cocking her head.

“Fuck’s sake. Would it kill you to be nice for once?”

She laughs, then her hand flicks to my arm, pulling me in close. Without hesitation, she plants an exaggerated kiss on my cheek.

“No one else is as fun to wind up as you.”

I start to feel better, until her smirk hangs in the air a moment too long, and I realise she’s left me with a black lipstick mark on my cheek. Unbelievable.

“Did Greaves ask for money?” Mara cuts in.

“Don’t think so. He was his usual cryptic self,” Noah says. “You guys wanna meet us in there in a couple hours for a sound check?”

“Sounds good. We were thinking of going for a walk,” Mara replies.

Noah glances toward the trees, where a muddy, half-swallowed path vanishes into the undergrowth. “Yeah, well, don’t get lost out there, okay? I’ve got no service, and we’re not trekking into the forbidden forest after dark to find you.”

Moxie smirks. “Relax. If we get lost, we’ll just follow the sound of Shane’s pretentious bass lines and they’ll lead us right back here.”

“Seriously?” I gesture with my arms. “It’ll be the first practice you’ve shown up to all tour.”

She grins, patting my shoulder like I’m a confused toddler. “Look at you, all needy. It’s cute.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you more,” she fires back, linking arms with Mara as they disappear down the trail into the trees.

I glance at Noah. “Why’s it never you?”

He shrugs, grinning. “I don’t give her the satisfaction.”

I kick a loose stone across the cracked pavement. “Am I really that preachy?”

“You’re a perfectionist,” he says. “Moxie learns a lot from you, even if she pretends she doesn’t.”

I manage a half smile.

“Think you can haul that amp to the ballroom? I’ll grab the rest and catch up.”

“Yeah, course,” I say, stooping to lift the heavy amp. I haul it over to reception, careful as I pick my way over the uneven stone steps. Just as I’m about to swing left through the dining area, a tall woman with sharp features and striking white-blonde hair appears from behind the reception desk.

“Shane, is it?” She steps out from behind the desk, her eyes firm and unflinching.

I set the amp down with a heavy thud. “Yeah, that’s me.” 

She gives me a once-over, her gaze lingers just a second too long on my cheek.

“Nice war paint,” she says dryly.

“Shit,” I mutter, scrubbing at my cheek with the back of my hand. Fucking Moxie.

She gives me a warm smile, but it doesn’t quite touch her eyes. “I’m Maren. Mr Greaves mentioned you’d be needing the ballroom. Let’s get you sorted.”

She turns before I can reply, walking with the calm confidence of someone who knows these halls better than her own skin. I trail after her, through the dining room and into a corridor that mirrors the guest wing.

“What’s your band’s name?” she asks over her shoulder.

“Kiss Rot.”

She slows half a beat., lips twitching into a faint amused smile. “Kiss Rot?”

I shrug. “Yeah. Like sweet and bitter. Romance and death. That kind of thing.”

A pause.

“I didn’t pick it.”

“No, it’s good. I like it.” She nods slowly, but I can tell she thinks it’s dumb. It is, but aren’t most band names?

We reach a heavy wooden door on the left, its surface cracked with age and coated in dust. Maren slips a large iron key from the ring at her hip and slides it into the lock with a quiet clunk.

The lock groans as it turns, and with a slow push, she swings the heavy door inward. The hinges shriek in protest, coughing up dust.

The ballroom is vast, rectangular, and cloaked in shadow, its only light filtering through tall, grime-coated windows on the opposite wall. Shafts of pale sunlight slash across the floor in broken lines. The air inside is thick and stale, touched with the scent of mildew.

An enormous chandelier hangs from the centre of the ceiling, its crystals dulled and dust-choked, cobwebs draped like lace across its arms. A few broken bulbs dangle, long dead.

The wooden floor is scuffed and buckled in places, but still holds its bones. A raised stage sits at the far end, framed by tattered velvet curtains the colour of dried blood, half-pulled back as if waiting for someone to step through.

I cough into my elbow, dust thick in the air. Even in its current state, under the grime, you can tell this place used to be something.

Maren steps inside first, the sound of her boots swallowed quickly by the room’s strange acoustics. Her voice carries when she speaks.

“There you go,” she says. “You’ll want to open a window or two if you plan on breathing in here.”

I set the amp down and flick a look back at the stage, already picturing us up there. “Yeah… this is perfect. It’s got…” I hesitate. C’mon, Shane. “It’s got… character.”

She watches me for a beat, like she’s trying to decide if I mean it. Then she nods.

“I’ll be around if you need anything,” she says. “Outlets are along the back wall of the stage. Far as I know, most of them still work, just don’t plug more than two amps into the same strip unless you like performing in the dark.”

“Thanks,” I say, offering a polite smile.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” She returns the smile, it feels practiced and utterly insincere. Without another word she turns and slips away.

Left alone I stand still as the dust drifts around me.

Greaves’s voice echoes faintly in the back of my mind like I’ve trespassed into a place best left untouched, pried open something better left buried and sealed tight.

Chapter 6 | Mara

The trail winds deeper into the woods, a narrow vein of packed earth snaking between trees that seem to stretch forever. Everything here grows bold and wild, like the forest has never been told no.

Branches twist high above us, catching slants of sunlight and scattering them in flickering gold. The air is cool and laced with the damp green scent of moss and bark. Compared to the still, stale weight of Stag’s End, this place feels alive and restless.

Our boots press softly into the dirt, the only sounds around us the rustle of leaves and the occasional snap of a twig underfoot.

Moxie’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

The question throws me. “Ghosts? Come on, Mox. Don’t tell me this place is getting to you.”

“Can you just answer the question?” she presses, eyes locked on mine.

I glance up through the trees, where sunlight flickers between the leaves. “I don’t know. Not really. Why?”

“I saw one. Earlier. On my way back to the room.”

I stop walking. “You saw a ghost?”

“Do you know Lyle Smoke?”

The name rings a bell. “Isn’t he that guy from… Blackhawk?”

“Blackwing,” she corrects.

“Right. Yeah.”

She nods. “I saw him. In the lounge.”

I blink at her. “Mox. He died—”

“Fifteen years ago,” she says quietly. “I know.”

I open my mouth, trying to find a way to ask if she’s sure without sounding like an asshole, but she’s already ahead of me.

“It was him,” she insists. “You saw him too. Last night. Maybe just a shape in the dark, but it was him. The guy in the lounge.”

She digs into her pocket and pulls something out. “Here. He gave me this.”

She drops a heavy silver ring into my palm. Cold. Solid. A strange symbol carved into the face, a swirling circle punctuated by a single, sunken dot.

“He gave you a ring? Why?” I ask, turning it over in my hand.

Moxie shrugs. “No idea. He knew my name, too.”

The ring sits heavy in my palm, but it’s more than just metal, there’s an unsettling weight to it. I shift it in my fingers for a moment before handing it back to her.

She stuffs it deep into her pocket and we fall into step again, the crunch of leaves underfoot filling the sudden silence between us.

“Ever since we got here… doesn’t it feel like weird shit’s just nonstop? Or am I losing it?” I say, shooting a quick glance at Moxie.

She shrugs, totally unfazed. “You’re the ones who voted to stay.”

“I didn’t want to,” I admit. “But what were we supposed to do? We can’t sleep in the van all week. You know that.”

She stares out into the trees for a moment, then turns back to me. “Yeah. But we watch each other’s backs while we’re here. No matter what.”

I nod, holding her gaze. “Yeah. Always.”

She smiles and squeezes my hand. I squeeze back, feeling that small spark of reassurance.

“Let’s head into town tomorrow,” I say. “Check out Saint Pyre, find something to do. I need actual food, and I’m almost out of smokes.”

Moxie nods. “Yeah, sounds good.”

We follow the narrow path as it curves over a weathered wooden bridge, the planks creaking softly beneath our steps. Below us, a shallow stream winds through mossy rocks, the water so clear you can see smooth pebbles glinting like glass under the surface.

It’s quiet out here. Just trees, sky, and the steady sound of our footsteps. For a little while, it actually feels good to breathe.

The path twists and dips, weaving through thick clusters of trees. Roots tangled across the ground, forcing careful steps. Up ahead, the forest thins, tree stumps jutting where they’ve been cut down. The trail widens, and soon we step into a rough clearing. 

At first, it looks like an old park, grass grown tall, trees leaning in around the edges like they’re trying to reclaim it. It’s not until we get closer that I realise what we’re actually looking at.

Headstones. Dozens of them. Some cracked, some half sunk into the earth, names worn to near nothing. A rusted fence runs along the edge, bent and twisted in places, almost swallowed by vines. 

Beyond that, shrouded by a wall of black pines, stands what is left of a stone church. The roof sags. The steeple leans to one side like it is tired of standing. Even the air feels colder all of a sudden, like the sun doesn’t want to touch this place.

Moxie slows beside me, eyes narrowed. “That a church?”

“Maybe once upon a time,” I say. “Before Satan signed the lease.”

She slips through a gap in the fence before I can stop her, weaving between the crooked graves like she’s searching for something, crouching now and then to brush moss from a name with her fingertips.

I hover at the edge for a moment. I don’t love the idea of going in there, but standing out here alone feels worse. So I climb through and trail after her.

She straightens up, eyes scanning the next grave, then the next.

I catch up to her. “What are you looking for?”

She pauses at one of the stones, brushing away the dirt, then straightens with a frown.

She crouches again, then stands, brushing her hands on her jeans. “All of them,” she mutters. “Judith Greaves. Abram Greaves. Lillian Greaves. There is a whole row back there too.”

She turns to me, frowning. “It is like the entire graveyard belongs to the Greaves family.”

I glance around, unease prickling at the back of my neck. The graves are in all directions, some so old the names have eroded away, but the ones you can still read, yeah. Greaves. Every single one.

“Probably family land,” I say. “These old places do that, don’t they? Keep the bloodline close.”

Moxie straightens up, clearly not fully convinced. She brushes the dirt from her hands, then turns to me with a frown. “Still weird they’re all here, right?”

I’m about to answer when Moxie suddenly freezes, her eyes locked on something over my shoulder.

“Shit. Get down,” she hisses, grabbing my wrist and yanking me down behind one of the taller headstones. 

I hear voices and risk a glance through a gap in the stone and see two figures emerge from the trail we came in on.

The first is a tall woman I’ve never seen before. Her white-blonde hair is slicked back, face sharp as cut glass. She wears all black, fitted layers that place her somewhere between hotel staff and a mortician. 

But it’s the man beside her that really makes my blood run cold.

He’s enormous, built like a wall with shoulders to match. A rough, heavy coat hangs off his broad frame, stained at the cuffs. His hands are bare and scarred. His face is brutal, shaven head, crooked nose, and a sharp jaw dusted with stubble. He carries a large burlap sack slung over one shoulder like it weighs nothing.

They move in grim silence as they weave through the crooked rows of headstones. The woman’s eyes flicker across the graves without interest, but the man’s gaze stays fixed dead ahead, unwavering, like the path to the church is burned into his mind. 

The church looms in front of them. The heavy front doors stand shut, two enormous warped slabs of dark wood bound tight with iron straps.

The woman steps aside and the man approaches, plating one hand against the seam between the doors. With a low grunt, he leans his weight into it. The wood creaks, and for a second, it looks like it won’t budge but then, with a sudden crack, it gives way.

He pries them open just wide enough for them both to slip through. The sack brushes the edge on the way in.

For a moment they stay that way.

Then the door begins to move again, slowly, grinding closed with a horrible grating sound. The noise echoes through the graveyard until the doors slam shut with a deep, echoing thud.

Moxie’s already on her feet, moving fast and low between the graves, heading straight for the church.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I hiss quietly but she doesn’t hear.

“Mox!”

I hesitate for half a second, just long enough to feel the chill roll down my spine, then scramble upright and follow, boots sinking into the damp earth. The ground is soft and uneven, patches of moss swallowing the sound of my footsteps.

The church grows more foreboding with every step. Rotted timbers rise around dark windows that stare like unblinking eyes. I keep my head down, heart hammering against my ribs, every instinct screaming at me to turn back.

Moxie presses herself against the outer wall, just beneath a tall, narrow window. The glass is caked in grime, and whatever’s behind it is lost to shadow, but I can hear them. Voices.

I catch up and grab her wrist, heart hammering. My eyes lock with hers, wide with warning as I nod back toward the path we came from. Let’s go. We shouldn’t be here.

But she just gives the faintest shake of her head and lifts a finger to her lips. Then she angles toward the window, motioning for me to listen. She wants to hear what they’re saying.

I press my back to the crumbling wall, breath caught in my throat. The voices inside are faint but just close enough to make out.

“All of the pieces are on the board, they’re in position,” a woman murmurs. Her voice is measured, each word carefully weighed.

A man replies, deeper, with a strange metallic rasp that makes the hairs on my neck rise. “And have accepted the Warden’s offerings?”

“The ritual remains incomplete,” the woman answers. “There is still work to be done.”

“We’re moving too slow. The Veil’s thinning, Wraith.” Another voice. He spits the name like a curse. “We’re running out of time.”

The woman doesn’t flinch. “I would remind you your place, Chord. It is not for us to question his decision.”

“The connection is there,” another man adds. His voice is cold and soft, each word clipped and deliberate. “But it is weak, held by mere threads. They resist its pull.”

“We have to move,” the first man says again. “We’ve waited for too long.”

And then—A sound.

Not words. Something wet and horrible, like lungs filled with water, like someone drowning in their own throat.

Then the cold-voiced man speaks again. “Patience, brother. The hour approaches. By tomorrow’s shadow, it shall be done. It is his will.”

The metallic one grunts, words like broken glass. “Then let us pray that this time, your words do not fall short.”

The gurgling starts again. Longer this time. A drawn-out, bubbling groan that makes my stomach turn.

“In the Veiled Choir we trust,” the first man says, voice like iron. “Now, join me.”

A pause. Then the hymn begins.

The voices rise together in a slow, grinding harmony. There’s no warmth to it. No melody. Each note scraping under my skin like rusted nails.

My head reels, nausea curling tight in my gut. The ground shifts beneath me, tilting and spinning like a ship caught in a storm.

My vision skews, slanting sideways, like a broken picture frame hanging crooked on a wall.

I stagger away from the wall, arms outstretched for balance, heart pounding too loud in my ears as I stumble backwards. The graves swirl and blur, bleeding into each other. Above me, the sky reels, tilting and darkening.

That’s when I must have lost my footing, but my head’s too far gone to register it. The ground tips, or maybe I do, either way, I’m falling.

Falling backwards. Falling fast.

The world dissolves into a smear of grey stone and sky and shadow until I crash through something soft, but there’s no impact. No stop. Just more falling.

An open grave yawns wide around me, like a suffocating wall. Six feet of packed earth pressing in on all sides, closing in around me. It keeps going, impossibly deep, a vertical tunnel boring through the earth’s core.

My stomach twists and gravity twists with it, flipping the world inside out.

I’m rising now, hurtling upward with force, flung back the way I came, or maybe I’m falling deeper still. 

Up is down and down is hell and I’m caught somewhere in between.

Cold air lashes against my skin. 

Dirt explodes in reverse around me, tearing through the silence.

And then—Hands.

Strong, unforgiving hands.

Gripping my shoulders, sliding across my waist, clutching my back, tightening around my throat.

My eyes snap open just as I break the surface.

The sky is bleeding.

Not red like a sunset.

Blood red.

Panic hits like a punch to the gut, but it burns straight into rage. I thrash in their grip, kicking and snarling like an animal, like I’ve got any fucking say in what’s happening.

All around me, patches of earth drift in the void, chunks of dirt, twisted roots, and shattered headstones torn from the ground like broken teeth, floating weightless in crimson air.

Beyond the drifting fragments, the forest stretches in fractured shards, a shattered dreamscape of skeletal trees splintered at impossible angles. Their bark peels away in ragged strips, weeping thick black sap that pools beneath like spilled ink, swallowing the cracked ground in shadowed pools.

Ahead, the church looms, upside down, glowing from within, as if lit by fire trapped beneath stone.

The hands drag me closer, firm and relentless. But even as they grip me tight, I feel something else. An irresistible pull, a dark current tugging at me.

It’s not just their strength holding me.

It’s the church itself, pulling me closer, drawing me toward the burning heart of this nightmare.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. My limbs don’t feel like mine as I stumble forward in a hazy dream. 

Ahead, the church doors explode open with a thunderous crack, like a gunshot tearing through the heavy silence. 

A gust of cold air tears rushes forward, carrying the stench of death with it, as I’m taken inside.

Inside, the church is a cathedral of horrors. The cool air is clouded by dust and debris, thick with incense, cloying and sickly sweet. Shadows cling to every corner, flickering beneath sputtering candles and the crimson light filtering through stained glass.

Rows of pews stretch ahead like snapped bones, filled with figures sitting rigid and silent. Their faces are half-shrouded in shadow, eyes glinting with cold devotion. They wear dark robes, but it’s their faces that haunt me, blank and expectant, as if they’re all waiting for something terrible to begin.

The huge man I saw in the graveyard steps forward, his face a blank mask, dead and expressionless.

Before I can react, his massive hands clamp around my wrists with a grip like steel. 

Any hope of escape snaps in an instant.

Because I don’t want to run.

He lifts me with ease, cradling me like something sacred. Not a prisoner. A prize.

“She has returned to us!” a voice cries from the shadows, breathless with joy.

“Our echo. Our light,” another croons, stepping forward with trembling hands, tears spilling down his cheeks as he falls to his knees.

Voices swell around me, bouncing off cracked stone walls, whispers, prayers and chants. I glow as their words find their way into my skin. I feel them. I feel them inside me.

As he carries me down the aisle, fleeting glimpses catch my eye: the pale-haired woman from before; a man whose eyes glint like wet obsidian; another who I vaguely recognise as the man from the lobby the previous night.

At the far end of the church, an altar of glistening black stone rises, pulsing faintly with a red light that courses through veins of molten fire threading its surface like arteries. Blood drips in steady trails from its base, pooling on the floor in wide glimmering smears. 

Half swallowed by the altar, a figure is fused into the stone itself. His cracked ribs splay outward, as if the altar burst from within him. His arms hang limp at his sides, pale and bloated, webbed with dark veins, while from his navel down, his body vanishes completely into the unyielding rock.

His mouth is sewn shut with thick, black thread, the stitches pulled tight in a cruel spiral that slices across swollen, bruised lips. Each stitch bites deep, burrowing like roots. 

His eyes stare wide and unblinking, voids of frozen horror that pin me like a predator’s gaze. The moment our eyes lock, my breath seizes, caught like a jagged hook tearing through my throat. A wave of terror crashes through me, sinking to the bone with a ruthless grip. If I weren’t being carried, my knees would have folded beneath me, betrayed by a fear too raw to withstand.

A sound gurgles from the spiral where his mouth should be.

It bubbles up through his throat like something is moving underneath his skin, like something alive is twisting through his chest cavity trying to crawl up and speak.

The chanting rises again, wrapping around me like a suffocating shroud. I feel it sink deep into my bones, humming beneath my skin, vibrating and pulling through me.

My limbs grow light and tingly, a strange weightlessness spreading through me, as if gravity itself has loosened its hold.

The huge man’s grip lightens, as if he’s offering me up to the church itself.

And slowly, I rise. 

My body floating free from his arms and into the air.

Below me, the figures in the pews blur, their faces upturned with distant eyes following me.

I hover there, suspended above them, heart pounding loud enough to drown out everything else.

At first, it’s just a whisper. A soft, brushing against my skin.

Then more.

Countless cold hands glide over my body, sliding like shadows, tracing slow paths that send chills crawling beneath my flesh.

They creep along my throat, fingertips dancing over me until a shudder tears through my body. I clamp my jaw tight, swallowing down the rising scream of ecstasy that’s rising in my chest.

A harsh tug at the hem of my shirt and then it’s gone, wrenched over my head and tossed down into the suffocating darkness below. My bra is next, yanked off with brutal force, then my panties, shredded and pulled away by unseen fingers.

The air bites at my skin, but I barely feel it. Dozens of the congregate stare up, as if I’ve stepped out of a vision they’ve waited their whole lives to see.

The hands grip harder, keeping me spread. Fingers drag slow, filthy trails across my breasts, pinching and rolling my nipples until they’re rock hard and burning.

They roam lower, brushing over my belly, ghosting over my hips, my thighs. Claiming me piece by piece.

They linger at the edge of me, teasing the tender skin with maddening patience. Fingers brush between my legs, circling lazily over my clit, and the jolt that rips through me is white hot.

“Eughhh…” I moan, helplessly, shaking with more than just fear.

The cult’s chanting swells around me, no longer just sound but something heavier. I can feel it pressing into my ribs, crawling along my spine like it wants to burrow in. It builds and builds, a fever pitch that drowns out thought. It’s not just a ritual. It’s a cage. A curse. A command.

I gasp, chest heaving, eyes wide, but the faces below remain still. Unblinking. Unmoved. Just stare, chanting hypnotically.

And fuck, I feel it. The heat building between my thighs, leaking down my skin in slow, humiliating trails. My body’s on fire, drenching me in arousal.

Fingers stroke over my aching clit again, firmer now. Others push inside me, stretching me open with smooth, practiced motions. My hips buck instinctively, grinding against nothing, desperate for more.

I don’t even remember when I started moaning again.

Just when I’m on the edge, the fingers stop moving. 

My whole body convulses with the absence. I try to chase it, helplessly rocking against empty air, trying to fuck myself.

"Fuck—" I snarl. “Please, please don’t stop—“

Hands seize my thighs and wrench me open. Another hand grabs my jaw. Two fingers push into my mouth, holding it open, pressing down on my tongue and tugging at my cheeks, silencing the protest I was about to make.

Another hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back so I’m staring up at the cracked ceiling, and that’s when I see the dust falling. 

Tiny flakes sifting down from the rafters.

A low groan rumbles through the walls, deep and angry.

I moan around the fingers in my mouth. Cum drips in thick strands from between my thighs, falling in long glistening threads , down to the stone floor like melted wax.

Then they start again. Slamming into me with ruthless hunger, pressing and grinding against my aching clit like they want to fuck every inch of me.

A hand clamps around my throat, squeezing just enough to remind me who’s really in control.

I jerk and thrash, muscles twitching in furious resistance, but the grip tightens like iron chains, dragging me wide open and helpless.

The delicious agony twists inside me as I let out a cry of pleasure.

The ceiling groans overhead, chunks of plaster and crumbling brick rain down, crashing against the floor below.

I’m so wet it’s dripping out of me, blind to everything going on around me. I can’t think of anything else. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. Don’t stop. I need to cum. I have to cum.

A thunderous crack shatters the silence as the floor fractures like broken glass beneath me. 

Flames burst upward, roaring like a beast unleashed, licking at the cracked stone with fiery tongues.

The cultists frozen in place falter, faces slack with terror, as they begin sinking into the molten abyss swallowing the church’s heart.

The hand around my throat tightens and it’s all I need to send me over the edge.

Stars burst behind my eyes as the dark pleasure crashes over me in violent waves.

I climax with a scream muffled by fingers, a desperate, shuddering orgasm that rips through me like lightning.

My hips buck hard, thrusting on their own as the invisible hands relentlessly fuck me.

I close my eyes and my release gushes out, spilling down to the stone floor far below, marking the aisle like an offering to their sick ritual.

When I open my eyes again, the flames are searing bright and unforgiving. The whole church is swallowed in fire, walls twisting and melting, smoke choking the air.

The ground beneath me splits wide with a deafening crack, jagged fissures tearing through the stone. Far below, an angry pit churns with molten fire, spitting heat and smoke into the air.

From its depths comes an inhuman roar, echoing through the crumbling church like the sound of the world cracking open. Something has woken. I don’t know how I know, but the truth pulses through me like blood.

The heat warps the air, and flickering shadows dance in the flames.

Everyone is gone now. All except one.

At the altar, the lone figure from earlier, his wide, unblinking eyes staring at me silently.

His body ignites in a sudden burst of blazing fire, flesh turning to ash and smoke before my eyes.

And then he’s gone, his charred remains tumbling down into the pit with the others.

My vision blurs, darkness creeping in like a tide, my eyes fluttering shut for the final time.

And I know with a true and terrible certainty, that I am dead.

—

Nothing.

A lazy darkness. Comfortable and encompassing.

But something’s pulling me back from the far edge of the dark tunnel I’m trapped in.

It’s far away but I can feel it.

My eyelids flutter.

“Mara… shit…”

A pause. Then sharper:

“Mara!”

My eyes crack open Moxie’s face fills my vision, her face etched with worry.

“Shit, there you are.” She snaps her fingers in front of my face, then grabs my shoulders and shakes me. “You scared the hell out of me, dumbass.”

“Huh…” I croak. My voice sounds like it’s underwater. I blink again. “You’re loud.”

“You passed out,” she says, glancing nervously toward the church. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”

I groan and lurch forward. My back screams in protest. I’m slumped against a crooked headstone, and my bones feel the same makeup as the gargoyle on top of it.

I blink and take in my surroundings. The sky is clear blue again, birds singing somewhere nearby. The graves have settled back into the earth.

“Yeah, gimme a fucking second,” I mutter, clutching my lower back as I hunch over like someone’s bitter grandmother.

Moxie crouches beside me and offers a hand. 

I take it, and she pulls me to my feet.

“Jesus,” she grunts. “You’re heavier than you look.”

I shoot her a glare. “Yeah, I punch harder than you’d think too.”

She smirks, clearly relieved I’m talking shit again, but then her expression freezes, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Uh… Mara.”

“What?”

She gestures down. “Did you… piss yourself?”

I blink, look down.

Fuck. My jeans are soaked at the crotch.

“It’s not piss,” I snap.

“No?” Her grin is immediate and feral.

“It’s not fucking piss!” I hiss, glancing around like the headstones might be listening.

Truth is… I don’t know what it is. Could be piss. Could be cum. Could be ectoplasm. Probably better if she thinks it’s piss.

I grab her arm and yank her in close, nose to nose.

“If you breathe a word of this to Noah or Shane, I will replace every sock you own with ones soaked in actual, verified piss.”

She gasps theatrically, hand to her chest. “So you were the Cedar Ridge pisser!”

I punch her in the arm, hard.

“OW—fuck!” Moxie stumbles back, clutching her arm and laughing. “Okay! Jesus! It’s not piss! Shit, Mara, you really do punch like a truck.”

I take a few shaky steps, the fog clearing from my head, the full weight of where we are slamming back into me.

We walk fast, not daring to look back, the graveyard shrinking behind us like a nightmare losing its grip. 

Chapter 7 | Noah

The sky is darkening by the minute, a bruise swelling across the horizon. 

I’ve dragged a chair to the window and straddled it backward, arms folded along the backrest, chin resting on my hands. I stare out at the black clouds gathering above the tree line like a thick smoke, watching the light die inch by inch.

I hope the girls are on their way back.

A clatter breaks the silence. I turn just in time to see Shane swagger in, arms wrapped around a crate, bottles clinking with every step.

“No batteries, but here, check this out,” he grins, shaking the box so it rattles.

“Beer?”

“Fuck yeah!” Shane laughs. “Some old stock from the bar. Eddie said it’s been closed forever. Probably expired, but hey, free booze. And there’s more where this came from.”

“Seriously?” I smirk. Guess this place isn’t all bad.

He drops the crate with a heavy thud on the table and fishes out a bottle, thick with dust like it’s been sitting here since the last century.

He wipes the dust off with his sleeve and squints at the label. “Thornwick. Ever heard of them?”

I shake my head, eyeing the bottle like it’s some ancient artefact.

He bites the cap off with a crisp pop and takes a swig, immediately coughing into his wrist.

“Shit,” he wheezes, laughing.

I stand up and wander over, pulling a bottle from the crate.

“Is it awful?”

He makes a face. “It’s not like the beer back home.”

I smirk. “Will it get us drunk?” 

“That’s the plan.”

I crack the top and hold my bottle out. Shane clinks his against mine, the sound echoing through the empty ballroom.

“To shit beer and worse company,” I mutter.

He snorts. “Eat my ass.”

I take a big gulp. Of beer, not his ass. It’s stronger and more bitter than I expect but it’s drinkable. I grimace, then take another sip anyway.

“Your stomach really held up after that breakfast?” I ask, side-eyeing him.

He shrugs. “Guts of iron, baby. Told you.”

“There’s something deeply wrong with you.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

A sudden tapping draws my attention. I glance over.

Rain drums hard against the ballroom windows, pouring in sheets down the glass. The clouds outside casting the whole room in a dim, blue-grey gloom. Thunder growls somewhere in the distance.

“The girls are gonna be pissed,” I say, watching the rain snake down the glass.

“They’re always pissed,” Noah mutters. 

I take another swig of beer. It’s getting better.

“So…” Shane says, too casually. “Eddie seems nice.”

I glance over. “Sorry?”

“Eddie. Y’know. Mr Fix-It. Seems nice.”

“Sure,” I say slowly.

I look back at him and he’s grinning like a maniac.

“Something you wanna say?”

He shrugs, all fake innocence. “I don’t know. Is there?”

I stare at him, trying to figure out how the hell he knows.

If his grin gets any wider, it’s going to split his face in two.

“So, you gonna tell me what you think you know?” I snap, pissed off.

“Was he big?” He barely holds back laughter.

I snap. “How the fuck could you possibly know we…?!”

“Went looking for you this morning. Ran into the room service girl, she ratted you out.” Shane says with a chuckle.

The room service girl? I pause, then it hits me. The pale-skinned girl with tangled black hair who gave us the keys to the room. Hazel. 

Fuck. Me. I let out a long sigh.

“Relax, I won’t say a word, I swear!” Shane laughs, grinning like a goof.

Voices rumble down the corridor and a moment later, the door swings open with a sharp click, and Mara and Moxie stumble in, soaked to the bone, hair plastered to their faces.

“Hey… looks like you didn’t beat the rain.” I call out.

Before I can say more, Shane blurts, “Noah fucked one of the staff!”

I whip around, eyes blazing. “What the fuck, Shane?”

“Oh?” Says Moxie, suddenly grimacing. “Was it Greaves?” 

Was it fucking Greaves? The nerve. I don’t know whether to glare at her or Shane.

“The maintenance guy.” Shane chimes in.

Moxie grins, stepping forward with her palm raised. “Oh, hell yeah! He’s hot! High five.”

I lock eyes with Shane, disbelief and irritation mixed. “Seriously?!”

He just shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Sorry, it was an accident.”

I mutter a string of curses under my breath but slap Moxie’s hand anyway.

She tilts her head. “Was he big?”

I’m about to ask what the fuck is wrong with everyone when Mara’s voice cuts in.

“Shit, you guys got beer?” she calls, already rifling through the crate.

“Yeah, it’s not good.”

“Perfect.”

She tosses a bottle to Moxie and they pull up chairs.

“Where’d you two end up going?” Shane asks.

Moxie tries to play it cool but there’s a flicker of something else in her eyes. “We found this graveyard, then some creepy old church. Whole bunch of people chanting some real weird shit inside.”

I smirk. “I want whatever they’re on. You think it’s just some town kids tripping?”

Mara shakes her head, dead serious. “Nope. We saw a man and a woman coming straight from the hotel.”

“What the fuck?”

She shrugs.

“Mara blacked out,” Moxie mutters, still peeling at the label on her beer. “One minute we’re eavesdropping on the cult choir’s greatest hits, the next she’s face-down doing her best corpse impression.”

“Shit,” I say, my eyes snapping to hers. I reach out, touching her arm gently. “You alright? You sure you’re okay now?”

She runs a hand through her hair. “Yeah, just seemed like a good spot for a nap.”

“You’ve barely eaten since we got her. You want me to swing by town and grab you something?” I offer, knowing the buffet tonight probably isn’t going to cut it.

She shakes her head. “I’ve got some snacks in the room. Thanks though.”

She gives my hand a quick squeeze, downs a heavy swig of beer, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and stands. “You guys go make some noise. I’m gonna hit the shower real quick.”

“Yeah,” Moxie says, shooting her a smug look. “Bladder safe than sorry.”

Mara fixes Moxie with a glare so cold it could freeze fire. “Careful,” she snaps, voice cold. She spins on her heel and disappears through the ballroom doors, leaving Moxie giggling into her beer bottle.

No clue what that was about but it’s probably best not to ask. I like my ribs unbruised.

“You guys actually did a decent job,” Moxie says, eyeing the setup. “This everything?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, deadpan. “Bad news though. I checked your guitar and couldn’t find anything wrong with it.”

She narrows her eyes. “Meaning?”

He grins. “It must be your playing that makes it sound that way.”

She digs him in the arm and he lets out a high-pitched yelp.

“Cool. And is it my fists that make you squeal like a little bitch?”

He clutches his arm. “Okay, okay… fuck!” He laughs, shaking his head.

Moxie smirks.

I roll my eyes. “Alright, if you two are done flirting, can we get started?”

“Ew,” Moxie says, giving Shane a disgusted glare.

“She should be so lucky,” Shane grins.

She raises her fist and he flinches and lets out a whimper. She laughs, then struts past me and climbs onto the stage.

Shane glances my way, fishing for sympathy, but I just shrug and follow her up onto the stage.

After several minutes of tuning, tweaking, and roughhousing, we’re locked, loaded, and ready to go.

I drop behind the kit, grip my sticks tight, and unleash a rapid-fire roll, snare cracking like a whip. The double bass pedals pound like thunder, shaking the floor beneath me. I’m locked in, every muscle ready to rip this place apart.

Shane fires up his bass, fingers ripping across the fretboard, hammering out a fierce groove. Dust rains down from the cracked ceiling, like the whole room’s ready to collapse under the weight of our sound. He prowls the stage menacingly, gazing out over the invisible crowd.

Moxie cuts in, a chugging riff that slices through Shane’s groove. She shoots him a wink. The noise crashes over us, a wall of distortion and raw power that feels like it could shatter the windows.

Shane snarls back with a grin, fingers blazing faster, locking tighter to Moxie’s riff. The bass and guitar collide, weaving into a jagged rhythm.

I feel their energy, syncing every beat with precision. I hit the cymbals hard, crashes explode into lightning, snapping through the air.

The tempo builds, rising like a beast waking from a long slumber and then, together, we explode into the intro to our opening song, ‘Hellfire.”

I’m so focussed that I barely notice the doors open and Mara stride back in. She snatches her half-empty beer off the table, and storms onto the stage, gripping the mic in her free hand.

Her eyes blaze, wild and fierce, as she snarls into the mic.

“Bite the hand and scorch their crown, watch their fucking walls crash down!”

Her voice reverberates through the rafters, sending chills down my spine. Shane rips into another bass line, thick and chunky, Moxie’s guitar screams like a siren as she finds the notes.

“Another martyr for their church choir, blazing as these flames grow higher!”

The momentum surges and I slam into the drums as we all roar into our mics—

“YOU’LL BURN! BURN IN HELLFIRE!”

Well, at least three of us do. I’m pretty sure Moxie yelled “Fuck Stag’s End, Fuck Saint Pyre!”

We’re a force of nature right now. Every note crashes into the next with violent precision. 

Shane slams his bass like a weapon, tossing it over his shoulder mid-spin and catching it without missing a beat. 

Mara is fully in her stage persona now, radiating the kind of fury that could level cities. The evil look on her face says she’s ready to burn this whole place down and drag the world into the flames with it. Beside her, Moxie tears across the stage, ripping out riffs that slice through the noise like razors. 

I’m hammering the drums so hard it feels like my sticks are a part of me, throwing and spinning them effortlessly as I blast through the remainder of the song.

The song barrels toward its climax as Moxie tears into one last thrashing riff, guitar buzzing like a chainsaw. Hell, she’s wielding it like a chainsaw too.

Suddenly, Mara seizes the mic, dropping to one knee as she unleashes a banshee scream. It sounds inhuman, like a demon is violently leaving her body.

The air crackles with intensity, and then the final chords ring out, echoing through the suddenly still ballroom.

The room stays quiet for a moment, the tension hanging like smoke. 

Then, from the far end, slow clapping cuts through the stillness.

I catch sight of the man with slicked-back hair and a sharp, unforgiving face and recognise Alton Greaves immediately.

“My my… that was quite the performance.” He murmurs, his grin thin and dangerous, like a predator sizing up its prey.

No one speaks right away. The last note still hums in the air like static. Mara’s panting hard, her knuckles are white to the bone, still grasping the microphone.

Greaves steps closer, the soles of his shoes ticking against the old floorboards.

“Can you feel it in the air.” His eyes flick between them. “I haven’t felt it in a long time.”

Moxie turns her back to Greaves and shoots me a look: Here we fucking go.

I return it with a warning glare. 

Sure, the guy’s a creep, but he’s letting us use the ballroom for free. The least we can do is smile and nod through his cryptic bullshit.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound laid-back. “The acoustics in here are actually pretty great.”

Greaves tilts his head, that grin flickering like a candle that’s about to go out.

“The acoustics?” he repeats, as if I’ve missed the point entirely.

Wind howls outside, and rain lashes against the tall windows. It seems to catch his attention for a moment as he gazes out, the smile returning to his face. 

“Just like last time…” He remarks, more to himself than any of us.

He turns back to us, eyes glinting in the dim light. “Although, there’s a piece missing in your song. It’s not quite finished.”

Moxie snorts, rolling her eyes. She mutters something but I don’t catch it.

“Didn’t peg you for a punk fan,” Shane says, amusement flickering in the corner of his mouth.

Greaves chuckles, a dark, menacing sound. “Oh no. I’m infatuated with the emotion, the raw fury, the energy. That’s where the real power lies.”

What the hell are we supposed to say to that? His words hang heavy in the air, unanswered. Then, as if snapping back from somewhere distant, his unsettling smile slides back into place. He claps his hands together.

“Dinner is currently being served, and I would hate for you to miss out.”

With that, he turns and disappears into the hallway, the rich scent of roasted vegetables drifting in through the doorway behind him.

Moxie slings her guitar off and sets it in its stand. “Well, that was fucking weird.”

“Mox—” I start, but honestly, I’ve got nothing to defend it. It was fucking weird.

Shane follows suit, dropping his bass and hopping off the stage to grab the crate of beer.

“What are you doing?” Mara asks.

“Beer,” Shane says, like that’s an answer. “Think we can take our food up to the rooms?”

“Don’t see why not,” I reply.

“Sweet. Can you grab me a plate?”

I sigh. “Yeah, what do you want?”

“Bit of everything,” he grins. “Big plate.”

“Of course you do,” I mutter under my breath. “Anyone else?”

“I’m good,” Mara says, pulling a face. “I’m going for a smoke. I’ll see you guys upstairs.”

“I’ll come too,” Moxie says, effortlessly popping two beers from the crate while Shane struggles to keep the door from slamming on his foot.

They disappear together into the hallway beyond, the heavy doors creaking closed behind them. Their voices echo faintly for a moment, laughter and footsteps fading into the hush that settles in their wake.

I shotgun my beer, chasing the leftover buzz from the music.

Now that the noise is gone, the rain really hits me. A relentless pounding on the windows, accompanied by distant grumbles of thunder.

I drift over to the window, watching the night swallow the world outside. The treetops sway and shudder in the wind. The storms coming alright.