The Holloway house was silent.
Detective Rowan Dyer stood in Lila's bedroom, the moonlight carving pale lines across the hardwood floor. It was exactly how she left it. Neat. Undisturbed. Except for the small scrape along the far wall—beneath the window, just above the floorboards.
He ran a hand along the baseboard, listening.
Hollow.
He knelt and pressed gently against the panel. It gave way with a soft click, revealing a narrow crawlspace behind it. Dust. Cold air. The smell of old wood and metal.
He squeezed through, flashlight in hand.
The passage ended in a stairwell that led downward—beneath the house. This wasn't in the building plans. Not even close.
At the bottom of the stairs, he found the door.
Matte black. Handle polished smooth from years of use. No lock. No keyhole.
Rowan hesitated.
Then pushed it open.
Inside was total darkness, but the air shifted like breath on the back of his neck. His flashlight flickered—once, twice—then steadied.
The walls were lined with cassette tapes. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Each labeled in precise, elegant handwriting:
"Session 01 – The Boy"
"Session 12 – The Baptism"
"Session 49 – Lila Watches"
He pulled one from the shelf.
"Session 63 – Initiation: Claire"
His heart thudded.
He found a recorder already plugged into the wall. He pressed PLAY.
A voice filled the room. Childlike. Frightened.
"Do I have to wear it?"
Claire's voice, younger, calmer:
"Yes, sweetheart. The mask keeps you safe. It keeps everything else out."
Another voice entered. Male. Gravelly.
"We begin."
There was a scream.
Then chanting.
Rowan pressed stop, his jaw tight.
He pocketed the tape.
Then he saw it—scratched into the wall in what looked like fingernails:
"GET OUT"
Across town, Mara Quinn sat in her car in the rain, parked across from the church on Holloway Hill. Her hands trembled as she studied the newest photograph—the masked figure in the woods behind Lila.
She'd digitally enhanced it earlier. It wasn't just someone in a mask.
It was Claire.
Mara didn't know what scared her more—that Claire had been present months before the murder…
…or that she had been watching her for weeks.
Mara had spotted the same silver sedan in her rearview mirror three days in a row. Had received no less than threeanonymous texts. Now someone had slipped a note under her windshield.
"You're asking questions that bury people."
She almost turned the car on and drove straight to the city. Almost.
But instead, she got out.
The church loomed above her like a sleeping monster—dark brick, stained glass, a steeple with no cross. Her flashlight scanned the side yard, the gravel path, the edge of the woods.
There—barely visible beneath a stone angel statue—was a hatch.
She opened it.
A narrow tunnel, sloping down into darkness.
Mara hesitated, heart racing, every instinct screaming don't.
But she went in anyway.
Beneath the church, the walls pulsed with damp. The floorboards above creaked like footsteps. Mara crouched low, careful, moving silently.
Voices echoed ahead. Two, maybe three.
She ducked behind an old furnace and listened.
A woman's voice: calm, clipped, reverent. Claire.
"The boy is clean now. He's dreaming in silence."
A second voice: older, male.
"And the detective?"
Claire:
"He's clever, but not clever enough. He's in the house now. Let him listen. Let him hear. He'll join us soon enough."
A pause. Then:
"And the girl?"
"Mara Quinn…" Claire said the name like a sigh. "She reminds me of myself. Curious. Loud. Reckless."
"Should we end her?"
"No," Claire said softly. "We'll offer her the same thing we all wanted once."
"What's that?"
"To bring back the dead."
Mara's breath caught in her throat.
She stumbled backward—and knocked over a rusted pipe.
CLANG.
The voices stopped.
Silence.
Then—
"Someone's down here."
She turned and ran.
Above, in the Holloway house, Rowan climbed out of the crawlspace, gripping the tape like it might vanish.
He pulled out his phone to call Mara.
But a new message appeared first.
A photo.
Mara.
Face lit in fear.
In a tunnel.
Taken seconds ago.
Beneath it, the text:
She's with us now.