"Even so…" he said, his voice low, "it is unlikely that there exists no genetic link capable of accounting for such behavior. Are there other episodes? And what does she do when… she is not writing?"
Heinforth seemed to weigh the question, as though measuring not only its content, but the precise moment at which it ought to be answered.
"Would you like me to tell you her story, Professor?"
"I believe that would be… useful."
The host then seated himself with almost excessive care, as though even the simple act of resting his body were subject to some unseen order. When he began to speak, his voice retained that same unsettling softness—yet now there was something more within it, a restraint, as if each word were chosen so as not to disturb something dormant.
"The young woman you saw… is our daughter. Brenda Alice Heinforth." A brief pause. "We call her simply Brenda, although, as you may know, we do not cultivate unnecessary familiarity."
For a moment, his eyes drifted—not exactly away, but toward some point in memory that seemed more present than the room itself.
"Her childhood was… acceptable." The choice of word seemed deliberate. "There were, of course, minor peculiarities. A delay in speech, for instance. But nothing that could not be compensated for by an intelligence above the average." His fingers lightly touched the arm of the chair. "And there were the drawings."
Brice said nothing.
"They appeared without warning. At times, months would pass without recurrence. At others…" He hesitated, then concluded: "At others, they seemed inevitable. As though something awaited the proper moment."
The silence that followed was brief, yet sufficient for the word inevitable to settle.
"When she turned eighteen," he continued, "Brenda chose to enter religious life. It was not what we had expected." A faint smile, almost imperceptible. "But neither did it seem prudent to oppose her. She went to France and was accepted into a convent."
This time, the pause was longer.
"For a time, everything seemed… normal. We received letters. There was a serenity in them which, I must admit, reassured us."
He inclined his head slightly.
"Until there was no longer any."
Brice felt, more than perceived, a subtle shift in the atmosphere of the room.
"We were summoned with urgency." Heinforth's voice grew lower still. "We were told that our daughter's behavior had changed abruptly. That she… was no longer the same."
For a moment, he seemed to search for a better word. He did not find one.
"When we arrived, Brenda was isolated. We were told she had lost her reason." A faint movement of denial. "That was not it."
He raised his eyes to Brice.
"There was something in her we did not recognize. It was not merely the absence of lucidity… it was presence."
The word lingered between them.
"Her hands…" he continued, "were distorted by contractions that would not cease. Her eyes…" he faltered, as though the memory were excessive, "did not see us. And yet, there was constant activity." His fingers slowly closed. "She was writing."
A faint chill passed through Brice, though he could not have said why.
"She did not speak. She did not respond. But she wrote." Heinforth made a small gesture with his hand, as though tracing in the air. "Always the same forms. Always with the same instrument."
"Charcoal," Brice murmured.
"Yes."
"Where did it come from?"
Heinforth did not answer immediately.
"Since then," he continued, as though the question had not been asked, "Brenda has remained isolated. The condition varies, but never disappears. And everything we have attempted…" His voice faltered, just for an instant. "has proven futile."
Brice waited.
"I imagine you have attempted… religious means."
"All of them."
"Exorcism?"
A slight nod.
"We did not resort to just any priest. We sought someone we trusted." His gaze hardened. "Father Humberto Spagnesi."
The name seemed to subtly alter the weight of the narrative.
"A learned man. Discreet. Close to certain… institutions." He paused. "Relevant ones."
Heinforth folded his hands.
"He took an immediate interest in the case. He visited her daily." A pause. "In time, we realized that his interest… was not what he claimed it to be."
"In what sense?"
"We installed cameras in the room."
The casual manner in which he said it produced a curious effect.
"It was then that we understood." His voice grew colder. "He was not seeking to save her. He sought… to learn."
Brice leaned slightly forward.
"To learn what?"
"What she was writing."
The silence now felt heavier.
"We considered putting an end to it," Heinforth continued, "but the priest himself asked for time. He claimed to be close to understanding something of great importance."
He drew a slow breath.
"We granted him one week."
His eyes fixed on Brice with unexpected intensity.
"It was a mistake."
For a moment, neither spoke.
"During one of the sessions," he said at last, "Spagnesi insisted that Brenda complete a sequence of symbols." His tone grew more restrained. "He believed it to be a sentence."
"And?"
"She reacted."
The word came simply, yet heavy with implication.
"She attacked him." Heinforth did not blink. "With a force… disproportionate. She would have killed the man, had others not intervened."
Brice opened his mouth, but did not speak.
"Even so," he added, "that was not the worst of it."
The faint crackle of wood in the fireplace seemed, in that moment, unnaturally loud.
"Days later, back in his residence in Italy, Father Spagnesi died."
Heinforth did not rush the words.
"He hanged himself." A pause. "And, as he struggled… he opened his own abdomen."
Brice looked away, instinctively.
"The walls of the room," Heinforth continued, "were covered with the same markings."
He leaned slightly forward.
"Among them, a single word."
Silence.
"Judas."
The softness of the utterance made it all the more disturbing.
Brice remained still for a few moments, as though internally rearranging what he had heard.
"I must admit," he said at last, "that this exceeds the scope of my practice. I am not inclined toward supernatural explanations." He hesitated. "And, frankly, I do not see how I might be of assistance."
Heinforth regarded him with an almost compassionate attention.
"Nor do we, Professor."
And then, with a sudden shift, he added:
"But it was not we who brought you here."
Brice raised his gaze.
"What do you mean?"
"It was Brenda."
The silence that followed was no longer merely dense—it was expectant.
"Yesterday," Heinforth continued, "she spoke."
Brice felt his body tense.
"Spoke?"
"Clearly. After five years of silence." His eyes did not waver. "And she spoke your name."
For a moment, Brice found no reply.
"That is impossible."