Sometimes I talk to her when Daddy isn't home. I tell her about the ants that live under the porch and how I counted twenty-seven of them before they disappeared into the hole.
The picture never talks back, but it doesn't look angry either. That's good.
Tonight the light from the window is orange. It makes the bottles on the table shine. Daddy's sitting there, staring at nothing. I sit on the floor with my knees pulled up, trying not to make the chair creak.
He says we're playing the quiet game. Whoever makes a sound first loses.
I don't want to lose.
I don't move. I don't breathe too loud. My throat hurts from holding it in.
Then he speaks without looking at me.
"Still breathing, huh?"
I nod before remembering nodding makes noise. His eyes slide toward me, slow.
"You're just like her," he says. "Always looking. Always judging."
I don't know what judging means. I shake my head anyway.
He stands up. The chair scrapes.
The game is over.
After he leaves the room, I stay where I am. The floor feels sticky under my palms. The clock ticks loud, like it's laughing.
"Why do you stay so still?" a voice asks.
I don't jump this time. I know the voice now. It's the friend from before—the one who whispered when the picture broke.
"I don't want him to get mad," I whisper back.
The voice hums. "He's already mad, Isaac. He's always mad."
"I know."
"Then why play his game?"
I look at the doorway. "Because if I win, maybe he'll smile."
The voice laughs, soft but wrong. "He won't. You'll never win when the rules belong to him."
I don't understand. My chest feels tight. "Then what do I do?"
"Make your own game."
"How?"
"Easy," the voice says. "Don't be afraid first. Be angry first. If you don't cry, you win. If you don't break, he does."
I stare at the empty chair. The bottles shine again when the wind moves the curtain.
"Will you help me?" I ask.
"I'm already helping."
The air feels warmer for a second. I pretend someone is holding my hand.
From the other room, Daddy yells something I can't hear. A bottle hits the wall again.
I whisper to the voice, "I'm not scared."
The voice giggles. "Good boy."
---
The first thing Isaac saw when he opened his eyes was the light.
Pale gold, flickering, moving. Candles. Dozens of them.
The cage was gone.
He lay on a stone floor, wrists bound, ankles tied. The air smelled of metal and smoke.
Voices drifted above him—soft, chanting, almost gentle.
"…in trust we bind, in faith we fall, through blood we wake the dawn…"
He turned his head, and the world tilted. The room was vast, its ceiling lost in shadow. Shapes moved around him in a perfect circle—hooded, faceless, each carrying a candle. The wax dripped down their hands like white blood.
At the center of the circle stood a wooden platform.
On it—Paul.
"Paul!" Isaac's voice cracked.
Paul's head turned. His face was bruised, pale, eyes dazed. Chains hung from his wrists, stretching his arms outward.
"It's all right, Isaac," he called hoarsely. "I'm here."
The cultists ignored them both. A woman in gray raised a book and began to read, her voice echoing through the chamber.
"Ephesians 5:2—Walk in love, as Christ gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering."
Her voice trembled on offering.
Then the others began to hum. The sound grew—low, deep. They were breathing together, as if the whole room shared one lung.
Isaac tried to crawl backward, but the rope bit into his wrists.
"Paul—what are they doing?"
Paul's voice was strained, trembling. "Don't look, Isaac. Just keep your eyes on me."
A hooded man stepped forward carrying a bowl. Inside it, the candlelight caught a thick red liquid. He dipped his hand and drew a mark on Paul's forehead—a line, then another, crossing into a symbol Isaac didn't recognize.
Paul flinched but said nothing.
Another cultist approached Isaac. The same mark was drawn on his chest, cold against his skin.
"Stop," he gasped. "Please."
"Do not fight," the woman with the book said. "Trust. That is your role."
The circle closed in.
Isaac's breathing quickened. The candles' flames seemed to stretch taller, their light bending, trembling with the chanting.
"…trust and be taken, faith and be freed…"
They lifted Isaac, rope cutting into his arms, dragging him toward the platform. He screamed, kicking, but the sound vanished into the chorus.
Paul shouted something—his voice lost in the noise. The chains rattled. The chanting grew louder.
They pulled Isaac up beside Paul. Their hands met for an instant—fingers brushing, trembling.
"It's okay," Paul whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm here."
The words sank into Isaac's mind like a lullaby, heavy and slow. His pulse matched the rhythm of the chanting.
"Trust me," Paul said.
Isaac nodded weakly, tears streaking down his face. "I do."
The woman's hand rose. A blade gleamed in the candlelight.
Everything slowed.
The chanting stopped.
Then—silence.
The knife came down.
Isaac's scream was drowned in the sound of the congregation gasping as one. He felt warmth spatter across his face—wet, hot, metallic.
The world blurred. He saw Paul collapse forward, his body going limp, the light fading from his eyes.
"No!" Isaac screamed. "Paul!"
Hands grabbed him again. The rope twisted. The world turned upside down—literally. They hauled him by his ankles, suspending him above the altar. Blood pounded in his head. His hair brushed the air above the body.
"Do not fear," someone whispered below him. "The blood of trust must return to its source."
Something cold touched his throat. A brief sting. Then warmth again—flowing the wrong way.
He saw the candles blur together into one golden smear.
He thought he heard the hallucination's voice, clear and close:
"They always end the same, Isaac. One bleeds, one believes."
Then darkness rushed in.
Far from the altar, behind the last row of watchers, two cultists dragged a heavy bag into a side corridor. It was human-shaped. The one leading the way muttered, "Get the double back to the pit. The real one must not be seen yet."
The other nodded. "Yes, Brother. He'll be ready when the blood cools."