Embedded Files
Not every monster wears fangs. Some steal their way into quiet houses, pressing on chests and silencing breath. But in the fight against the Hag, Nellie learns the hardest weight isn’t the one that crushes your ribs—it’s the one that settles in your heart when family is the only thing keeping you alive.
Word Count: 10.2k
TW: canon-typical violence. brief description of suffocation. mild use of language.
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The cicadas outside hum in thick, endless waves, the sound pressing against the walls of the old farmhouse like a second heartbeat. A box fan whirs in the corner of the bedroom, stirring the damp Alabama air, its blades stuttering every so often with a tired clunk. Posters peel at the edges where the humidity has gnawed at the tape.
Ethan Brackett stirs beneath his sheets, breath hitching. His eyes snap open to the pale wash of moonlight sliding through the blinds, but the rest of him refuses to follow. His chest rises once, twice, then seizes up, muscles rigid as stone. Panic surges hot in his veins. He tries to shout for his parents down the hall, but his lips barely part. Nothing comes. A weight presses harder against his ribs, unseen at first. Then, slowly, his gaze shifts down, and a shadow peels itself into form.
The thing crouches over him, skinless, red sinew glistening in the moonlight, its hair long and stringy, its eyes white and wide. Fingers like wire hooks curl against his chest, leaving faint trails of scratches as it leans close enough for its breath to touch his cheek.
“Don’t fight it…” the whisper slithers, a voice dry as ash.
Ethan’s throat works, choking on the air that won’t come. His eyes bulge, muscles straining uselessly against the paralysis pinning him in place. The thing inhales with a shudder, and his body jerks as though she was pulling the breath from his lungs, one ragged gasp at a time. His chest rattles, his lips bluing, until his hands twitch once and fall slack at his sides.
The creature exhales with a low, satisfied hiss, then melts back into the corner of the room, the darkness swallowing her whole. The fan clatters once, catching, and resumes its tired hum. For a moment, the room is still. Ethan lay as though he had simply drifted into a dreamless sleep.
It isn’t until morning, when his mother pushes the door open and calls his name, that the illusion shatters. At first, she thinks he is still asleep, tangled in his sheets. But his chest doesn’t rise. His face is pale, his lips tinged purple, and his skin looks looser than it should.
“Ethan?” Her voice wavers as she crosses the room. She shakes him once, gently, then harder when he doesn’t respond.
“No, no, no—” Her scream tears through the quiet house, spilling down the hallway like glass shattering.
The box fan keeps on turning, as though nothing at all has happened.
• • •
The Impala crunches down a narrow gravel drive, pines crowding close on either side. The Brackett farmhouse sits at the end, white paint gone gray with age, porch sagging just enough to suggest years of hard weather and harder living.
Nellie shifts in the passenger seat, her borrowed blazer tugging at the shoulders. The fake badge in her pocket feels heavier than it should. She rubs her thumb over the stiff cuff of her sleeve before stuffing her hands flat against her knees.
“Remember,” Sam says, one hand loose on the wheel, the other wrapped around a Styrofoam cup gone lukewarm. “We’re county investigators. Keep it simple. Don’t push too hard.”
“I know.” She makes a face. “Just feels wrong walking in with a badge when they just lost their kid.”
“That’s the job,” he replies gently, but firmly. “You’re not lying to hurt them. You’re asking questions, so this doesn’t happen again.”
She blows out a slow breath, nodding. Her stomach is still knotting all the same.
He pulls the car to a stop at the edge of the yard. A screen door slapping faintly in the breeze. The house is quiet, but the kind of quiet that comes with grief, not rest. They climb the steps. He raps twice, firm and professional. After a moment, the door creaks open to reveal a woman with tired eyes and hair pulled into a messy knot. Mrs. Brackett. Her face is drawn, pale from sleepless hours.
“Ma’am,” Sam begins, voice calm and clipped, badge flashing just long enough to reassure, not intimidate. “I’m Agent West, this is Agent Collins. We’re here to follow up about your son.”
Her mouth trembles around a line she tries to hold firm. “I already talked to the police.”
“This is just a routine second look,” he soothes. “Sometimes new eyes pick up details others might’ve missed.”
Nellie keeps her voice soft, careful. “We just want to help, ma’am.”
Mrs. Brackett studies her for a moment, gaze flicking to the girl’s face, maybe finding something gentler there than in Sam’s practiced professionalism. Finally, she steps back, pushing the door wider.
“Alright. Come in.”
She leads them into the living room. The air smells of coffee and Lysol, like someone had been trying to scrub grief out of the corners. Family pictures lined the mantel: birthdays, Little League uniforms, three kids crammed together in holiday sweaters. Nellie’s chest pinches tight as she catches sight of Ethan’s grin, frozen forever behind glass.
“Please, sit,” the woman says, her voice raw around the edges. She sinks into the armchair across from them, twisting a tissue between her fingers.
Sam takes the lead at first, his tone even, steady. “We know you’ve spoken with the sheriff. This is just a routine follow-up. Sometimes smaller details can help us piece things together.”
Her mouth quivers, but she nods. “Ask what you need to.”
Nellie leans forward; notebook balanced on her knees. Her voice comes soft, careful. “Can you tell us what happened the night Ethan passed?”
Mrs. Brackett swallows hard, staring at the tissue she is shredding. “He went to bed like normal. Nothing seemed wrong. Then… we found him the next morning.” Her voice cracks, breaking on his name. “The doctor said it looked like he stopped breathing in his sleep. Sleep apnea, maybe. But
Ethan never had problems before. He was healthy.” Her eyes lift, brimming with something desperate, wanting an answer, any answer that makes sense.
Sam keeps his expression solemn. “And your other children? Any unusual experiences? Trouble sleeping?”
She hesitates, then calls toward the hallway. “Hannah? Luke? Could you come here a minute?”
Two kids pad in: Hannah, about fourteen, with hair that hangs in her face; Luke, younger, maybe ten, clutching a stuffed dog that looks like it has survived a dozen washes too many. They perch uneasily on the arms of the chair beside their mother.
Sam nods gently. “You don’t have to say much. Just in case you’ve noticed anything strange at night.”
Hannah’s arms fold tight across her chest. “Sometimes I wake up and… it feels like I can’t move. Like I’m frozen. There’s this… weight, right here.” She presses her palm flat over her sternum. “Like something’s sitting on me. It goes away after a few seconds, but—” She breaks off, eyes darting to her mom.
Luke pipes up, voice thin. “I had that too. I thought it was just a bad dream.”
Nellie’s stomach twists, recent memory sparking sharp and unwelcome: water choking her lungs, the kelpie dragging her down, the burn in her chest when she thought she’d never breathe again. She forces her expression calm, hiding the tremor behind a tight grip on her pen.
“Thank you,” she says softly, nodding to the kids. “That’s very helpful.”
Sam closes his notebook with a quiet snap. “We appreciate your time. We’ll be in touch if we need anything further.”
Mrs. Brackett rises, ushering the children back down the hall. When she returns, her voice is little more than a whisper. “You’ll find out what happened, won’t you?”
He meets her gaze steadily. “That’s what we’re here for.”
They shake hands at the door. Nellie offers a faint, sympathetic smile before stepping back into the heavy Alabama heat. The screen door claps shut behind them. Sam pauses near the Impala, scanning the house once more, then lets out a slow breath.
“That was rough,” she says, shrugging her blazer off her shoulders like it weighs too much. “Never gets easier, does it?”
“No,” he agrees. “But did you catch what the kids described? Couldn’t move. Pressure on the chest. Classic.”
Her brow knit, her arms crossing tight over her stomach. “Yeah. Nightmare-demon territory. Mares, hags, breath-eaters.” Her voice is steady, but there is a hitch underneath it, something taut and tense.
His gaze sharpens, catching it. “You alright?”
She forces a half-smile, eyes on the gravel. “Fine. Just… the suffocation part.” She gives a little shrug, trying to make it casual. “Still reminds me of the kelpie. Not my favorite memory.”
He lets the silence sit a beat before answering, gentle but firm. “You survived it. And you’re stronger for it. Don’t let that memory tell you otherwise.”
Her throat works. She doesn’t reply right away, but when she looks back at him, some of the tension in her jaw eases.
“Besides,” he adds, tone lightening, “you’ve got the routine down. Witnesses, research, hunt. That kelpie didn’t stop you then, and this isn’t going to stop you now.”
Her smirk returns, smaller but real. “Yeah. You’re right. Library first, then motel. Dig up the patterns, find what this thing is, and torch it before it smothers anyone else.”
His mouth twitches in approval. “Pretty soon, I’m gonna stop calling you a rookie.”
“Guess I’m learning from the best,” she shoots back, brushing past him toward the car. Over her shoulder, her grin tilts a little sharper — Dean’s grin. “But when we do find this thing? I’m the one lighting the match.”
• • •
The county library is quiet, with the only sound being the steady hum of the old AC unit and the faint tapping of keys on the public computer terminals. Sam and Nellie split up without needing to discuss it: he takes a table near the outlet, laptop open, while she claims one of the microfilm machines and a stack of dusty bound newspaper archives.
She adjusts the dial, scrolling through yellowed headlines that flicker across the screen. Tragedy Strikes Local Farmer’s Family… College Student Dies in Sleep, Doctors Puzzled… Infant Death Rate Baffles County. Most blamed illness, bad luck, or “sudden stoppage of breath.” But her instincts tug harder whenever a phrase jumps out: eyes wide open, marks across the chest, loosened skin, woke screaming, then silence.
Her pen scratches quick notes into her notebook, and she catches herself drumming her fingers on the edge of the machine, like her body knows when something matters before her brain fully does. A ripple at the edge of her senses sharpens the focus, that strange hum she’s come to associate with her abilities.
Across the room, Sam leans closer to his screen. “Got something,” he murmurs when she drifts over. He turns the laptop toward her. “Online message board, early 2000s. People talking about a string of deaths in town. Supposedly, sleep apnea. But the comments mention weird details: folks seen gasping, clawing at their throats, skin loose on the body. Even a couple of stories about survivors describing something sitting on them.”
Nellie flips her notebook open, pages already filled. “Matches what I’ve got. Check this: 1956, a girl in town found dead in bed. Parents swore they heard her screaming, but doctors chalked it up to night terrors. Same thing in ’74, a factory worker, mid-thirties, healthy as a horse. Died in his sleep, ‘choking.’” She taps her notes, the words underlined twice. “That’s not a coincidence. That’s a cycle.”
His brow furrows as he scans her notes. “So, it’s been here a long time. Feeding, then quiet, then starting again.”
“Predator pattern,” she says flatly. She leans back, her gaze sliding to the stacks of books behind them, then back to her uncle. “If this were just some freak medical issues, people wouldn’t still be whispering about it decades later.”
He gives a low hum of agreement. “Problem is, we still don’t know which predator.” He rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Night hag’s the most likely. Fits the chest pressure, suffocation, recurring cycle. But there are variants. Some steal energy. Others peel skin.”
“Skin,” Nellie repeats quietly, eyes narrowing. A shiver prickles along the back of her neck, her instincts flaring sharper. “I keep circling back to that. Some of these deaths mention rashes and skin peeling. One coroner’s note said a victim looked ‘sunburnt from the inside out.’”
Sam’s eyes flick up, watching her closely. He trusts her instincts by now, even when they come wrapped in that subtle psychic hum. “So, you’re thinking hag, but the skin-shedding kind.”
She nods once. “Feels right.”
He closes his laptop with a quiet snap. “Alright. The next step is tracking where it’s nesting. If it’s been around this long, it’s got to have a lair somewhere nearby.”
Before she can respond, a soft voice breaks in.
“You two seem awfully invested in the town’s tragedies.”
They both look up to see an older librarian hovering near their table, her wire-frame glasses perched on the end of her nose. She wears the practiced smile of someone used to nosy patrons. Still, her eyes flick between their scattered notes with unmistakable curiosity.
Nellie leans back in her chair, flashing her most disarming grin. “Guess we’ve just got a thing for local legends. Kind of a hobby.”
The woman chuckles, apparently satisfied. “Tourists, then. Figures. Folks wander in every so often, chasing ghost stories.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “If you’re that interested, you might want to talk to Everett Pike. Retired history teacher, bit of a folklorist around here. Knows all the old stories. Keeps track of ‘em better than we do.”
Sam exchanges a quick glance with his niece, then nods politely. “We appreciate the tip. Where would we find him?”
“Oh, everyone knows Everett. Lives in the white farmhouse off County Road 12, just past the feed store. Porch is falling in on the left side; you can’t miss it.” She leans in with a wry grin. “And if you do go knocking, don’t let him rope you into looking at his arrowhead collection unless you’ve got an hour to waste.”
Nellie laughs softly. “Noted. Thanks for the recommendation.”
The librarian gives them a warm smile before wandering back toward the circulation desk.
She taps her pen against the table once the coast is clear. “So, new lead. Do we keep digging here, or pay a visit to Mr. Pike, folklore extraordinaire?”
He closes his laptop and slides it into his bag. “Let’s finish what we can here, then head over there. If Pike’s been collecting stories for decades, he might have details the papers leave out.”
She nods, sliding her notes into a folder. “Alright. The library has given us the trail. Let’s see what the locals remember.”
• • •
The white farmhouse sags against the afternoon sun, its paint peeling in strips and the porch dipping noticeably on the left side, just like the librarian had said. The yard is littered with half-finished projects: a rusting tractor, buckets full of arrowheads and bottle caps, and windchimes made of old keys.
Sam parks the Impala at the end of the gravel drive. “Folklorist, huh?” he says, eyeing the cluttered porch.
Nellie smirks as she climbs out. “Eccentric’s just another word for ‘guy who probably knows too much.’”
They mount the porch, and he knocks his knuckles against the doorframe. After a moment, it creaks open, revealing Everett Pike. He is in his seventies, wiry, with a white beard that appears to have been trimmed with a pocketknife. His eyes are sharp behind thick glasses, the kind that make you feel like you’ve already been measured and catalogued.
“Don’t get many visitors out here,” he says, voice like gravel. “You’re not selling anything, are you?”
Sam gives his most polite smile. “No, sir. We were at the library, and someone mentioned you keep track of the local folklore.”
His gaze slides between them, narrowing. “Tourists, then. Or ghost-chasers. Which is it?”
Nellie steps in smoothly, tilting her head with an easy grin. “Bit of both. We’ve been reading up on some of the old stories. Strange deaths, night terrors, that sort of thing. Figured if anyone knew more, it’d be you.”
The old man’s expression softens, just barely, at the mention of “night terrors.” He opens the door wider. “Come in, then. Might as well sit a spell. Don’t say I didn’t warn you if half my stories give you nightmares.”
Inside, the farmhouse smells of cedar and dust. Books are stacked on every available surface, along with mason jars of arrowheads and bones too small to tell if they are animal or something else. Maps of the county are tacked to the walls, marked with decades of notes in fading ink.
Everett settles into a worn armchair, gesturing Sam and Nellie toward the sagging couch opposite him. His eyes gleamed faintly behind his glasses. “I’ve been doing this since I was a boy. Used to write down anything I overheard. Ghost tales, strange happenings, things the preacher wouldn’t mention on Sundays. Been at it ever since. Forty years of teaching history, and still never learned as much as I did just listening.”
Nellie leans forward slightly, keeping her voice easy. “Sounds like you’ve got a treasure trove. What kind of stories do people tell around here?”
That coaxes a chuckle out of him. “Plenty. Some just want to scare kids into being home before dark. Others… well, they’re harder to laugh off.” He shifts back in his chair, warming to his favorite subject. “I’ve heard of phantom lights down by the train yard. Black dogs haunting the crossroads. A drowned bride was seen drifting on the river. Folks around here pass stories down like heirlooms.”
Sam nods, encouraging without steering. “Sounds like you’ve got quite the collection.”
Everett’s voice lowers, conspiratorial. “Collection big enough I could talk your ears off till morning. Question is: are you looking for the colorful tales, or the ones that make your skin crawl?”
She matches his grin with a casual one of her own. “Why not both? We’ve got time.”
He chuckles again, pleased, and launches into a narrator tone. His stories roll one after another, the kind that blur the line between folklore and warning. Sam and Nellie listen, jotting notes when it feels natural, asking just enough questions to keep him talking. They don’t guide him, just let him circle through his repertoire until something rings familiar.
The old man leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his stomach. “See, this is part of Alabama’s old immigrant country. Folks from everywhere — Scots, Irish, Germans, freedmen after the war. They all brought their ghosts with ‘em. That’s why we’ve got such a patchwork of stories.” He gestures toward a yellowed county map pinned to the wall. “Every town’s got its own flavor.”
Nellie nods along, pen poised over her notebook, but her attention sharpens at the way Everett’s tone shifts lower. He leans forward, voice hushed now, as though the walls might be listening.
“For example, this town is known for the Hag.”
The hunters exchange the quickest of glances. Just a flicker, enough to acknowledge that this is the one.
He goes on. “Oldest story we’ve got. She comes at night, skin like it don’t belong to her, a voice that don’t sound human. Sits on your chest while you sleep, takes your breath right out of you. Some say she sheds her skin like a snake and hangs it up somewhere close.”
The house falls quiet. Even the windchimes outside seem to hush.
Nellie taps her pen against the page, forcing her voice to stay casual. “That’s… quite a story.”
Everett chuckles, but there is no humor in it. “Story or not, folks have been dying in their sleep around here for as long as anyone remembers. You tell me what to call it.”
Sam leans forward, keeping his tone mild. “You said the Hag’s story is one of the oldest. How far back does it go?”
Everett rubs at his beard, considering. “First time I heard it, I was knee-high, listening to my granddaddy. But the oldest written account I’ve dug up goes back to the 1870s. Same as the railroad boom. Whole towns of immigrants sprang up overnight, folks with their own tales about night riders, witches, demons. The Hag fit right in.”
She tilts her head, playing at curiosity. “So, people still believe in her? Or is it just folklore now?”
That makes the old man chuckle, a low, rasping sound. “Depends on who you ask. Most folks’ll laugh it off. However, there are still many holding onto the old tricks. Salt and pepper scattered on the floor by the bed, supposed to make her stop and count the grains till sunrise. Broomsticks leaned against the door, so she trips herself up trying to get in. Gunpowder or sulfur sachets hung above cradles. Some even paint their porch ceilings ‘haint blue’ to keep spirits out. Superstitions as stubborn as the folks who carry them.”
He nods like it is all new to him, careful not to betray recognition. “And these deaths you mentioned, people still chalk them up to the Hag?”
Everett’s eyes narrow, studying them like he is trying to place which camp they fall into: skeptics or believers. “Not openly. Doctors call it sleep apnea, sudden arrhythmia, bad nerves. But the families? The ones who’ve heard the stories all their lives?” He taps a finger against the armrest. “They know better. They still whisper about her. Don’t matter what science says, when your boy goes to bed healthy and never wakes up.”
Her hand stills on her notebook. She forces a small, wry smile. “Sounds like you’ve run into more than your fair share of cryptid hunters, too.”
That earns a bark of laughter from the old man. “Now you’re getting it. Most of the time, I tell these stories and folks look at me like I’m half-crazy. You two, though, you listen like you halfway believe me. Guess that makes you… What’s the word? Weird urban legend fans?”
Sam gives a shrug, just enough to seem harmless. “We’ve always had an interest in the strange.”
Everett nods, satisfied enough, though his eyes still gleam sharply. “Well, strange is what this place has in spades. And if you want to waste an afternoon chasing shadows, I’ve got a hundred more stories where that came from.”
Nellie lets her pen hover over the page, her tone light. “In all the stories you’ve heard… do any of them mention where she stays? Like, a roost or lair?”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Now there’s the million-dollar question. Most of the old places folks swore were haunted — the shacks, cabins, mills — they’ve been torn down or paved over decades ago. Strip malls don’t leave much room for ghosts.” He leans back, smirking faintly. “If she was real—and I’m not saying she is—my bet would be she’d hole up someplace nobody bothers anymore. One of those old farmhouses left to rot on the edge of town. Roof caved in, paint peeling, raccoons moving in. Plenty of those out here.”
Sam gives a practiced half-smile, nodding like it is a joke. “Makes sense.”
Everett laughs again, taking them for good-natured legend chasers. “Course, that’s just me humoring the true believers. You’d be surprised how many people want to hear about spooks in their backyard. It’s good for tourism, if nothing else.”
Both hunters exchange a quick, subtle glance, the weight of his words landing differently for them than he intended.
Nellie closes her notebook with a polite smile. “Well, Mr. Pike, we really appreciate you taking the time to share your stories with us.”
“Eh,” Everett waves a hand, settling back in his chair. “You keep passing ‘em on, that’s all I ask. Keeps the old tales alive.”
Sam offers his hand, which the old man shakes firmly. “Thanks again.”
“Drive safe,” he says as he walks them to the door. “And don’t let the Hag ride you in your sleep.” He winks, clearly amused by his own warning.
• • •
The bell over the door jingles as Sam and Nellie slide into a booth at a roadside diner. The vinyl seats stick faintly in the humid air, and the scent of fried food clings to everything. A waitress pours them coffee without asking, and Sam spreads a stack of printouts and notes across the table while Nellie flips open her laptop.
“Alright,” he says, lowering his voice a little. “If Everett’s right, and the Hag needs a place to roost, she’s probably staying close to her hunting ground. Makes sense to start near the Bracketts’ place.”
She taps at the laptop, scrolling through the county property database. “Which means… abandoned farmhouses within, say, five miles?”
“Exactly.”
She scans quickly, muttering under her breath. “Okay, looks like three in the immediate area. One’s listed as condemned, another’s technically still owned but nobody’s paid taxes on it in years, and the last one burned halfway down last spring.”
“Condemned house sounds like our best lead, but we should check both out, just in case.” He takes a sip of coffee, then smirks faintly. “Though I can’t believe we’re actually taking real estate advice from some eccentric old man.”
That makes her laugh, shaking her head. “Right? He probably thinks we’re a couple of Bigfoot groupies. You saw the way he looked at us, like he was already drafting the story he’d tell his buddies. ‘Had a pair of weirdos come by, asking me where the boogeyman lives.’”
He chuckles low in his throat. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been called worse.”
“Speak for yourself,” she shoots back with a grin. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
The waitress drops off two plates: burgers and fries, still steaming. Nellie snags a fry and leans over her laptop. “So, condemned farmhouse, outside of town. Closest to the Bracketts’. And if hags are weaker during the day…”
He nods. “We don’t wait till nightfall. We check it out as soon as we finish here.”
She raises her coffee in mock salute. “Here’s to awkward folklore chats and midday monster hunting.”
He clinks his mug against hers, dry amusement in his eyes. “Just be thankful that we didn’t have to interrogate a vampire.”
• • •
The Impala crunches to a stop in front of the old farmhouse, weeds swallowing the gravel drive. The house leans tiredly against its own foundation, paint curling off in long strips, one shutter dangling by a single hinge. A rusted mailbox out front has long since lost its name, the lettering eaten away by weather.
Nellie hops out, boots squelching in the damp earth, and eyes the place warily. “Well. Picturesque, in a tetanus-shot kind of way.”
Sam grabs a flashlight from the trunk and hands her another. “Keep sharp. Hags like dark corners.”
They push through the sagging porch, boards creaking under their weight. Inside, the air smells of mildew and dust. Sunlight slants through broken windows, catching on motes that drift like lazy ghosts.
Room by room, they sweep the house. The kitchen counters are layered in grime, an overturned chair still lying where it had fallen, who-knows-how-long-ago. Upstairs, raccoon scat litters the floor, and a bird’s nest spilled out of the chimney.
Nellie crouches, running her light across the warped floorboards. “No scorch marks, no sulfur, no… anything. Just your average condemned nightmare.”
Sam opens a closet door and winces at the stink of damp plaster. “If she were here, we would’ve smelled it.”
She leans against the doorframe, tapping the flashlight against her palm. “So what, Everett was just stringing us along?”
“He wasn’t lying. Just…” He sweeps the beam of his flashlight across the peeling wallpaper. “…wrong. These places are perfect cover, but this one’s clean.”
They regroup in the front hall, boots leaving prints in the thick dust as they move back toward the porch, looking at the barn not a hundred yards from the house.
She blows out a frustrated sigh. “Well, that was anticlimactic. I was halfway ready for a hag to jump out and try to ride me like a mechanical bull.”
He arches a brow at her, dry humor cutting through his frown. “Let’s not add that to the list of things I ever want to hear you say again.”
She grins faintly, but the smile fades as she scans the overgrown yard and second building on the property. The silence presses heavier than it should have, cicadas humming somewhere far off. The barn sags worse than the farmhouse, its roof half-caved, red paint faded to the color of dried blood. Rusted farm tools lean forgotten in corners, and the air stinks faintly of hay long since rotted to mulch.
Nellie sweeps her flashlight across the space, the beam catching on spiderwebs that are strung thick between the beams. “If she was hiding out here, she’s got better housekeeping than I expected.”
Sam crouches near a feed trough, running his hand over the warped wood. “Same as the house. Nothing.”
Still, her unease prickles sharper here. She drifts toward the back, boots crunching across straw and grit. Something buzzes in her chest, the way it does when her psychic sense tugs at her, like static catching under her skin.
She pauses, letting her breath slow. That’s when she hears it.
A shuffle — soft, out of place — somewhere beyond the broken boards.
She creeps closer, peering through a gap in the wall. The afternoon light spills over weeds and scrub brush, and beyond that, a figure moves between the trees. A teenage boy.
Her breath catches.
Ethan Brackett.
The resemblance is uncanny: the same lanky frame, the same shock of dark hair, just like in the photos from the Brackett home. He moves awkwardly, stiff, his head tilted at an angle too sharp to be natural. His clothes look wrong, too clean, like they’ve been conjured straight from memory instead of wear.
Nellie’s stomach turns cold.
No. Ethan’s gone.
The Hag.
Her mind flashes with Everett’s words: sometimes they wear the skins of those they’ve taken. She presses herself against the wall, peeking just enough to watch him vanish deeper into the woods. She can’t shake how wrong he looks, like someone has painted the idea of Ethan Brackett instead of the boy himself.
Behind her, Sam calls from the other side of the barn, “Find anything?”
Her pulse hammers. She forces her voice steady. “Maybe.”
She steps back, the silence of the woods pressing in, and her knuckles tighten around the flashlight. She slips out through the warped barn door, heart pounding as she keeps her eyes on the retreating figure. It moves deeper into the trees with a stiff, unnatural gait. Every instinct screams that this is wrong, dangerous, but her feet carry her forward anyway. Branches scrape at her jacket as she pushes into the woods. It always stays just far enough ahead, always on the edge of the light.
Then it stops.
She freezes a few yards back, chest heaving. The boy stood perfectly still, head cocked at an unnatural angle, like he’s been waiting for her. Slowly, too slowly, the figure turns. His face is pale, eyes glassy, lips curling into a smile that is more leer than grin. When he speaks, the voice seems misplaced. Raspy, wet, crawling like smoke:
“Don’t fight it…”
Nellie’s whole body goes cold. She staggers back a step, hand tightening on the flashlight.
The boy’s shape blurs, the edges rippling like heat on asphalt, and for a split second she sees it: raw sinew, skinless flesh glistening in the dim light, the Hag’s true form bleeding through the disguise. The air grows heavy, pressing on her chest, and her breath catches. But then, just as quickly, the figure bolts, vanishing into the shadows with an inhuman speed that no teenager can match.
“Damn it!” she swears, stumbling forward a few paces before realizing she has no chance of catching it. She stands there, chest heaving, the woods swallowing the sound of the creature’s escape.
Behind her, Sam’s voice cuts through the trees. “Nellie?!”
She turns, guilt flashing across her face as he catches up to her.
“I saw it,” she blurts, breathless. “I swear, I saw it. It… it looked like Ethan.”
His jogs up, jaw tight, eyes scanning the trees. “You went after it alone?”
She clenches her fists, still buzzing with adrenaline. “I had to. If I’d waited—”
“You could’ve been killed,” he snaps, though the worry in his eyes softens the edge of his voice.
She looks away, biting her lip. “But I was right. It’s here.”
He exhales sharply, steadying himself. “Yeah. You were right. But next time, we go in together. Got it?”
She nods reluctantly, the echo of that rasp still in her ears. “Don’t fight it.”
The woods seem to exhale around them as they head back toward the farmhouse. The shadows stretch longer, bleeding across the trees, the air heavier with each passing minute. Sam walks a half-step ahead, his jaw tight. “If it’s smart, it won’t hang around here anymore. Looks like it was moving towards the other farmhouse.”
“The condemned one?” Nellie asked, quickening her pace to match his.
“Yeah.” He nods, eyes narrowing. “Hags aren’t nomadic by choice. They stick to a place until they’re exposed. Now it knows someone’s on its tail, it’ll shift.”
Her chest tightens. “Which means it’ll be hunting again. Tonight.”
His silence is answer enough.
By the time they break out of the trees, the Impala sits like a shadow against the sagging farmhouse. The horizon is already bleeding orange, the day collapsing into dusk.
Nellie swallows hard, then says quietly, “Sam… I’m sorry. For going after it by myself. I just — I didn’t want to lose it.”
He stops at the trunk, the key frozen in his hand. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then he turns, his expression isn’t angry so much as worn with worry.
“You can’t chase blind, Nell,” he says, voice steady but heavy. “You do that, you don’t just risk yourself. You risk both of us. And if something happened to you—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, like he can’t say the rest.
She ducks her gaze, her throat tight. “I get it. I’ll be more careful.”
“Good.” His tone softens, the edge giving way to the fatherly steadiness she’s come to lean on. “You’re doing good. Better than good. Just… don’t forget you don’t have to prove yourself by going it alone.”
Her eyes flick up, meeting his, and for a second, the tension eases. She nods once. “Together.”
He manages a ghost of a smile. “Exactly.”
They climb into the car, the last light of day dying as the headlights cut across the fields. The engine roars down the road, toward the next farmhouse, carrying them straight into the night. Sam keeps one hand on the wheel, the other drumming lightly against his thigh, a rhythm that betrays his unease.
Nellie sat angled toward him, her knees tucked up a little on the seat, staring out at the tree line slipping past. “So… hags go after people while they’re asleep, right? Means if we wait until it starts hunting again, it’s already too late for somebody.”
He nods grimly. “Exactly. Which means we can’t just wait for her to show up. We’ve got to find where she’s hiding before she sheds.”
She chews her lip. “Her skin.”
“Right,” he confirms. “Once she’s out of it, that’s when she’s most vulnerable. If we can find her stash, where she keeps her shed skins, we can salt them. If she puts them on, it should kill her.”
“Should,” she repeats, eyebrows arching. “That’s not exactly the most comforting word.”
He allows himself the faintest smile. “It’s hunter-speak for ninety percent sure.”
She gives a short laugh, but it fades quickly. “So we’re basically poking around condemned buildings, hoping to find where she crawls out of her meat suit every night, before she gets the chance to suffocate somebody else.”
“That’s the plan.”
She leans back, her arms folding across her chest. “No pressure or anything.”
He glances at her, the headlights briefly catching his profile. “Just promise me you won’t go charging in blind again. We do this together. Always.”
Her gaze flicks back to him, and she nods once, firm. “Together.”
The Impala rumbles to a stop on the side of a cracked dirt lane. Ahead, the second farmhouse sags against the horizon, its silhouette sharp against the bruised purple of twilight. A few boards hang loose from the siding, clattering softly in the wind, and the windows are gaping black squares. Sam kills the engine, and the sudden silence feels thick, almost deliberate. Crickets hum in the grass, but otherwise the world seems to be holding its breath. They climb out, boots crunching gravel.
He shuts his door gently, his eyes scanning the property. “Stay sharp. If she’s roosting here, we might get our shot.”
She adjusts her flashlight, the beam jittering faintly as she sweeps it across the sagging porch. “Looks abandoned long enough. Perfect place for a monster to play house.”
They circle the perimeter first. Weeds have climbed knee-high around the foundation, dotted with broken bottles and rusted cans. The barn out back slumps like a dying animal, and the roof of the chicken coop has collapsed entirely.
Sam kneels near the edge of the porch, brushing aside weeds with the end of his flashlight. The dirt is disturbed. Footprints, faint but fresher than anything else around.
“Someone’s been here recently,” he mutters.
Nellie crouches beside him, tilting her head. “And not some farmer checking his mail.”
His jaw tightens. “These tracks are wrong. Barefoot.”
She feels a cold shiver crawl down her spine. “Skinless feet,” she whispers.
The word hangs heavy between them.
Sam rose slowly, scanning the windows again. The light was almost gone now, the farmhouse crouched like a waiting shadow.
“Alright,” he says finally, voice low and firm. “We go in carefully. Check for signs she’s shed. If we find her skin…” He taps the duffel on his shoulder, where the cannisters of salt sit.
She swallows hard, then steadies herself, shoulders straight.
Together, they climb the creaking steps of the porch. The boards groan under their weight, echoing like a warning. Nellie adjusts her grip on the flashlight, and with her free hand, she reaches for the knob.
The metal is cold. Too cold.
She glances at her uncle. He gives the slightest nod.
The door swings open with a low, dragging groan, the sound like something exhaling after too long in the dark. Dust motes spin in the weak beam of her flashlight as they step inside, boots crunching against plaster and broken glass. The air is damp, close, carrying a sour tang of mildew and something sharper, metallic.
Sam follows close behind, shotgun steady, the salt rounds loaded and ready. “Stay close,” he murmurs.
The front room looks like time had simply stopped. Old furniture draped in moth-eaten sheets, wallpaper peeling in long curls. Their footsteps echo strangely, the hollow belly of the house magnifying every creak.
Nellie sweeps her light toward the far corner and freezes.
On the floor, slumped like discarded laundry, lies something pale. Unfortunately, it doesn’t smell like the soothing lavender that Eileen uses, but rather decay.
She swallows. “Sam.”
He moves forward, crouching. His beam cuts across what looked like a human skin, empty and hollow. The arms are twisted, the face pressed flat against the warped floorboards, expressionless and stretched.
“God,” Nellie whispers. Her hand tightens on the flashlight until her knuckles blanch. “It’s… It’s like a snakeskin. But—”
“Human,” Sam finishes grimly.
He slides the salt canister from his bag, carefully pouring a circle around the skin. “If she tries to climb back into this one, she won’t be able to. But…”
He straightens, eyes scanning the room. “Odds are this isn’t the only one she’s used.”
As if in answer, the smell deepens, something rotten clinging to the back of their throats.
They move room by room. In the kitchen, they find another, draped across a toppled chair, its fingers curled like it has been caught mid-gesture. In the laundry, a third lies on top of the dryer, the empty eyeholes staring blindly at the floorboards.
Nellie gags, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth. “She sheds them like clothes.”
Sam salts each as they go, his movements efficient, steady, though his jaw is set tight. “If we get the current one, she won’t have a skin to go back to by morning. But we don’t know which of these is the last.”
The deeper they go, the thicker the air becomes, until her psychic sense begins to prickle at the edges of her mind. The house thrums faintly with something alive.
She freezes halfway up the staircase, her breath catching. “Sam.”
He stops immediately. “What is it?”
She swallows hard. “She’s close. I can feel it.”
The stairs groan under their weight, each step protesting as if warning them back. Nellie’s breath comes shallow, her pulse syncing with the strange thrum in her head. The pull is undeniable now, like static crawling across her skin.
“She’s here,” she whispers.
He tightens his grip on the shotgun. “Stay sharp.”
They reach the landing. The hallway stretches out, lined with warped doors, each one half-rotted in its frame. Nellie pauses at the second on the left, her light catching something pale inside.
“I think—” she starts, stepping forward.
The words cut short as the floor gives way with a deafening crack.
“Nellie!”
She plunges through rotten boards, hitting the ground floor hard in a cloud of dust and splintered wood. For a heartbeat, everything spins. Her flashlight clatters across the floor, beam flickering wildly over sagging wallpaper and empty husks of old furniture. She rolls onto her side, dazed but breathing.
Sam barrels down the stairs two at a time, shotgun slung over his shoulder, heart pounding. He drops to his knees beside her. “You okay? Talk to me.”
She coughs, nodding weakly. “I’m fine. Bruised. Nothing broken.”
He hovers close, one hand steadying her shoulder as she sits up. His voice drops to a near-whisper, the words sharp with worry. “You scared the hell out of me.”
She manages a faint grin through the dust. “Sorry.”
He leans closer. “We need to get you out of here. This place isn’t safe.”
She goes to stand up, but freezes, her eyes scanning the house around them. It is silent, but she clearly senses something he doesn’t. She then gives him a look, and it doesn’t take long for him to read.
His stomach sinks. He whispers back, harsh but low, “No. You are not bait.”
Her hand brushes his sleeve, grounding him even as she keeps her tone soft. “Sam… she’s circling. I can feel her. If she thinks I’m hurt, she’ll come for me.”
His jaw clenches, eyes hard. “I’m not letting you sit here like a target.”
“You won’t,” she murmurs. “Because I know you’ve got my back. This may be the only way to draw her out. If she wants me…” Her gaze locks on his. “Let her try.”
For a long, tense moment, the only sound is the settling groan of the house.
Finally, he closes his eyes, jaw tight, before whispering back: “Fine. But I don’t leave your sight. Not for a second.”
She exhales, relief flickering in her expression. “Deal.” She leans back against the crumbling plaster, dragging her breath shallow and uneven as though she is fading. Dust clings to her hair and lashes, and she lets her eyelids droop halfway shut.
Above them, something scratches faintly. Slow, deliberate, like fingernails raking across wood.
Sam’s eyes snap upward. He adjusts his grip on the shotgun, then leans down close to his niece, whispering so low it is almost swallowed by the house itself. “Keep it up. I’ll circle around. If she shows —”
She gives the barest nod, feigning another cough to cover it.
He moves with measured care, boots rolling over debris without sound. He slips into the shadow of a doorway, working his way toward the staircase again, his eyes sweeping the rafters and the dark corners where movement might hide.
The air grows heavier. Her psychic sense thrums hot in her skull, like pressure building behind her eyes. She lets her head loll slightly, pretending to struggle for breath, even as her pulse thunders in her ears.
A whisper slithers through the air, too faint to belong to Sam. “Don’t fight it.”
Her stomach clenches, but she forces herself to stay limp, to breathe shallow, to sell the illusion of helplessness. From the corner of her vision, she catches the faintest flicker of movement, something pale dragging itself along the far wall. Sam sees it too. He freezes in the shadows, shotgun raised but steady, waiting for the thing to commit itself.
Nellie lets her body sag further, her head tipping forward as though she is slipping under.
The scratches grow louder, closer, the whispers circling like smoke. The Hag is coming. For a breath, the house held perfectly still, the scratches stopping as quickly as they came. Then something pale uncoils from the dark corner of the room.
The Hag is raw and skinless, its sinewy body gleaming wet in the weak beam of the dropped flashlight. Its limbs bend wrong, joints jutting like broken branches, long fingers dragging across the floorboards with a hollow scrape. Before she can fully brace herself, it crawls onto her, its weight pressing her chest like a vice. The stink of rot and old blood rolls over her. Her psychic senses spike so sharply she almost blacks out, every nerve in her body screaming. Her limbs feel heavy, locked. She gasps, fighting for air. Sam’s shotgun is raised carefully, barrel trained on the Hag’s slick back. One wrong shot and he’ll tear through her, too.
The dripping creature leans closer, its face a blank smear of flesh, whispering, “Don’t fight it. Just let go.”
Tears sting Nellie’s eyes as she forces a rasping answer: “S—Sam…”
He shifts, trying to find an angle. “Hang on. I’ve got you.”
The Hag’s long fingers clamp around her throat. She thrashes weakly, every ounce of will pouring into keeping her focus on it.
“Now, Sam!” she croaks.
The shotgun roars. Salt and buckshot tears into the Hag’s side. It screeched, a wet, ear-splitting sound, and recoiled violently. In an instant, it scrambles off Nellie and darts into the shadows with unnatural speed.
Sam drops to his knees beside her, one hand on her shoulder. “You okay?”
She coughs hard, dragging in air, nodding even as she shakes. “Go—don’t let her get away.”
He hesitates, then pulls her to her feet, bracing her against the wall. The Hag’s inhuman screeches echo ahead of them, up the staircase.
He curses under his breath, glancing at the splintered boards where his niece had fallen. “Great. Just what we need.”
Her voice is raw but steady. “Then we tread light.”
Side by side, they mount the stairs, each step a gamble, each creak a threat of collapse. Above, the shadows stretch, and the creature’s rattling breaths lure them higher. The wooden steps groan under their boots, each one threatening to splinter. Nellie grips the railing with one hand; flashlight clutched in the other. Sam keeps the shotgun leveled, his eyes darting to every shadow. They reach the landing, the hall stretching out, lined with warped doors, darkness yawning behind each one.
Then, without warning, the Hag erupts from the nearest doorway. It hurls itself at Sam first, shrieking, a blur of raw muscle and jagged nails. He fires, the blast ripping splinters from the doorframe, but the creature twists aside with inhuman speed.
“Sam!” Nellie yells, ducking back as the Hag’s claw scrapes the wall inches from her face.
The rotten floor beneath them groans dangerously with every lunge. A wide crack splits across the boards under Sam’s boots. He shifts quickly, bracing against the wall. “Careful—floor’s giving way!”
The creature seizes the moment, scrambling low and fast, and knocks the girl to the ground. Her flashlight beam spins wildly. She hits the ground hard, breath leaving her in a rush. It pins her, its clammy weight dragging her toward another dark room.
“Not again,” she rasps, forcing her arm free. She jabs the flashlight beam straight into its faceless head. It screeches, recoiling just enough.
Sam charges, vaulting over the splintering crack, and brings the butt of the shotgun down across the Hag’s shoulders. The impact drives it sideways into the doorway, plaster exploding around it. The boards beneath them crack again, sagging. For a split second, it looks like the entire hall might drop out from under them.
She scrambles to her knees, gasping. “We’ve gotta drive it downstairs! Less chance of falling through!”
He swings the gun back into position, teeth gritted. “Then we box it in. Don’t let it circle us.”
The hag hisses, crouched low, lunging with a screech, slamming into them with shocking strength. The impact rattles the hallway, sending both hunters skidding backward. The floorboards splinter beneath their boots as it drives them toward the stairwell. Sam steadies himself at the landing, shotgun half-raised, when it slams its weight into his chest. The force sends him crashing backward, tumbling down the stairs. His weapon clatters against the steps, skidding out of reach.
“Sam!” Nellie’s voice cracks with panic.
The creature turns, its faceless head cocking toward the groaning man below. With unnatural speed, it crawls down after him, pinning him at the base of the stairs. Its long fingers clamping over his jaw and throat, head lowering as if to inhale him, to rip the very breath from his lungs.
Sam gasps, struggling against its strength, but his eyes are already dimming.
Her mind races. Her hand darts to the satchel he dropped earlier, her fingers closing on a salt cannister.
“Hey!” she shouts, voice raw, sprinting down the steps two at a time. The boards crack beneath her, threatening to collapse, but she doesn’t stop.
It doesn’t look up, too intent on stealing her uncle’s life.
Nellie seizes its slick head from behind, yanking it back with every ounce of strength she has. Its grip on Sam falters for just a heartbeat. She lifts the spout over the gnashing teeth, dumping the salt into its mouth. The Hag shrieks as grains pour inside, smoke hissing up from its throat. The sound is like wet fire, its body convulsing violently.
Sam, coughing hard but regaining himself, snatches the shotgun from the steps. He rolls onto one knee, teeth gritted, and levels the barrel point-blank at the creature’s writhing chest.
“Not today,” he rasps.
The blast tears through the creature, fire and salt ripping it apart. It shrieks one last time before collapsing into a heap of blackened, shriveled flesh, its body dissolving into smoke that stank of sulfur and rot. Silence falls, broken only by Nellie’s ragged breaths and Sam’s coughs.
She lets go of its ruined head, staggering back a step, her hands trembling.
He pushes himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the railing, eyes darting to her. “You okay?”
She nods, though her chest heaves. “Yeah. You?”
“Bruised. Winded. But alive.” He gives a faint grin through the exhaustion. “Nice move with the salt.”
She drops onto the steps, relief flooding her as adrenaline begins to ebb. “Guess I’m learning from the best.”
He wraps one arm tight around his ribs. His shirt is torn at the shoulder where he’d hit the steps, and a bruise is already darkening along his jaw.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” Nellie asks, sitting a few steps below him. Her own clothes are smeared with grime and streaked with the Hag’s black ichor. She flexes her fingers gingerly, still feeling the phantom weight of its clammy skin.
“I’ll live,” Sam says, his voice rough but steady. He manages a faint smile. “But you… You were quick. That salt in the mouth? That saved my life.”
She lets out a shaky laugh, rubbing at her throat where the creature had pinned her earlier. “It wasn’t exactly a plan. More like… desperation in a can.”
“Still,” he says, tone softening. “You thought on your feet. It was a Dean move, for sure.”
For a moment, the weight of that name hangs between them. She glances away, swallowing hard. Then, to lighten it, she mutters, “You know what I hope? That this stuff washes out. Because…” She holds up her sleeve, sticky with dark streaks. “…hag guts are seriously gross.”
He huffs a laugh despite himself, shaking his head. “Pretty sure there’s not a detergent in the world built for that.”
“Figures,” she sighs, smirking faintly through her exhaustion. “Guess I’ll just start a new hunter trend: monster-chic.”
He chuckles again, softer this time, and reaches over to squeeze her shoulder gently. “You did good, Nellie. More than good.”
She leans back against the steps, letting the quiet settle around them. For the first time since entering the farmhouse, the air doesn’t feel heavy, doesn’t buzz with whispers. Just silence.
For now, that is enough.
• • •
Sam stands in the yard with a kerosene can, pouring the last of it over the shriveled husk of the Hag. The body is little more than brittle sinew and charred flesh now, but they aren’t taking chances.
“Salt, fire, repeat,” Nellie mutters, striking the match. “The Winchester way.”
The flames leap hungrily, swallowing its corpse. Beside it, the other skins they’d salted earlier curl and blacken, bursting into greasy ash. The heat lights the yard in a hellish glow, but neither of them flinches. They just watch until there is nothing left to watch.
Finally, he exhales. “That’s it. No coming back from that.”
“Good,” she says, brushing her hands on her jeans. “Because if I had to look at that skinless nightmare one more time, I might’ve quit hunting and joined a convent.”
He gives her a sideways look. “Pretty sure convent life isn’t really your style.”
She smirks. “Yeah, you’re right. Nuns probably don’t carry salt rounds.”
He laughs, then winces as the motion tugs at the bruise on his ribs. Nellie catches it and softens, nudging his arm carefully. “Seriously, though, you okay? That fall looked brutal, and Eileen would kill me if you croaked on a hunt.”
“I’ve had worse,” Sam says, and then adds with a grin, “but I’m not sure I’ve ever had hag drool on me before. That’s new.”
She barks out a laugh, shaking her head. “Don’t remind me. I still feel it in my hair.” She makes a face, dramatic enough to earn another quiet chuckle from him. “Guess we both need showers strong enough to burn off monster residue.”
He caps the kerosene can and sets it aside. “Guess that’s another Winchester motto: ‘Salt it, burn it, then shower it off.’”
“Catchy,” she says, brushing soot off her hands. “We should put it on a bumper sticker.”
They shared a tired grin, standing together in the eerie glow of the dying fire, the flames now reduced to little more than a red glow under the crust of ash. The stink of salt and scorched flesh still clings to the air, but the night itself feels easier, like the world has finally exhaled.
Sam opens the Impala’s trunk, placing the duffel bags in their designated spots. Nellie stands next to him, arms crossed as she scans the weapons stash. The fire pops, and a curl of smoke drifts toward the tree line.
She wrinkles her nose. “You know, if I were writing this down, it would sound like a Goosebumps story. ‘The Case of the Skinless Hag.’”
He raises his brows, half-smiling. “Goosebumps?”
“Yeah. Creepy houses, fake-outs, gross monster reveal. All you’d need is a twist ending where the dog was evil the whole time.”
“Guess we’ll keep an eye on the neighbor’s mutt just in case.”
She laughs, shaking her head. For a moment, the sound filled the empty field, cutting through the smell of ash. “You know, Sam…” Her voice is quieter now. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before.”
He turns his head. “Like what?”
“Like I’m actually living.” She lets out a breath. “Before, everything just kind of happened around me. I was just… existing. Going through the motions. But this — hunting, fighting, learning — it makes me feel like I’m part of something. Like I matter. It’s dangerous, sure, but it feels… good. Worth it.”
She hesitates, then adds, “And I’ve got family that cares about me. Loves me. That’s new, too.”
The fire cracks, sparks leaping skyward. Sam studies her for a long moment, the lines of his face soft in the firelight.
“You’re good at this, Nellie,” he said finally. “Better than most this far in. You’ve got instincts, smarts, guts.”
She looks down quickly, hiding a small smile.
They sit with that for a while. The night hums with crickets; the air cools as the fire dims even further. Nellie leans up against the car, staring up at the sky. Stars spill across the dark, endless, and bright sky.
“You know,” she says, “sometimes I still can’t believe this is my life now. Monsters, spells, hag guts…” She chuckles. “But it’s the first time I’ve ever felt like it was my life. Not just something happening to me.”
He tips his head back, too, following her gaze. “It’s not an easy life. You already know that. But… yeah. It’s real. And you don’t have to do it alone.”
Her eyes soften. She nods, letting the quiet stretch.
The embers snap one last time, scattering sparks into the sky until they vanish against the stars. For once, the silence doesn’t feel heavy. Just peaceful.
• • •
The cavern breathes with the same uneasy stillness as the cellar above ground once did. Damp air clings heavily, and the smoke from blackened jars of tallow candles swirls sluggishly along the ceiling. Their glass is cracked and soot-stained, light leaking through in trembling fragments that leave more shadow than glow.
The women kneel in a circle, their cloaks brushing against grit and bone dust scattered across the stone floor. At the center lies a natural basin carved deeper by ritual, its edges ringed with salt gone grey from old blood. Tonight, it gleams red, thick and wet, as one of the sisters empties a vial into it. The liquid pulses as if it remembers a heartbeat.
Drips echo from the cave roof, louder than they should be. Each drop lands with the same rhythm as a clock’s tick, counting something down.
Solene does not kneel. She stands tall, cloak trailing through the dirt, her pale eyes fixed on the basin. The candlelight claws at her, throwing long, stretched shadows that bend toward her feet instead of away.
“She blossoms,” a sister whispers into the silence. “Each strike tempers her. Each victory shapes her closer to us.”
She tilts her head, not at the speaker but at the blood. “She resists,” she says softly, voice cutting across the cavern. “But resistance is the shape of the path. Every act that makes her strong only drives her nearer to the door we keep open.”
The candles gutter, their flames drawn sideways as though by a breath none of them exhaled. The shadows crawl across the walls, twisting and turning. Somewhere deep in the stone, a whisper stirs. Low, insistent, without words yet heavy with intent.
Several women bow their heads. None dares speak.
Only Solene listens. She closes her eyes and leans slightly, as though something speaks against her ear alone. A faint smile touches her lips, more chilling than rapture, less human than peace.
“Her mother failed,” she breathes. Her hand rises over the basin, fingers spread. The surface quivers, though she does not touch it. “But her mother’s blood binds the girl to us. It feeds the way. The vessel could not endure…” Her hand closes into a fist. The blood ripples violently. “…but the daughter will. The conduit awakens.”
The circle trembles. Some murmur chants, others press their foreheads into the dirt.
“The Fallen One waits,” Solene whispers. The words are iron and ash. “And when She walks, it will be through her.”
The cavern exhales. Every jar shatters at once, glass splintering outward as the flames inside roar high and blue, searing the walls with jagged shadows before extinguishing into black.
For a heartbeat, there is nothing but dripping water, steady, too steady. The sound of a heart beating in the deep. Then, one by one, the candles relight themselves in the shards of their broken glass, weak and trembling.
The sisters lift their heads in unison. “Yes, Mother Solene.”
Solene lowers her hand, eyes gleaming pale. She does not look at them. Only the blood in the basin.
“She will not run from us,” she murmurs. “She runs to us.”
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