Have you ever felt that certainty — not a hunch, not a whisper of doubt, but a truth so sharp it tears through your soul like glass?
That gut-wrenching knowing, the kind that churns your insides and leaves your thoughts screaming in a storm you can't silence?
A feeling so strong it can`t be stuffed down but instead it rises up your conscious mind and claws at your psyche?
That was the feeling that haunted Samantha King.
For months, she knew something was wrong. Not just off — wrong. Deeply, irrevocably wrong. Jana had changed. Her eyes held shadows even when she smiled. She spoke in riddles and promises, wrapped in honeyed conviction. Samantha saw it all. And she did nothing.
She told herself it wasn't her place. That Jana was just finding herself. That it wasn't that serious.
But the truth?
She was a coward. Self-absorbed. A selfish bitch too afraid to speak up, too wrapped in her own fear to intervene. And deep down, she knew that the "cult stuff" Jana had gotten into wasn't harmless.
It was poison. And it was going to kill someone.
She could've told someone. A teacher. A neighbor. A stranger on the damn street.
She could've saved lives.
But she didn't. And when the fire came, when the screaming started and blood hit the ground like rain...
All she could do was watch.
And remember the storm inside her that she ignored.
It would have prevented the horror that occurred later on.
Protected her brother
And saved her best friend
Six months ago…
It was a Saturday evening. Jana and Samantha had chosen to both hang out as usual.The two girls lay stretched across the rooftop of the orphanage building that Jana lived in, a threadbare blanket beneath them and a chipped bowl of stolen cherries between them. Above, the stars blinked through the haze of city smoke — imperfect, but still beautiful.
"You ever think about running away?" Jana asked, tossing a pit over the edge.
Samantha didn't answer at first. She was watching the stars with a quiet focus, her fingers absently tracing the thin scar on her forearm — a memory from the fire two winters ago.
"I used to," Samantha finally said. "But then I realized I'd just be taking all the same pain with me. Same ghosts. Different roof."
Jana made a soft noise in her throat, halfway between a chuckle and a sigh. "You talk like an old woman sometimes, you know that?"
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It is," Jana said, elbowing her gently. "You're sixteen, Sam. You're supposed to steal cigarettes and cry over boys and punch walls over bad grades."
"I'd punch a wall if I thought it would make the voices quieter," Samantha muttered, then gave a small smile when Jana didn't flinch. She never did.
Jana sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. "I don't care how weird things get for you. You don't scare me, Sam. Not the visions, not the screaming in your sleep, not even the time you stared at that priest like you were seeing through his skin."
Samantha looked up at her, surprised. "I didn't know you noticed."
"I always notice," Jana said, serious now. "That's what best friends do. We carry each others weird."
A silence settled between them — not awkward, but safe. The kind you only share with someone who's seen the worst and stayed anyway.
Then Jana added, softer, "When I run… I think I'll take you with me. If that's okay."
Samantha blinked at her, then nodded.
"It's okay."
The continued chatting about whatever was on their mind
It was later that night. The stars had vanished behind low clouds, and the rooftop was cloaked in a fog of distant factory smoke and sleep-heavy silence. Samantha sat cross-legged, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. Jana lit a match, shielding the flame from the wind as she lit a crooked incense stick she'd pulled from her coat.
"Since when do you do incense?" Samantha asked, wrinkling her nose at the spicy, earthy scent.
Jana shrugged. "Since someone gave me one that actually helps me sleep. Said it keeps bad dreams away."
"Does it work?"
"Sometimes." She paused. "They said it works better if you believe."
Samantha tilted her head. "Who's they?"
Jana hesitated — a beat too long.
"Just… some people I met. At a group. Sort of like church, but not really. Less guilt, more answers."
That sent a warning flicker through Samantha's mind. "What kind of answers?"
Jana didn't meet her gaze. Instead, she stared into the smoke curling up toward the sky.
"About pain. About why things happen to people like us. Why the world feels… broken, like we're all being punished for something we never did. They talk about freedom, real freedom. Not the kind they preach in sermons."
Samantha frowned. "Sounds like a cult."
"Maybe," Jana said, too quickly. Then she smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "But maybe it's just the first place that didn't look at me like I was dirty for asking the wrong questions."
Silence stretched again. Samantha didn't like the way the smoke made her eyes sting, or how distant Jana's voice had become — like she was remembering something too big to carry.
"You're not dirty," Samantha said quietly.
Jana finally looked at her. For a moment, something vulnerable flashed across her face. Then it was gone, replaced by that crooked smile again.
"Good," she said. "Because I'm bringing you next time."
Samantha opened her mouth to protest, but Jana added, "Just once. Come see. If it's weird, we'll ditch. But I want you to meet them. You'll see — they talk about light, Sam. About unlocking what's inside."
"Inside?" Samantha echoed, feeling suddenly cold despite the warmth of the incense.
Jana leaned closer, whispering like it was a promise.
"They said you have something inside you. Something old. Something meant to wake."
"Umm….yeah sure" Samanthana replied masking her obvious skepticism.
"Just do some research im telling you, it works"
"Im good on all that" Sam laughed "You do your thing "
"I`ll bring you with me one day, so you can see what I see"
This went on for weeks on end. Jana trying to persuade Sam into joining and Sam just ducked her questions.
But Sam was surprised to see that other children had been talking to Jana about this topic which is weird since Jana only had Sam as a friend. She wore glasses, braces and had severe acne and her hair was always in messy buns,which obviously put her low in the high school hierarchy.
But then again... it was the occult club.
They'd always been a little weird — candles, crystals, and mumbling Latin under their breath like it meant something. It was harmless, wasn't it? Teenagers playing at mysticism, at power. Samantha had rolled her eyes at them a dozen times. She wasn't the type to buy into it. Jana was just going through a phase… right?
So Sam pushed the thoughts aside.
That was her first mistake.
Because the occult club wasn't just surviving. It was thriving.
In a matter of weeks, it became the most popular club at school. More than the football team. More than the dance crew. More than student council. People were flocking to it — kids who once scoffed at the idea of magic were suddenly all-in, obsessed. Devoted.
And then came the changes.
Kids who used to wear the same threadbare hoodies every day began showing up in designer fits — Gucci, Off-White, Balenciaga. Nerds with zero coordination suddenly dominated on the basketball court like they were born for it. Wallflowers became the center of attention. The awkward, the overlooked, the bullied — they all bloomed overnight.
Including Jana.
Her transformation was… unreal.
The braces? Gone. The acne? Vanished. She'd gone from quiet and awkward to drop-dead gorgeous in under a month. Smooth skin, perfect teeth, curves that looked photoshopped in real life. She carried herself differently too — like someone who knew things no one else did. She stopped eating lunch with Sam. She started showing up late, always humming strange songs under her breath. Her smile got... stranger.
Samantha noticed. Of course she did.
She asked. Repeatedly.
"Jana, what's going on with you?"
Jana would laugh, deflect, change the subject. "Just good skincare," she'd say. "Maybe puberty finally kicked in."
But Sam wasn't buying it.
She pressed harder. For weeks.
And then, one afternoon, they were alone again — just like the old days. Sitting on the edge of the soccer field as the sun began to dip behind the bleachers. For a moment, Sam saw the old Jana, hidden behind the flawless skin and new clothes.
So she asked one more time.
"Tell me the truth, Jana. Please."
Jana looked at her.
Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
"You really want to know?"
Sam nodded slowly.
Jana leaned closer, voice barely a whisper, but somehow cutting through the wind like a blade.
"Fili Hircus."
Admittedly, this wasn't the answer she was expecting but this satanic business made a weird amount of sense. Scientifically speaking, this should, by all means, be impossible.
But then... more things began to happen. Things Samantha couldn't explain — not without questioning the very foundation of reality as she knew it.
The occult club, once the butt of every joke in the school, was suddenly granted official recognition. It had a spot on the bulletin board. A club budget. Meeting space in the east wing. They were given faculty supervision — and not just any teachers, but respected ones. Mr. Yamada from history. Ms. Keiko from chemistry. Even Coach Hanamura, a military veteran who used to laugh at the club during assemblies, had begun wearing that strange little black pin they all wore — a spiral of goat horns surrounding a single burning eye.
Students noticed. Whispers spread like wildfire. But no one dared question it out loud.
Jana grew more devout with each passing day, talking about "offerings" and "truth-seeking rituals" with a light in her eyes that frightened Samantha more than the words themselves.
"It's not a cult," Jana insisted one afternoon, her tone caught between hurt and haughty. "It's freedom. It's power. We're not sacrificing kittens in basements, Sam. We're learning how to reshape the world. You feel powerless all the time, don't you? Don't you want to change that?"
Sam didn't answer. Because the truth was… she did.
But she also wasn't stupid.
Still, no matter how persistent Jana was, no matter how many times she hinted at "energies" or "hidden laws of the world," Samantha resisted.
Until one day.
It was after school in the gym. She was walking past the weight room when she heard the shouting.
She turned and looked through the glass window just in time to see it happen — a scrawny freshman, maybe 100 pounds soaking wet, facing off with the football team's junior captain, a beast of a guy who could deadlift a small car. Sam stopped, blinking, just in time to see the freshman raise one arm.
And with a scream of rage, he shoved.
The older boy flew back — twelve feet, maybe more — and crashed into a steel weight rack with a sickening clang. Weights cascaded down, metal ringing off metal, until the room fell into stunned silence.
Later, they said he suffered a severe concussion and multiple fractured ribs right where the kid's palm had connected with his chest. The coach claimed it was an "adrenaline accident," but no one bought it. The footage from the security camera mysteriously vanished.
Samantha couldn't look away from the blood stain left on the padded floor.
That moment changed everything.
It was the final crack in her doubt, the end of plausible deniability. What she had been brushing off as coincidence now piled too high, too fast, too precise. It wasn't scattered weirdness — it was a pattern. A pattern that wanted to be seen. And if there was a pattern… she had to investigate. She had to know.
She started asking quieter questions. Observing who wore the black pins. Following the way people whispered when Jana passed by. The web grew tighter, and at the center of it all was that phrase — Fili Hircus.
Her curiosity, once buried beneath skepticism, was now an itch under her skin she couldn't ignore.
Day after day, her defenses eroded. Her fear was replaced by fascination. She stopped brushing off Jana's wild claims and began listening. Really listening.
Jana never pressured again. She just smiled, patient, as if she knew this moment would come.
And in time, Samantha began searching. Downloading forbidden PDFs. Scanning handwritten Latin grimoires with cracked leather spines. Writing names in notebooks she didn't show anyone. Words she didn't understand. Symbols that danced in the corner of her vision like insects made of light.
She told herself it was just research.
But deep down, she knew.
She was already too far in.
Which brings us to that night.
Two in the morning.
Two months ago.
Samantha sat cross-legged on her bed, dim light from her laptop casting eerie shadows across her face. Her eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with exhaustion, scanned line after line of text like a woman possessed. Around her, textbooks and crumpled notes lay forgotten. A half-eaten granola bar. A glass of water untouched. The room was silent — almost too silent — as if the air itself were holding its breath.
She had stumbled onto a series of personal blogs, archived PDFs, and message boards buried deep in the internet's underbelly. At first, it was just research. Curiosity. Academic detachment.
But now… she was captivated.
Fili Hircus.
"Children of the Goat."
A cult. A faith. A movement.
Whatever it was, it wasn't pretending anymore.
What shocked her wasn't the dark iconography, or the goat skulls, or the blood-soaked sigils. It was the tone of the people writing about it. They weren't terrified. They weren't ashamed.
They were exalted.
Liberated.
Grateful.
"There is nothing inherently sacred about moral codes," one post read. "Like the wooden idols of long ago, they are the work of human hands — and what man has made, man can destroy."
Another quote pulsed on the screen:
"Blessed are the destroyers of false hope, for they are the true Messiahs.
Cursed are the god-adorers, for they shall be shorn sheep."
Samantha shivered.
And yet… she couldn't stop reading.
She scrolled.
"Satan is the truth in a world of mass deceit."
She swallowed.
"True light can only be found when walking in darkness."
The words didn't repulse her anymore. They resonated.
Each phrase seemed to unravel a hidden knot in her chest she hadn't realized was there. Each declaration chipped away at the lies she'd grown up with — the sanitized faith, the shallow sermons, the fake smiles and stricter rules.
They'd told her God was love.
But He let children starve. Let people rot in hospitals. Let her mother die screaming.
Where was the love in that?
Maybe Jana was right. Maybe they were all right.
Because for the first time in her life… she felt seen.
So, her fingers trembling slightly, she clicked a link buried at the bottom of the page. A submission form. No usernames. No passwords. Just a field for her name and one for her intent.
She stared at the blinking cursor for what felt like an hour.
Then typed: Samantha King.
And under intent: To know the truth. No matter the cost.
She hovered over the "Submit" button.
A voice inside her screamed to stop — the last remnants of her old self, clawing at her reason.
But another voice, deeper and colder, whispered… good.
Her finger dropped.
She clicked.
And just like that…
She joined the cult.
However, upon arriving, something immediately felt… off.
She had expected strange.
She had even expected unsettling.
But this was something else.
As Samantha stepped into the abandoned auditorium — repurposed with heavy velvet curtains, dim candlelight, and a towering obsidian statue of a horned goat at the center — she felt dozens of eyes snap to her.
And stay there.
They weren't eyes of welcome.
Not of camaraderie or curiosity.
They were cold. Calculating.
Tense.
No one spoke.
Not at first.
Only the sound of wax dripping from tall candelabras echoed off the walls. Her footsteps seemed louder than they should've been, each one drawing more attention, more scrutiny. She clutched her jacket tighter around herself, instinctively trying to shrink beneath the weight of their gazes.
The cultists were cloaked in black, faces partially obscured by shadow and hood. Most of them stood in pairs or small clusters. But none came to greet her. None smiled.
And the way they looked at her…
It wasn't fear.
It wasn't hatred.
It was wary. Like they were sizing her up. Like a wolf pack watching something they didn't quite understand — something that didn't belong, but might be dangerous.
Samantha's stomach twisted.
She'd imagined some weird initiation. Maybe some edgy Latin chants, or symbolic bloodletting, or being asked to renounce God in a dramatic monologue. She hadn't imagined this.
The walls bore dark stains — old stains, as if something had bled there and been hastily wiped clean but never truly gone. The sigils on the floor glistened faintly with oil. And the statue — towering, goat-headed, its eyes inset with polished onyx — watched.
Her skin crawled.
Finally, a voice rose from the back of the room.
A woman's voice. Calm. Smoky.
"She's the one?"
A taller figure stepped into the flickering light. Jana.
Her hood was down now. Her posture proud, different from the girl Samantha had grown up with. There was a sharpness to her now. Confidence, yes — but something else too. A coldness.
She approached slowly, eyes scanning Samantha from head to toe.
"You made it," Jana said, but her tone was neutral. No excitement. No welcome. Just... acknowledgment.
Samantha tried to muster a smile. "Yeah, well. I was curious."
Jana didn't return the smile.
Instead, she leaned in and whispered, low enough so only Samantha could hear:
"You shouldn't have come."
Samantha blinked. "What?"
But Jana only pulled back, her expression unreadable, and turned to the others.
"She's here," she announced. "We begin."
The cloaked figures moved into formation around the altar. Candles flared. A low, droning chant began, ancient and guttural.
But even as the ritual started, even as Jana took her place at the center, the eyes didn't leave Samantha.
They weren't watching with awe.
They were watching with suspicion.
With dread.
As if something in her very presence defied their understanding — or worse… threatened their god.
Samantha's brows furrowed as the chanting began. The deep, droning voices filled the room with a pressure she could feel in her chest — like her lungs were shrinking with every syllable. The shadows seemed to ripple in rhythm with the words, like the darkness itself was breathing.
But all she could focus on was Jana.
"You shouldn't have come."
Why would she say that?
Samantha stepped forward, whispering as sharply as she could without drawing too much attention.
"Jana, what's going on? You're the one who asked me to come here."
Jana didn't answer. Her gaze remained fixed on the black altar, where a faint red glow began to emanate from beneath the floor. The chanting grew louder.
Samantha touched her arm. "Jana!"
Jana finally turned her head. Her face was serene, but her eyes — her eyes were hard. Distant.
"I told them you were different," she said softly, almost to herself. "I thought maybe you could be… changed. That you'd see what I see."
"What are you talking about?" Samantha snapped, her voice cracking under pressure. "This isn't what you told me. You said they helped you — that they gave you confidence, clarity, purpose. But this? This is—this is madness."
A few cloaked figures turned to look at her now. One took a slow step forward.
Jana glanced at them, then back to Samantha.
"Leave. Now," she whispered. "Before he arrives."
"Who?" Samantha asked, heart pounding. "Who is he?"
Jana didn't answer.
Instead, the chanting reached a fever pitch, and the floor beneath the statue began to pulse with a deep, rhythmic thrum — like a heartbeat, but heavier, older. The red light spilled outward in tendrils, snaking across the room.
That was it.
Samantha stepped back, her throat tight.
Whatever this was — it wasn't self-empowerment or edgy rebellion. It was real. And it was wrong.
"I thought I could trust you," she said bitterly. "I thought you were still you."
Jana didn't move. Didn't speak. Her lips just parted for a whisper — one final word, lost beneath the swelling chant:
"Fili Hircus."
Samantha turned on her heel and ran.
She didn't stop until the doors slammed behind her, and she was back under the moonlight, gasping for breath on the cold pavement. The sound of chanting still echoed in her ears, even though she was no longer inside.
Her hands trembled as she pulled out her phone, the screen shaking in her grip.
She didn't know what she was going to do yet — but whatever was happening in that room, someone needed to stop it.
And maybe, just maybe, it had to start with her.
But in true Samantha fashion, she did nothing. The organisation was too big now
No one would listen.
But the next day Jana asked for Samantha's return. Her asking turned into pleading. Then obvious desperation.
Samantha told herself it was just a sign of how much she meant to Jana. That kind of attachment—intense, clinging—could be flattering, even if it tugged at something uneasy inside her. She told herself not to overthink it.
But the messages kept coming. Long, winding texts. Voicemails where Jana's voice cracked like glass. She hadn't just wanted Samantha —she needed her.
And that was when Samantha realized: this wasn't the usual friendly love. This was something else, something obsessive.
This behaviour also raised alarms in Samantha's head. But she once again chose to ignore it.
Until one day, something happened that pushed her over the edge.
It was two weeks ago, The family attorney had just visited her and her older brother, Deven, who is now Samantha's legal guardian despite being 23 years old.
They were sitting at the dinner table at Deven`s apartment they lived in for the past three years.
Their lawyer had come to share some disturbing news. He sat at the table, withered fingers quietly tapping on the table surface. He flipped through the documents in front of him and after awhile he decided to speak up:
" Your father is being released early."
Deven`s face immediately turned deadly but he kept his composure. He simply nodded in understanding. He touched the scar on his upper eyebrow briefly before crossing his arms.
Samantha, on the other hand, could not believe what she was hearing.
She slammed her hands on the table and shot out of her seat.
"What do you mean that bastard is being released early?" Samantha demanded.
"Apparently, he's a model prisoner. Didn't get into any fights or skirmishes in the past nine years. He even helps other inmates get their GEDs—"
"I don't care what he's doing right now!" she cut him off. "Are you forgetting what he did in the first place?"
"Of course not. But the prison—"
"—is putting us in danger!" she snapped. "This man is a murderer! There are people in there convicted for lesser crimes who can't even get parole—but he gets out?!"
"I'm sorry, but the warden said he can't keep a rehabilitated man behind bars any longer."
"Is this even allowed?" Samantha turned to her brother. "Hey, say something!"
Her brother's expression remained unchanged. He looked at her and sighed.
"You know who our father is. Are we really surprised that this is happening?"
That stopped Samantha cold. But then... she understood what he meant.
Their father was a politician. He must've pulled some strings to reduce the sentence. To get him released early.
His cell was probably comfortable anyway. Maybe even luxurious. He probably never truly experienced prison. And yet—he's getting out.
Where is the justice in this world?
Where is the loving God that's supposed to punish evil without mercy?
Isn't fortune supposed to follow misfortune?
But all she's known is tragedy. One after another.
Ever since that day. Nine years ago.
She remembers it clearly.
And she knows—she'll never forget
July 23, 2007
18:00 PM
It was early evening. Samantha was playing with her dolls, and Deven was doing homework upstairs.
Frank Sinatra's "My Way" drifted softly from the vinyl player. Their mother hummed along in the kitchen, sipping wine as she stirred dinner on the stove.
Then the front door burst open.
Their father stormed into the house, his footsteps heavy and fast. He entered the kitchen like a storm, rage etched into every line of his face. He threw his briefcase onto the counter—hard.
"You thought I wouldn't find out?!" he roared.
Her mother turned, startled—only to be met with the back of his hand.
The smack echoed through the house. She slammed against the counter, grabbing her cheek, confused and trembling.
"What did I do?" she asked, voice shaking.
"Have you been fucking with John?" he growled. His eyes were bloodshot, and his suit was wrinkled like he'd slept in it.
"Are you drunk?!" she asked in disbelief, backing away.
"Answer the question, bitch. Did you or didn't you fuck John?"
"No! I didn't!"
Another slap. Harder.
Samantha's heart pounded in her chest. She didn't understand what was happening. Her young brain scrambled for reason.
Deven came running downstairs, panic in his eyes.
"You betray me, and now you have the audacity to lie?!" their father barked.
"Dad, stop! What are you doing?" Deven pleaded, stepping between them.
"Shut up!" he roared, his voice like thunder.
"Whoever told you this is lying!" their mother begged. "Please, it's not true!"
"So I'm crazy now? Is that what you're saying?" His voice dropped, wounded and dangerous.
Without warning, he punched her—right in the nose. The crack was unmistakable. She collapsed to the floor, bleeding.
He straddled her. And then he began to punch. Again and again.
"I made a mistake! Please, forgive me! I didn't know what I was thinking!" she sobbed.
But the punches didn't stop.
Deven launched himself at their father, trying to pull him off. But he was too small. Their father shoved him aside like a rag doll.
Deven tried again. This time, their father grabbed a wine bottle from the table—and smashed it across his son's head.
Glass flew. Deven collapsed. Blood streamed from a deep gash above his right eyebrow—a scar that never healed.
Then he turned back to their mother.
And kept hitting.
She begged. She screamed. She pleaded for mercy.
None came.
Samantha watched. Frozen. Her doll slipped from her fingers.
She saw her mother's face change—disfigure, swell, rip apart. She saw teeth fall, skin split, blood spill. Her mother's eyes turned red, then purple. She gasped for air that wouldn't come.
Until she couldn't breathe at all.
Until she went limp.
Even in death, the beating continued. He didn't stab her. Didn't shoot her. He beat her to death. Slowly. Brutally.
Then, finally, he stopped.
He stood up—breathing hard, shaking, staring at his hands covered in blood.
He looked at Samantha.
And something inside him broke.
He stumbled back, staring at the body. Her body. His wife's.
Half of her face was flayed open. Her eye socket crushed. Her lips swollen and purple. Her mouth full of blood.
"This isn't my fault," he whispered. "It was her. She did this."
He looked around frantically. "I paid for her college. Worked two jobs. Studied. Sacrificed everything. I gave her everything. And she still couldn't just love me?"
His voice cracked.
"I raised a son that isn't even mine. Paid his school fees. Never complained. Twelve years I gave her. And she did this to me?"
Samantha's breath caught.
Deven wasn't his son? They were only half-siblings?
She just stood there—numb. Not fully grasping what had happened.
He kept muttering, over and over: "It's not my fault. It's not my fault."
Then he dragged a chair into the room, unbuckled his belt, and tied it to the ceiling fan.
He looked at Samantha—eyes hollow, wild—and whispered:
"This isn't my fault. Forgive me."
With one kick, the chair tipped.
She watched him dangle. Flailing. Suffocating.
She wanted to call 911.
But something deep inside her… didn't want him to live.
So she did nothing.
But Deven had already called.
The paramedics arrived. They took the wounded to the hospital.
Her father survived.
By some dumb twist of fate, he lived.
And he was arrested once he recovered.
Deven survived, too. But he would carry the scar on his right brow for the rest of his life.
They were sent to live with their maternal grandmother but she also passed on two years after Deven graduated high school.
This finally closed her heart and blackened it.
Would a loving and caring god allow them to suffer like this?
Why is it that someone as evil as their father get to live while their mother died?
Where was the divine justice?
Why would He allow his mother to suffer such a brutal death?
Simple. God didn`t care. No kind deity would've allowed this to happen.
Samantha soon went to back to back therapy because of those events.
She even missed an entire year of school due to panic attacks because she couldn't cope with what happened hence why she is nineteen but still doing her final year of high school.
Everyone assumed she has panic attacks because of the fear the ordeal brought but to her that was far from true.
Whenever, she grasps at her hair or her eyelids and fingertips twitch or she's short of breath, it isn't out of fear but rather....
It's Fury. An anger so deep and so primal her body does not know how to respond.
Anger at her powerlessness, anger at her useless and anger of her weakness.
Now he's about to go free. Free as a bird but her mother's corpse lies deep buried and unmoving.
And the reason for that is coming back in two weeks?
There's no way she was going to allow that. She would rather herself die.
That pushed her over the edge. Leading her to make the worst decision she will ever make. One she will regret for the rest of her life.
Time Passed: A Month Inside the Cult
Days bled into nights, and for Samantha, it felt like the hours lost their meaning altogether. The cult was becoming her new reality, a twisted refuge from a world she couldn't control, a world where her father—her tormentor—was free once more.
Her father.
Her blood boiled just thinking about him. After years in prison, his sentence had been cut short. The system had failed her again. The moment she'd learned of his early release, the familiar surge of fury had risen within her like a tidal wave, crashing down with an intensity that was impossible to ignore. She felt betrayed—not only by the justice system but by herself, for her own inability to stop him.
It was the anger that had driven her to the cult in the first place. Anger at the world that kept failing her. Anger at the fact that no matter how hard she fought, no matter how much she resisted, she was still powerless against her father's shadow. The cult offered a sense of power, a way to fight back, and in that moment of blind fury, it felt like the only way forward.
Samantha's mind had clouded in the weeks that followed. Her sense of self, her sense of right and wrong, became more and more distorted as she immersed herself deeper into the cult's teachings. What was once a vague curiosity about the occult and Jana's strange, dark beliefs had turned into a full-fledged obsession.
She attended the meetings and rituals. She became one of them. The other cult members, with their cryptic smiles and veiled secrets, no longer looked at her with suspicion. They welcomed her with open arms. She was one of the Fili Hircus now. The Children of the Goat.
It wasn't just about the rituals. No, it was the power that they promised. The promise of vengeance. The kind that was tangible, real, and deadly.
She had taken on a new role within the cult—more than just a member but one of the devout, a true believer. But still, a gnawing emptiness tugged at her every time she participated in their ceremonies. Despite the dark thrill of the rituals, the words of the chants, the blood spilled, and the power coursing through her veins, she couldn't escape the hollow feeling inside.
She wanted more. No matter how far she'd gone into this world, it never seemed to be enough.
Late One Night: The Archive Room
Samantha's curiosity had always been a double-edged sword. She spent more and more time in the cult's inner sanctum, far away from the usual group gatherings, sneaking into the hidden archive room where old tomes, scrolls, and forbidden texts were kept.
The shelves were stacked high, filled with dusty, weathered pages of knowledge long forgotten by the world. She could feel the weight of the books and their forbidden power calling out to her as she sifted through the ancient texts. The air in the room was thick with must and the lingering scent of incense, but that was nothing compared to the intensity of what lay in the pages.
She flipped through dusty manuscripts on witchcraft, summoning rituals, and dark alchemy. Her hands trembled with both excitement and fear. Each word, each symbol, drew her deeper into the vortex of darkness she had willingly chosen.
Then, on one shelf hidden behind a tapestry of worn leather, she found something different. The book was ancient, bound in blackened leather that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Demonic Contracts: The Pact and the Price.
Her breath caught in her throat as she pulled it from the shelf, dusting off its cover. The text was in an archaic language, one she couldn't quite read, but she could sense the power within it. The contract. The words that could change everything.
She opened the book, flipping through the delicate, yellowed pages. There were drawings of intricate symbols, ancient sigils, and incantations, and in the margins, dark annotations written in languages that spoke directly to her soul.
One page in particular caught her attention. It detailed the terms of a demonic pact: The Demon's Bargain—The Price of Blood, The Claim of the Soul.
Samantha's heart pounded as she read through the terms. The power that came with the pact was like nothing she'd ever imagined—immense strength, the ability to manipulate life and death, and a single wish granted in exchange for something more valuable than she could ever understand.
The text didn't mince words. A pact with a demon wasn't just a way to gain power. It was a transfer of one's very soul, a binding to the demon's will.
The more she read, the more it seemed to call to her. The idea of taking her father's life, finally having the strength to tear him down, was within her grasp. All it would take was one signature, one agreement. And yet, the contract warned: There is always a cost, and the price is always steep. Once the deal is struck, the demon's claim will never be lifted.
Samantha stared at the page, torn between a rush of excitement and a chilling realization.
The desire for vengeance was strong within her—stronger than anything she had ever felt before. But could she really sacrifice her soul for a chance to kill him?
The Moment of Decision
Days passed, and the anger continued to fester. Her father's impending release gnawed at her every waking moment. The cult had given her a glimpse of the power she craved, but she needed more. The contract offered her the way. There was no turning back now. She'd crossed a line, and the darkness had already seeped deep into her veins.
And yet, as she held the book in her hands that night, she hesitated. Her mind raced with thoughts of what she was about to do. Would she really follow through with this? Would she destroy herself to get what she wanted?
Her fingers brushed over the parchment, and the familiar urge to do whatever it took to end her father's reign of terror burned brighter than ever.
She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. She knew what she had to do.
This was her only choice
" Tonight" she thought "Tonight I contract with a demon"
___________________
19:02
Houston
Texas
King Apartment- Samantha residence.
Pretending to be busy was the easy part of distracting her brother. It was the escaping part that was the problem.
She was in the living room, pretending to do homework while her brother Deven was at the kitchen counter.
She looked back at her brother, who was on a serious phone call. He was whispering and constantly looked over his shoulder at random times.
"After tonight, you won't be needing so many jobs to pay for us" She convinced herself further.
Her brothers phone call finally ended. He grabbed his car keys and grabbed a duffel bag from his room which confused Samantha.
He had an odd expression on his face which resembled tension.
" I have a work emergency so I need to go. Make sure to lock up and don't open the door for anyone unless it's me" He said with that gloomy expression still in place.
" You've been having a lot of those recently, I hope they pay you extra for these because it's getting ridiculous" Samantha laughed.
But her brother didn't join or smile. Which is odd for him since he never passes up the opportunity to get a joke off.
"Is everything OK?" Samantha asked
He snapped out of it temporarily and smiled " Yeah everything is fine, but Sam I need you to stay in the house and not leave. It's not safe tonight"
Sam's jaw clenched. If she continues to argue it will raise alarms on her brothers head but time is wasting she is supposed to be on her way there but she was worried about her brother.
There is nothing she can do now but ask him about it tomorrow.
"Yeah, okay, I was just gonna finish up here, watch a movie, then sleep," Samantha lied smoothly, her voice light and casual, though the tightness in her chest betrayed the swirling thoughts she couldn't quite shake.
Deven leaned against the doorframe, eyeing her with a mixture of concern and curiosity. "Good. There's leftovers in the fridge if you're hungry. I need to go like now, don't wait up and—"
"Don't open the door unless it's you, I got it now. Shoo." Samantha waved him off, her lips curling into a half-smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She wanted him out of the house, out of her mind.
"Good girl." Deven flashed her a grin, his voice softening as he pushed himself off the doorframe.
Samantha's eyes narrowed, the smile she gave him more of an automatic reflex than anything genuine. She watched him turn to leave and, as the door clicked shut behind him, the smile faltered. Her shoulders sagged, the weight of the night creeping back into her thoughts.
"Shut up." She muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes. The words were an affectionate jab, but the unease didn't fade. In fact, it seemed to grow.
The tension from earlier hadn't disappeared—if anything, it had gotten thicker. Something felt... off. The smile, the casual conversation, the little things she tried to ignore—it was all just a cover for the questions she couldn't answer.
Samantha turned back to her room, the echo of her brother's voice still lingering in the air, even after the door had closed. She wasn't entirely sure what bothered her more—the fact that Deven seemed oblivious to the changes, or the gnawing feeling that she was beginning to lose track of herself.
But tonight wasn't for thinking too much. It was for moving forward.
---------
When Deven was walking down the hall he stopped to think.
Sam just smiled. For no reason. She rarely smiles like this. He's always hoped his sister will eventually start living life like kids her age but due to her trauma she never fully recovered and he doesn't want to rush her.
But that was strange.
What is this odd felling he's getting?
Somethings off.
But that was a mystery for tomorrow. He can't afford to be distracted. Tonight needs all of his attention.
Deven's thoughts shifted quickly as he turned and made his way down the stairs. His phone buzzed, and he checked the message with a swift glance.
There's been a surge. Influx of suicides. Murders. The connection? Unclear. But something's going on, and it smells like hell.
He let out a sigh, the weight of the situation settling over him. Whenever the carnage in the city spiked, demons were never far behind. And this—this felt different. The violence wasn't just random. It was deliberate, calculated.
By the looks of it, a very strong one.
______________________
Fili Hircus Lair
Samantha's fingers danced over the worn pages of the ancient texts as she hunched over the desk in the dimly lit room. The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows against the walls. The musty scent of forgotten knowledge hung thick in the air. Her mind was clouded with the weight of her decision—she had already made up her mind that she would contract with a demon. Her father's early release from prison had set off a chain of events that she couldn't stop. She had to act. She had to take control of her life.
The cold feeling in her chest, the hollow emptiness that had been growing since she first joined the cult, made her feel like there was nothing left to lose. The rage, the desperation—it was all that kept her moving forward.
But the more she read the ancient texts, the more she realized that this was no simple decision. Every word written felt like it was pulling her in deeper, and the more she uncovered, the more questions arose. Some of the pages were incomprehensible, others had been deliberately torn out, but here and there were notes in the margins—references to demonic pacts, written in archaic languages, codes even the translators couldn't fully decode.
She had already learned enough to begin the summoning, but it wasn't enough. She needed more. She needed to understand what she was about to do. She had to know the cost.
And then, amidst the chaos of her frantic research, something caught her eye—a simple notebook that had been tucked away at the back of the shelf. It was old, leather-bound, with a faded symbol on the cover. At first, she thought it was another collection of cult rituals, but when she opened it, she realized it was much more personal.
A ledger.
Names. Dates. Symbols. And at the very bottom of the page, an entry that sent a cold shiver down her spine.
Jana Davis – Contract Date: Unknown.
Samantha's heart skipped a beat. Jana. Her best friend. But why was her name here? Wasn't Jana the one who had brought her into the cult? Hadn't she trusted her? The questions spiraled in her mind, but it wasn't just the name. It was the note next to it. A scribbled line beneath the name, barely legible, almost as if it had been scrawled in haste.
"Not even the texts know her demon. Too ancient. Too powerful."
The words seemed to blur together on the page as Samantha's gaze swept across them. The ink was uneven, as if someone had written it in a frantic panic, unsure if they should even be recording this information at all. The more she looked at it, the more a sick realization began to settle in her gut.
Jana wasn't just part of the cult. She wasn't just another victim like Samantha. No, Jana was a pawn. A vessel for something far greater. Something no one in the cult understood. The texts didn't know about the demon she had contracted with. Whatever it was, it was beyond their comprehension. And that made it more dangerous.
Samantha's breath quickened as she flipped through more pages, hoping to find some clue, some hint as to what Jana's connection really was. But the more she read, the more she realized how deep Jana had sunk into this dark world. She wasn't just another follower. She was central to something much larger, something that even the most powerful demons feared.
Then, as Samantha's eyes raced across the page, she froze.
At the bottom of the notebook, there was a long list of names. Some were crossed out. Others were marked with symbols she didn't recognize, a network of alliances and contracts far more intricate than anything she had ever imagined. But the last two names—two names that stood out like a beacon in the murkiness—were hers.
Samantha King – Pending.
Jana Davis – Contracted.
Her hands shook as she traced her own name with a trembling finger, the implications of it sinking in like a cold, heavy weight.
She wasn't even a part of this. Not yet. The contract had not been completed yet, but it was pending. Her fate had already been decided—she had been marked, targeted. And her connection to Jana, to the very core of the cult, was no accident. She was caught in a web she hadn't even realized she was tangled in.
Jana had been using her. This whole time. But for what? Was she the catalyst for something bigger? A ritual? A sacrifice?
The questions burned in her mind like a fire that wouldn't be extinguished. She had been so blinded by her own anger, her own desperation for power, that she hadn't seen the truth. Now it was too late. She was already part of this game. A piece in a far darker plan than she could have ever imagined.
Samantha slammed the book shut, her chest rising and falling rapidly as the weight of the truth hit her all at once. She felt a surge of energy, a primal need to do something—anything—to take back control. She had to confront Jana. She had to know what was going on.
Her fingers gripped her phone, the anger rising within her like a storm. She didn't care what Jana had been hiding anymore. She was going to find out the truth. Tonight.
With resolve in her eyes, she dialed Jana's number, her thumb pressing the button with a determination she hadn't felt in a long time.
It's time to confront the truth.
Later that night, at the cult's lair...
Samantha stood in front of Jana, a storm brewing in her eyes. She had never felt so sure of herself, but the words—what she was about to say—could shatter everything.
"Jana," Samantha's voice trembled with barely-contained fury. "What the hell is going on? What have you gotten me into? You're not just some follower of the cult, are you? You're the one in control. You have a contract. With something... someone... no one else even knows about. What do you want from me?"
Jana looked at her, her face unreadable. For the first time, Samantha saw a flicker of something—something like regret, but also something darker.
"I didn't want this to happen," Jana whispered. "But the contracts... they have a way of taking control, Sam. I thought I could stop it, but now... now I'm just as trapped as you are."
Samantha's heart raced as she demanded, "Then help me. Help me get out of this before it's too late."
But as she spoke those words, she realized something. She might have already crossed a line she couldn't return from. The demon's influence was everywhere now, even in their friendship.
And with that knowledge, Samantha knew there was only one thing left to do.
Samantha heart pounded in her chest as she stood before Jana, a deep resolve growing within her. She had been in this dark place too long—too many secrets, too much deception. She had uncovered the truth about the cult, about Jana's demonic contract, and now, she would stop it.
With a quick, determined motion, she pulled out the grimoire she had hidden beneath her jacket—a cursed book filled with exorcism rites, rituals of purification. Her fingers trembled as she flipped through the pages, scanning the ancient incantations that had been passed down through generations. This was the only way.
"Jana," Samantha's voice was firm, the anger in her eyes flashing as she spoke. "You've been playing me this entire time. You're not trapped, are you? You never were. You wanted this."
Jana's lips curled into a smile—one that didn't reach her eyes. Her expression was cold, calculating. There was no remorse in her gaze, only an unsettling calmness. "I wanted you to see the truth, Sam," Jana said, her voice eerily soft. "I needed you to understand. You're part of something bigger than you think."
Samantha's hands tightened around the grimoire as she muttered the incantation. Words of power, ancient and fierce, spilled from her lips. The air around them seemed to grow thick, charged with energy. Her focus never wavered as she began to speak the final words that would sever the demon's hold on Jana.
But before she could complete the ritual, everything changed.
A sudden wave of dizziness swept over Samantha. Her legs buckled beneath her, and the grimoire fell from her hands. Her vision blurred, and a sickening warmth spread through her body. A drug-like haze began to cloud her thoughts, the words of the exorcism slipping from her mind.
"What's happening?" she whispered, but her voice was weak, barely audible.
Jana stepped closer, her eyes filled with an unreadable expression. "You're not as strong as you think, Sam," she said, her tone tinged with amusement. "This was never about you saving me. This was always about you being a part of something much greater."
Samantha's breath grew shallow as she tried to fight the overwhelming sensation in her head. But it was useless. The drug—the demon's influence—was too potent. She could feel her limbs growing heavy, the world around her beginning to spin.
And then, as the edges of her vision darkened, Jana's voice rang out with a chilling clarity.
"You were always meant to be more, Sam. You are the last of Zion. The daughter of the covenant." Jana's words echoed through Samantha's mind, the weight of them pressing down on her like a stone. "The chosen one, the bloodline that will bring forth the end of everything."
Samantha tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. She was sinking into the abyss, the last threads of her consciousness fading.
Jana stood over her, her smile widening. "You thought you were going to save me, but you were never meant to save anyone. You were meant to become part of the plan, just like I am." She crouched down next to Samantha, her hand gently caressing her cheek. "You're a daughter of the covenant, Sam. You always were. This is your destiny."
Samantha's mind screamed, but her body refused to respond. The drug was too strong. The exorcism failed. Her heart ached, not from the drug, but from the betrayal. She had trusted Jana—her best friend, the one person she had thought she could count on—and now she understood the terrible truth.
Jana had never been trapped. She had chosen this path, relishing in the power, in the darkness that consumed her.
"You were just a stepping stone," Jana whispered, her voice dripping with malice. "The demon has been using me, and I've been using you. You're nothing but a pawn in the game, Sam. But I'm done pretending to be the victim."
With one last, lingering glance, Jana stood up and walked away, leaving Samantha alone, struggling to breathe, to think. The world around her grew dimmer and dimmer, her mind becoming lost in the haze of the demon's power.
And as she fell into unconsciousness, the last thing she heard was Jana's cold, mocking voice.
"Welcome to the real world, Sam. You were never meant to be anything but a sacrifice."
She finally thumped on the floor out cold.
_______________
A hellish landscape surrounded Samantha.
Flames danced in every direction, their flickering tongues lashing toward her skin with desperate hunger—but never burning her. The fire hissed and snarled, wrapping around her like a serpent, yet she felt no pain. Only heat. Stifling, suffocating heat that pressed down on her chest like an invisible weight.
She turned in place, searching for escape, but the inferno stretched endlessly in all directions—an ocean of fire swallowing the horizon. The air shimmered with the intensity, yet nothing seemed to move except the flames.
Scattered across the scorched earth were trees—withered and lifeless, their bark blackened and curling like paper left too close to a flame. But strangely, their brittle branches never caught fire. They stood in eerie stillness, defying the inferno around them as if cursed to never burn, never crumble, just exist in a perpetual state of death.
Ash floated down like snowflakes from some unseen sky, coating her shoulders, her hair, her lips. It tasted bitter. Like regret.
And somewhere in the distance, beneath the crackling fire, she could hear whispers.
Low. Incoherent.
But growing louder.
"Who dares intrude on my soul?" a thunderous voice boomed, shaking the very ground beneath her feet.
Samantha whipped around—and froze.
From the heart of the flames emerged a towering humanoid figure, cloaked in fire. Wings, massive and searing, unfurled from his back like blazing banners of war. The flames danced wildly around him, alive and violent—but they did not burn him. Or her.
He stepped forward, ready to strike.
"You shall be—" he paused suddenly, eyes widening in surprise. "Wait... it's you! The one I've been searching for!"
The inferno that cloaked him began to retreat, dying down in controlled waves. The fire peeled away to reveal a tall, dark-skinned man with strong features and tight curls crowning his head. He wore a black toga that shimmered faintly with celestial energy. His wings shifted—no longer burning, but now dark and ashen gray, folding behind him like a great cloak of dusk and ruin.
He floated closer, eyes locked on hers.
"You're Samantha King, right? Listen to me—carefully. They're going to kill you. You have to run or stall them until I arrive. You are not just a child, Samantha. You and your brother... you're part of something bigger than you can understand right now."
His voice trembled with urgency. "They need your blood. That's why you're still alive. That's why they've kept you this long. You're the last piece for the ritual to be complete. They've already killed thirty-four others like you. You must survive until I get there!"
She opened her mouth to respond, but before words could form, her fingertips began to shimmer—then dissolve into dust. She gasped, watching helplessly as the effect spread to her hands, her arms.
He stepped back in alarm, then clenched his fists.
"You're waking up! It's too soon..."
His eyes met hers—piercing, almost pleading.
"When you wake, start praying. Pray to me. Say my name—Sammael. That's how I'll find you."
Her body was quickly unraveling into particles of light and ash, spinning upward into the smoky air.
"There's no more time." His voice echoed around her, softer now, yet more desperate. "Pray to me, Samantha. If you don't... you'll die."
Then everything—him, the flames, the trees—vanished.
Her body burst into dust, carried away by a sudden wind