Embedded Files
Every confession leaves a mark. In St. Mary’s, the air itself seems to shiver with it—forgotten sins, broken prayers, and something darker waiting in the silence. For Sam and Nellie, wearing borrowed collars won’t be enough to keep the shadows at bay.
Word Count: 15.5k
TW: canon-level violence. use of mild language.
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The parish is nearly bursting, at least for a small church that can hold close to sixty people, with a sea of bowed heads and murmured greetings under the timber rafters. Sunlight spills in thick through stained glass, streaking the air with red and gold, catching on the soft haze of incense that clings in the beams overhead. The organ wheezes its last note of the hymn, leaving behind the faint echo of voices that doesn’t quite settle into silence.
At the pulpit, Father O’Donnell clears his throat, smoothing out a creased slip of paper. His voice carries steady, the seasoned cadence of a man who had stood in this spot a thousand Sundays before. But it carries a heaviness too, like each word costs him something to speak aloud.
“Before we continue,” he says, eyes skimming the page, “I ask for your prayers. We must hold in our hearts all those in our community who have taken ill this past month. Two more of our flock — Mrs. Lafferty and young Daniel Hines — have now joined those already afflicted.”
A low murmur moves through the pews, like wind across a field. Ten, maybe fifteen names hang in the air now. Too many for a town this size. A handful of women pressing their hands together tighter; others glancing sideways at neighbors, suspicion flickering behind pity.
“We pray for healing, for rest, for the Lord’s comfort upon them,” Father O’Donnell continues. His knuckles whiten around the edge of the pulpit as though he fears the weight of silence that follows.
The congregation answers softly, “Amen.”
He swallows, turning the paper over, and tries on a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “And finally,” he says, “confessions will be heard after Mass. For any who seek guidance or forgiveness… the booth will be open.”
That is all. Plain words, delivered in the same steady rhythm he uses every week. But something in the way his hand lingers at the pulpit, how his gaze slips toward the corner where the booth sits cloaked in shadow, unsettles the air. The organist strikes the first notes of the next hymn. The congregation rises, voices swelling again, though a nervous edge clings to the harmony.
Halfway back, a man in his forties grips the pew in front of him. At first, it looks like he is only unsteady on his feet, but then his knuckles go white, shoulders trembling. His eyes darting left and right, wild and unfocused, as if every face around him had turned stranger. His wife touches his arm, whispering his name, and he flinches like she struck him.
• • •
The two-lane stretches straight as a blade under a pale Alabama sky, pine trees lining the shoulders in an endless blur of green. Afternoon sun washes the windshield, and the hum of tires fills the silence in between.
Sam has one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting over a manila folder on the seat beside him. His thumb taps a rhythm against the paper, the way it did when he’s been chewing on something too long.
“You know what I came across last night?” he says finally, eyes still on the horizon. “Local reports out of a parish down near Opelika. Started small, couple people with what looked like flu symptoms. But then it spread. Ten, maybe fifteen so far.”
Nellie turns from the window, brows knitting. “That many? In one parish?”
He nods. “And it’s not the usual kind of sick. Doctors can’t pin it down. No common virus. It’s like their systems are just… shutting down under stress. Fevers. Weakness. And then yesterday —” He shifts, easing the car around a slow bend. “One guy snapped right in the middle of Mass. Paranoia. Thought everyone in the room was against him. Nearly went for the guy sitting next to him before half the pew dragged him outside.”
Her eyes widen. “In church?”
“Right there in front of the whole congregation. The priest managed to calm everyone down, but…” He shakes his head. “That’s not exactly something you walk away from. Folks are scared.”
She pulls her flannel tighter, gaze sliding back to the passing trees. “Sounds like some kind of demonic influence. Starts subtle. Make people weak, make their minds crack. Then keep cranking the pressure until somebody explodes.”
He glances at her, thoughtful. “You think possession?”
She shakes her head slowly. “Not possession. If it was, there’d be more signs — speaking in tongues, strength, black eyes. This sounds slower. Influence, like you said. Something feeding on sin, maybe.”
The folder on the seat rustles as the car bumps over a seam in the asphalt. She taps it with a finger. “Is that the case file?”
“Local reports, police blotter, couple of statements from the priest.” His mouth quirks. “Not exactly bedtime reading.”
She leans back in her seat, chewing on her lip. “Still… makes sense it’d go after a parish. All those people crammed into one place, confessing every mistake they ever made. That’s a buffet for something nasty.”
He tightens his grip on the wheel, considering her words.
Nellie crosses a leg under her lap, flipping absently through the folder. The silence has grown comfortable again, the earlier talk of sickness and paranoia lingering unspoken, waiting for later.
Sam finally clears his throat. “You know,” he says, voice careful, “we’re going to have to approach this one differently than usual.”
She looks up, frowning. “Differently how?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just gives her that look, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth, like he is holding onto a joke.
Her stomach drops. “Oh, no. No way.”
“Oh, yes.” His grin widens.
She groans, snapping the folder shut. “You’re telling me I’ve gotta put on a habit, aren’t you?”
“Priest and nun,” he confirms, chuckling. “Nobody questions it. Not in a parish.”
She presses a hand to her forehead, leaning dramatically against the window. “That outfit is going to cramp my hunting style.”
“You’ll live.”
“Yeah, but will I look cool doing it?”
He shoots her a sidelong glance. “You’ll look fine, Sister Nellie.”
She smacks his arm with the back of her hand, mock-offended. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Little bit.”
She narrows her eyes, then shoots back, “Why do I have to be the nun? You’d make a better one than me. You’re way more solemn. You’ve got that whole long-suffering look down.”
He barks a laugh, shaking his head. “Sure. But they don’t make habits that tall.”
She laughs too, snorting into her sleeve. “Oh my god, that’d be a sight. Father Winchester in a skirt.”
“Nun Winchester,” he corrects, deadpan. “Saving people, praying for things.”
That gets her laughing harder, a real belly laugh that rolls through the car until she has to wipe her eyes.
The Impala hums on, carrying the silence with it. Not heavy, not uncomfortable. Just honest, settling between them like something long overdue.
• • •
Dust and old coffee grounds permeate the motel room. The hum of the air conditioner fills the silence while Sam stands by the mirror, tugging the stiff collar of the borrowed clerical shirt into place. He is already half into his newest disguise when the bathroom door creaks open. Nellie steps out, smoothing the front of a black nun’s habit with both hands, the fabric hanging a little too long and awkward over her boots. Her expression is all discomfort: shoulders hunched, lips pressed into a thin line.
His mouth twitches. “You look —”
“Don’t,” she cuts in, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t even start.”
He chuckles, holding up his hands. “Alright, alright. Just saying, you clean up well.”
She huffs, tugging at the sleeves. “Feels like I’m wrapped in a blanket I can’t fight in. No room for weapons, no place for salt rounds. I’m going into battle dressed like somebody’s maiden aunt.”
His smile softens as he studies her. She looks different. The severe black fabric frames her face, the straight lines that strip away her usual edge. There is something almost innocent in the picture, something the world could never guess at if they don’t know better. But he knows. He knows the weight she carried. Years in a house that should have been safe but wasn’t, the scars of growing up with abuse, and now the messy, violent business of hunting. And still, here she is. Resilient. Capable. Ready.
For a moment, he wishes again that he and Dean had been there sooner, that they could have pulled her out before so much damage was done. But life doesn’t give do-overs. What it shows is this: Nellie, standing in front of him now, stronger than she had any right to be.
“You’ll be fine,” Sam says quietly. “Better than fine. They won’t see you coming.”
Her lips twitch into a reluctant smirk. “Guess that’s one way to put it.”
He sits down on the edge of the bed, tugging his collar into place one last time. “By the way,” he says, “our names for this one are Father Paul and Sister Veronica.”
Nellie arches a brow. “Veronica? Really?”
He shrugs. “Better than Sister Mary Sunshine.”
“Barely.” She moves to the table, plunking her small duffel on top. “Okay, Father Paul, what exactly can we take into this place without raising suspicion? Because right now I’m feeling about as defenseless as a choir girl.”
He leans forward, thoughtful. “Holy water, for sure. Small vial, pocket-sized.” He ticks items off on his fingers. “Rosaries: double duty, disguise and defense. You can hide a small knife under the sleeve. Maybe salt packets, like the kind from diners. Nobody questions those.”
She unzips the bag and begins sorting. “Great. So, while I’m busy smuggling condiments in my sleeve, what do you get?”
“The same,” he says. “And a flask of holy water. Maybe a pocketknife under the cassock if things go sideways.”
She gives him a flat look. “So, you get the Swiss Army knife, and I get the saltshaker.”
“You also get the element of surprise,” he points out. “No one’s going to think the nun’s armed.”
She sighs, shaking her head. “Until I brain somebody with a hymnal.”
He grins, reaching over to close the duffel. “You’ll manage. You always do.”
For a moment, her eyes soften. Then she tucks a strand of hair under the veil and mutters, “Still think Veronica’s a dumb name.”
He chuckles. “You’ll make it work.”
• • •
The old brick church stands at the edge of town, its white steeple stark against the pale sky. The parking lot is half-full, though the air feels heavy, like the whole town is holding its breath.
Sam kills the engine, straightens his collar, and gives Nellie a quick once-over. “Remember. Father Paul.”
She rolls her eyes, tugging at the sleeve of her habit. “Yeah, yeah. Sister Veronica. Still hate it.”
“Just smile and nod.”
“Smile and nod doesn’t really feel nun-like,” she mutters, but follows him out of the car.
Inside, the church is cooler, smelling of incense and lemon polish. Parishioners move quietly through the vestibule, heads ducked, voices hushed. A man in his sixties, thin but dignified, approaches them with a kind smile. His collar gleams white against the black shirt, though the shadows under his eyes speak of sleepless nights.
“Father Paul?” the man asks, extending a hand.
Sam clasps it warmly. “Yes, sir. And this is Sister Veronica. We’ve been sent to lend support.”
Father O’Donnell nods, relief flickering across his features. “Bless you both. We’re grateful. Times like these… well, the community needs all the strength we can muster.” His eyes shift briefly toward the rows of pews, where a handful of families whisper among themselves. “You’ve heard about the sickness?”
He inclines his head. “Enough to know you’re carrying a heavy burden.”
The father exhales, shoulders sagging a fraction. “It’s been difficult. At first, just a handful fell ill. Fatigue, confusion, paranoia. But it spreads, and the weight it puts on the families…” He shakes his head, the polite mask slipping before he pulls it back on. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t unload on you straight away.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Sam says gently.
Beside him, Nellie offers a small smile, clasping her hands together. She feels the weight of the veil framing her face, her usual sharp edges tucked away. It is strange, trying to embody a role that demands peace and calm when her gut churns with unease.
Father O’Donnell gestures toward the nave. “Please, come. Let me show you the parish. You’ll want to meet the congregation, get a sense of things yourself.”
As they follow, she whispers just low enough for Sam to hear: “So far so good, Father Paul. Nobody’s noticed I’m armed with salt packets.”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t answer.
The priest leads them down the center aisle, his voice low but steady as he gestures toward the worn wooden pews. “I thought at first it was nothing. People grow tired. Folks in small towns carry burdens. But then… the tempers started. Outbursts during service, men lashing out at their wives, mothers snapping at their children. Not like them. Not like them at all.”
Sam clasps his hands behind his back as he walks, his expression grave. “The signs were there,” he says with pastoral warmth. “But you did what any shepherd would. You held hope that your flock would heal.”
O’Donnell stops, swallowing hard. “Perhaps I held too much hope. Perhaps I should have acted sooner.” His hand trembles as he makes the sign of the cross. “Now more are sick, and I cannot pretend it is mere fatigue.”
The hunter’s tone is gentle but carries an authority Nellie has never heard from him before. “Father, guilt serves no one. You see the truth now. That’s the first step toward saving them.”
She has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. He sounds so convincing, his voice rich with solemn compassion, his posture perfectly priestly. She half-expects him to pull out a homily. Catching her smirk, he shoots her a quick look — the kind a father gives their kid when they’ve seen them out of line at the dinner table — and she snaps her expression back to saintly stillness.
“Yes, Father,” she murmurs under her breath, sweet as sugar.
The priest, oblivious, gestures toward a side hallway. “This way, to my office.”
Nellie follows, her hands clasped primly before her, whispering just loud enough for her uncle to catch: “Careful, you keep this up and they’ll make you Pope.”
He doesn’t break stride, but smirks just ever so slightly.
Father O’Donnell’s office is small, lined with shelves of worn theology books and framed parish photos. A crucifix hung above the desk, the wood polished smooth from years of reverence. He motions for them to sit.
Sam folds his long frame into a chair with the ease of a man who has worn a hundred covers before. Nellie perches primly, tugging her habit into place.
The father steeples his hands. “You’ll forgive me. I don’t often unburden myself this way. But I feel… overwhelmed.”
The hunter leans forward, his voice gentle. “When did you first notice the sickness?”
He exhales, eyes flicking to the crucifix before returning to them. “Early this summer. One family first — the Rourkes. Husband began looking pale, dizzy spells. His wife complained of headaches, fevers. At first, I thought it was just the heat or exhaustion from field work. But then more families showed the same.”
“And the symptoms?” Sam presses.
“Fatigue. Dizziness. Some are forgetful, like their thoughts won’t stay in line. They sweat through the night. And they look… haunted, as if something clings to them. Doctors say there’s no fever, no infection they can find.”
Nellie speaks softly. “And the man during Mass?”
His shoulders sag. “Mr. Carver. A faithful man, always steady. That morning, he began trembling in the pew. Couldn’t seem to catch his breath. His wife tried to hold him, but he pulled away, frightened. He kept insisting there was something in the church with him. We had to help him out before he collapsed.”
Sam’s jaw tightens, but his tone stays calm. “Has anyone worsened since?”
The priest hesitates. “A few. They grow weaker. One or two took to their beds and have barely stirred since. But there’s no fever, no sign of common illness. It spreads without reason, like a shadow crossing from house to house.” He clasps his hands tighter. “I told myself prayer would be enough. That it would pass. But I fear something darker has taken root.”
Nellie shifts in her chair, pressing her palms against her knees. A faint buzz ripples under her skin, the start of a pressure she knew all too well. Not strong yet, just a taste. She bites the inside of her cheek and forces herself to keep still.
Sam notices the flicker in her expression, the way her breath catches, but he says nothing. Not yet. He leans back slightly, folding his hands as though in casual conversation. His voice remains warm and priestly, but there is an edge beneath it.
“Father,” he says, “in times like these, the mind seeks patterns. Details stand out. Have you noticed… anything unusual along with the sickness? A chill in the air where there shouldn’t be? Strange smells? Anything at all that might not make sense?”
Father O’Donnell blinks, brow furrowing. “Cold?” He rubs his palms together slowly, as if the thought alone brings a shiver. “I can’t say I’ve felt that. If anything, the church feels close. Stifling, even when the windows are open.”
“And odors?” Sam asks, carefully neutral. “Not incense, not candle smoke… something else?”
The priest shakes his head firmly. “No sulfur, if that’s what you’re dancing around. No fire-and-brimstone.”
He gives a slow nod, letting the silence fill the space. “Sometimes the body speaks in ways the spirit can’t. We’ll look more closely. Thank you.”
Nellie nearly lost it at the phrasing. We’ll look more closely. He sounds like he is about to launch into a full-blown sermon on spiritual hygiene. She presses her lips together, fighting the smile threatening to spill.
O’Donnell clasps their hands in his. “I’m grateful you’ve come. Whatever this is, I’ve no power to fight it alone.”
Sam returns the squeeze, meeting the man’s tired eyes. “You’re not alone anymore.”
A clock on the office wall chimes the quarter-hour. The priest glances at it, his brows rising.
“Good heavens, I’ve kept you too long. Forgive me. Mass won’t prepare itself. If you’ve the time, I’d be grateful for your help.”
“Of course,” he says smoothly, rising to his feet. “Lead the way.”
The sacristy smells faintly of candle wax and pressed linen. Cabinets lined the walls, stacked with cruets, polished chalices, and folded vestments. Father O’Donnell busies himself pulling out robes while gesturing for them to see to the elements.
Nellie freezes for half a beat, staring at the cruets of wine and water, the small stack of altar breads. Her brain scrambles, flipping through everything she’s ever skimmed in the bunker’s liturgical section. Okay. Bread, wine, linens. How hard can it be?
She lifts a chalice with exaggerated care, setting it on the table like she’s done it a thousand times. “No problem,” she murmurs under her breath, arranging the linens with an intensity that borders on panic.
Sam watches from the corner of his eye, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. She is putting on her best poker face, moving like she has a mental checklist, when in reality, he can almost hear the frantic page-flipping in her head.
When Nellie nearly drapes the corporal upside down, he leans casually closer, murmuring just loud enough for her: “You’re about to altar the wrong cloth, Sister.”
Her head snaps up, cheeks coloring under the habit. She hisses, “Don’t you start,” through a tight smile, then carefully corrects the placement as though she meant to do it that way all along.
The priest turns at that moment, none the wiser, nodding approvingly. “Excellent. You’ve done this before.”
She gives her best serene nod. “Oh… many times.”
Sam has to bite back a laugh, turning to hang vestments before his smirk betrays them both.
The sacristy door opens, and the low hum of the gathering parishioners drifts in. Father O’Donnell straightens his stole and smiles faintly. “Please, sit with the staff during the service. I’d like the congregation to know you’re here.”
Sam and Nellie follow him out, slipping into the front pew reserved for choir and lay ministers. From here, they have a clear view of the nave: rows of families in Sunday best, fans stirring the heavy air, a handful of faces pale and drawn from the toll on the congregation.
She leans just slightly toward her uncle, keeping her hands folded piously in her lap. “You want me to start taking readings?”
“Not yet,” he murmurs. “But did you feel anything in the sacristy?”
She hesitates, eyes tracking the flickering candles near the altar. “A little. Like static under my skin. Not strong enough to pin down, though. Could’ve been nerves.”
His jaw ticks, but he nods. “Keep yourself open. If it spikes during Mass, we’ll know this place isn’t just sick, it’s haunted.”
The organ swells, cutting off any reply. Father O’Donnell steps up to the lectern, raising his hands for quiet.
“Before we begin,” he says, his voice carrying with practiced solemnity, “I ask you to extend your prayers for those in our parish who are unwell. Their number has grown, and their suffering is great. But God is merciful, and He hears us.”
A murmur of “Amen” rises from the congregation.
His gaze sweeps the pews before landing briefly on Sam and Nellie. “We have been blessed with assistance in this time of need. Please welcome Father Paul and Sister Veronica.”
Heads turn, curious eyes settling on them. Sam offers a serene nod, every inch the priest. Nellie presses her lips into a modest smile, hoping no one notices how tightly she grips the hymnal.
The service rolls on. Hymns fill the rafters. Readings are spoken, prayers recited. To the parishioners, it is routine worship. But Sam’s eyes never stop scanning, and Nellie’s senses never stop prickling, waiting for the faintest ripple of something unnatural.
The final hymn fades into silence, and parishioners rise with slow, shuffling steps. Father O’Donnell lifts his hand in benediction. “Go in peace. The confessional will be open for a short while for any who wishes to unburden themselves.”
The congregation begins filing out, with some lingering for handshakes and others slipping quietly through the doors. The hunters wait until the aisle clears before the father turns to them, his face lined with gratitude.
“Father Paul,” he says, lowering his voice. “Would you take confessions? My voice is nearly gone from this week.”
Sam inclines his head with priestly calm. “Of course.”
He steps aside with Nellie, his hand brushing her elbow, his voice a whisper. “See what you can find around the chapel. And —” his mouth curves almost imperceptibly “— try to act pious.”
She arches a brow, whispering back with a smirk. “What, you want me to apologize for swearing every other sentence?”
His eyes crinkle at the edges, but he only murmurs, “Stay sharp,” before turning toward the confessional.
She lingers a moment, scanning the chapel. The stained-glass windows throw fractured light across the pews. The air still falls heavy, expectant. She tugs her veil a little straighter and sets off, trying to look like any dutiful nun while her eyes sweep for anything out of place. Behind her, the confessional door creaks as Sam steps inside, vanishing into the shadows of the booth.
Nellie has only just stepped away from the front pew when a gentle hand catches her sleeve. She turns to find two elderly parishioners, a pair of women with lace veils pinned carefully in their hair, smiling up at her.
“Sister Veronica, isn’t it?” one asks. Her voice is kind but quavering with age. “We wanted to welcome you — and Father Paul — to St. Mary’s. It does our hearts good to see new faces here.”
She summons her best nun-like smile, hands folding automatically in front of her. “Thank you. Father Paul is… currently hearing confessions.”
The women nod knowingly, as if that explained everything.
“We’ve needed the help,” the second says, lowering her voice like she is sharing a secret. “So many falling ill, and still, we come to Mass.” She gives a soft sigh, then brightens again. “Have you seen our new confessional? Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Her brows lift, just a shade. “New?”
“Oh yes,” the first woman says eagerly. “The old one was falling apart. Drafts in the wood, hinges sticking. Father O’Donnell finally had it hauled away two months ago. This one’s a true antique. Can you believe it? The woodwork, the carving. You don’t see craftsmanship like that anymore.”
The second woman beams, clearly proud of it, as though she had chosen it herself. “It almost looks like it belongs to another century. A blessing to have it, really.”
Nellie nods politely, not letting her curiosity show. To her, it was just small talk, old ladies proud of their parish’s trimmings. She murmurs something suitably pious, then excuses herself with a warm smile, moving on at last. Behind her, the women’s hushed chatter carries talk of illness, of neighbors too weak to sing the hymns, of prayers unanswered.
Her soft steps echo as she moves between pews, scanning each corner of the chapel. She pauses near the altar rail, the carved saints watching with serene detachment, then circles toward the side aisles where votive candles gutter low in their red glass. Nothing. No sulfur traces, no flicker of temperature drop, no psychic stab strong enough to count for more than nerves. The silence presses heavily, but only in the way churches always do once the hymnals are closed and the people gone.
She draws back toward the front, noting the emptiness. The congregation has trickled out completely now. No rustling programs, no whispered gossip. The place feels hollow, almost too still. Her eyes flick toward the confessional. The carved booth looms at the far wall, one light burning above it. Sam isn’t in sight, so she guesses he is still inside, playing Father Paul with whoever has stayed behind.
She hesitates, then tugs her veil a little tighter around her face and crosses the nave. If nothing else, she figures they can steal a few minutes of quiet, compare notes, without Father O’Donnell hovering. The door creaks as she slips inside. The air is close, a little too warm, faint with the scent of polished wood and dust. She settles onto the narrow bench, the booth closing her into its tight shadows. It is tighter than she’s expected, the wood closing her in like a box built for secrets. The scent of wood polish and old incense lingers on the panels. For a moment, she sits in the stillness, palms flat on her knees.
“Sam?” Nellie whispers softly. Her voice barely stirs the air. “You in here?”
No answer.
She frowns, leaning toward the little lattice between the compartments. “Sam?”
Still nothing. The other side is empty. She sighs, starting to push the door open —
And freezes.
A murmur brushes her ear, so faint she thought it is her own breath. Then another. And another. Whispers seeping through the carved wood, overlapping until they form a low, desperate susurrus. The air thickens, pressing down on her shoulders like hands. Incense that is sour, taking on a metallic tinge.
Nellie’s pulse jumps. She pressed a hand to her temple, but the whispers layered higher, voices bleeding into one another: confessions, sobs, pleas for forgiveness. Snatches of words, centuries old, jumbled together like broken prayers. Her senses magnify the onslaught. Each voice hit her like a wave, guilt and fear pouring through her skin until she felt the world tilt. She braced against the bench, nails digging into the wood.
A scream rips through the whispers, high and ragged, not aloud, but inside her skull. Nellie stumbles upright, knocking her shoulder against the door, and shoves herself out of the booth. She staggers into the nave, gasping, the hush of the empty chapel suddenly too bright, too wide.
“Sister!”
She blinks, and there are Sam and Father O’Donnell at the far end of the aisle, both looking alarmed. Sam is already striding toward her.
“I’m fine,” she says quickly, forcing her hands to unclench, forcing her breathing steady. “Just… the incense. Got a little lightheaded.” She manages a wan smile, trying to keep her cover intact.
Father O’Donnell hovers near, concerned but polite. “It is warm in there,” he says, almost apologetic. “We’ve had trouble with the ventilation. Perhaps you should sit.”
She nods, swallowing hard. “I’m okay. Just need some air.”
Sam’s eyes meet hers, a silent what happened? But she only shakes her head once, tiny and firm. Later.
He gives the faintest nod in return, slipping back into his Father Paul mask. “We’ll get her some water.”
Together they move towards the pews, Nellie holding herself tall even as the echoes of those voices still scraped at the edges of her mind. By the time her color has returned and the tremor in her hands stills, Father O’Donnell’s worry softens into relief. He hovers in the aisle a moment longer before exhaling a shaky breath.
“I can’t thank you both enough,” he says, his voice still hushed as though afraid to disturb the silence of the empty chapel. “To have extra hands in a time like this, it’s more of a blessing than you know.”
Sam dips his head, slipping easily back into the measured calm of Father Paul. “We’re glad to be of help, Father.”
The priest hesitates, then adds, “If you’ve nowhere to stay, the rectory has a spare room. You’d be welcome here.”
He offers him a warm, priestly smile, the kind that carries both gratitude and polite refusal. “That’s kind of you. But we’re staying with an old friend in town. We’re looked after.”
“Of course.” He nods, the faintest smile returning. “Still, I would love your help again at Sunday Mass. With so many ill, the congregation needs steady hearts to lean on.”
Sam glances at his niece, then back. “We’ll be there.”
The priest clasps his hands, visibly steadier now. “Good. Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
With that, Father O’Donnell excuses himself toward the sacristy, leaving the two of them standing in the nave, the booth still looming behind them in shadow.
Nellie folds her arms tight across her chest, the pious mask slipping for just a second. Sam catches the flicker of unease but doesn’t press. Not here, not yet.
“Tomorrow,” he murmurs under his breath. “We’ll figure it out.”
She nods once, still pale but holding her chin high.
• • •
The air conditioner rattles in the motel window, blasting cool air that smells faintly of mildew. Nellie peels off the habit, flinging it across the chair with a groan.
“Never again,” she mutters, tugging the veil from her hair. “That thing is a medieval torture device. Pretty sure I sweated out half my body weight in polyester.”
Sam sits on the edge of the other bed, collar already loosened, watching her with that quiet, patient intensity that always meant he is waiting for the truth. “What happened in there?”
She sobers, settling cross-legged on the bed. “After I shook off the gaggle of grandmas, I walked into the chapel. Nothing. No sulfur, no cold spots. Just… empty.” She rubs her palms together. “Then I figured you were still in the booth. I went in, found it empty, but before I could leave —”
Her voice tightens. “It hit me. A wall of whispers, like… hundreds of voices stacked on top of each other. Begging, screaming, confessing. And the pressure, like something pressing on my chest and head, until I could barely breathe. My gift picked it up and just… magnified everything.” She shakes her head, shivering. “I barely made it out before I lost it.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “But you didn’t see anything?”
“No. Nothing I could point to. Just that psychic storm.”
He nods slowly, jaw tight in thought. “If it is demonic, then maybe it’s not about the booth. Maybe it was lying in wait. And when you walked in alone, it sensed you—your abilities—and lashed out.”
She looks at him, eyes wary. “So, it went for me because I’m basically a beacon?”
“Or a threat,” he says evenly. “Either way, it wanted you rattled.” He lets out a slow breath. “We’ll keep digging, but until we know more, you stay clear of the confessional.”
She gives a short, humorless laugh. “That part won’t be a problem.”
The AC groans on, filling the silence as he studies her. She keeps her chin high, but he can see the strain in her eyes.
• • •
The motel table is a mess of open laptops, crumpled takeout bags, and Nellie’s notebook full of doodled crosses and jagged arrows. She sits cross-legged on the bed, scrolling through old county records on her phone. Sam hunches over his laptop at the desk, papers spread around him like a makeshift library.
“St. Mary’s,” she mutters, flipping a page. “Built in 1903. Fundraisers, bake sales, bingo nights, chicken suppers. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
He looks over a scanned newspaper clipping, brow furrowed. “Yeah. No fires, no unexplained deaths. No big scandals. Just… standard parish history.”
“Which is boring,” she sighs, tossing her pen down. “Not that I wanted a tragic priest-hanging or anything, but if we’re hunting a demon, you’d think the place would have some juicy history.”
He leans back, rubbing his temple. “Sometimes they pick places at random. Doesn’t always have to be cursed ground.” He pauses, glancing toward her. “But if there’s nothing in the records, we may have to push O’Donnell harder. See what he hasn’t put in writing.”
She rests back on her elbows, smirking faintly. “You mean, Father Paul goes pastoral and starts asking the tough questions?”
He gives her a look, deadpan. “Something like that.”
She stretches, the tension in her shoulders easing a little now that she is out of the habit. “Fine by me. But I want it on record: I’m not going near that booth again.”
His jaw ticks, but he gives a quiet nod. “You won’t have to. We’ll speak with O’Donnell before Mass tomorrow. See what he’s really seen.”
The AC kicks on again, rattling the window. The room falls quiet except for the hum of the fan and the soft clatter of keys as Sam types another search, both staring at the glow of their screens. It doesn’t take long before it is broken by the sharp buzz of his phone on the desk. He glances at the screen, and his shoulders loosen for the first time all night.
“It’s Eileen,” he says, answering. His voice warms as he leans back in the chair. “Hey.”
Nellie half-listens from the bed, absentmindedly scribbling in her notebook, until Sam says, “Hold on. Let me put you on speaker,” and sets the phone between them.
“Hi, Nellie,” Eileen’s voice comes, soft and wry through the tiny speaker. “How are you holding up?”
She straightens, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m fine. Well… fine-ish. Your husband’s priest act nearly made me laugh in the pews, but I managed.”
The woman chuckles, then adds with mock seriousness, “And for the record: you looked good in a nun’s habit.”
Nellie blinks, her mouth opening. She shoots Sam a baffled look. “Wait. What?”
He grins, not even pretending to be sorry. “I, uh, might’ve snapped a photo. Sent it to her.”
She gapes at him. “You did not.”
“Oh, he did,” Eileen confirms, amused. “Full veil and everything.”
She groans, flopping back onto the bed with her arm over her face. “Great. Just great. Immortalized as Sister Veronica forever.”
Sam’s grin widens. “Don’t worry. I told her you took to it naturally.”
From the speaker, Eileen’s laughter joins his, warm and teasing. “Don’t let him tease you too much, Nellie. Honestly? You pull it off better than he does the collar.”
That gets a snort out of Nellie, despite herself. She peeks from under her arm to glare at her uncle, who is still grinning like an older brother teasing his sibling.
“Unbelievable,” she mutters. But her lips tug upward in spite of herself.
When the laughter finally settles, Sam reaches over and taps the speaker off. Nellie still muttering about blackmail under her breath, buried in her notebook once again.
He leans back in his chair, phone pressed to his ear again. His voice softens. “Thanks for that. She needed the laugh.”
“I could tell,” Eileen says gently. There is a pause, then her tone shifts, quieter, more serious. “Sam… don’t push her too hard.”
He frowns. “I’m not —”
“You’re not trying to,” she cuts in, but her voice holds steady. “But I know you. You see how much her gift helps, how it makes some hunts easier. That doesn’t mean it isn’t costing her. Every time she uses it, she’s paying for it.”
He exhales slowly, staring at the cluttered desk, the maps and old clippings scattered like a jigsaw with no picture. His thumb rubs the phone case. “I know. I see it. She hides it, but I know.”
“Then don’t let yourself start relying on it before she’s ready,” she presses. “She’s strong, Sam, but she’s still figuring herself out. She needs you steady, not pushing her deeper before she’s learned how to breathe.”
He glances over at Nellie. She is pretending to be busy with her notes, but her shoulders sag with exhaustion she doesn’t want to admit. The sight twists something in him.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “You’re right. I’ll watch it.”
“You always do,” she replies, softer now. “But sometimes… You need someone to remind you.”
His lips curve faintly. “That’s why I married you.”
Eileen’s laugh is warm in his ear, before she tells him she loves him and says goodnight.
When the call ends, Sam sits for a long moment, the lamplight catching the lines of worry on his face. Then he closes the laptop and pushes back his chair.
“All right,” he says, voice steady again. “We’ll hit O’Donnell in the morning. Get some answers.”
• • •
The morning sun sits heavy over the small Alabama town, already baking the streets in a late-summer haze. St. Mary’s church looms ahead, its brick walls glowing warm in the light, the steeple cutting clean against the sky.
Sam straightens his borrowed collar as they walk up the steps. Beside him, Nellie tugs at her sleeves with a sigh.
“Back in black,” she mutters. “Or… back in polyester.”
“Play the part,” he murmurs, lips twitching.
Inside, the church is quiet, the faint scent of candle wax and old wood mingling in the still air. Father O’Donnell waits near the sacristy, his expression tired but touched with relief when he sees them.
“Father Paul. Sister Veronica. Welcome back,” he says, shaking Sam’s hand firmly, then nodding kindly at Nellie. “The parish could use every bit of help these days.”
“We’re glad to,” he says, voice carrying that calm pastoral note he slips into with uncanny ease. Then he lowers it, gentle but firm. “Though before we get to preparations… we wondered if we might speak with you. Off the record.”
The father’s eyes flicker, his smile fading at the edges. He hesitates, glancing toward the altar as though weighing his words against the sanctuary itself. Finally, he nods.
“My office,” he says quietly.
They follow him down a narrow hallway lined with faded portraits of former priests. Once inside, he gestures for them to sit.
Sam stays standing, clasping his hands lightly behind his back. “You told us yesterday about the illness. But —” his tone softens, pastoral but probing “— sometimes there are things a priest notices that don’t make it into parish records. Things better kept between confessions and closed doors.”
Father O’Donnell’s jaw works. His gaze drops to his folded hands on the desk. For a long moment, the only sound is the ticking of a clock on the wall.
Finally, he speaks, voice low. “There have been… incidents. Things I could not explain, not with scripture, not with medicine. If you truly wish to help, then I’ll tell you what I’ve seen.” He folds his hands on the desk, thumbs worrying one another as though they might pray themselves into an answer. “I remember them. Everyone who’s home sick now. The McKinneys. Old Mrs. Wilcox. Young Mr. Porter. Good parishioners. Faithful, steady folk.” His eyes flick to the crucifix above the desk before dropping again. “In the days before they stopped coming, there were small things. Nothing I thought much of, at the time. A distracted look during the homily. Fumbling words in prayer. Forgetting verses they’d known since childhood. A short temper here or there in the pews.”
Sam’s brow furrows. Nellie leans forward slightly, glancing at him while keeping her silence.
“I thought it was fatigue, or stress,” the father continues. His voice cracks faintly. “We all live with burdens. I never thought… I never dreamed it would spread like this. Ten, fifteen families, struck down like wheat before the scythe.” He exhales hard, pressing his knuckles to his mouth, then lowers his hand. “And then the paranoia. That poor man last week, trembling in the pews, eyes wild as if he saw shadows none of us could. I tried to reach him, but…” He shakes his head, grief shadowing his features.
Silence falls heavily. The ticking clock seems too loud.
At last, his voice drops to a whisper. “Maybe it is a sickness of the body. Maybe it is a sickness of the mind. But I see nothing in scripture or science to explain it. And if not those, then perhaps it is God. Perhaps He is testing us, burning away our weakness.”
Sam speaks gently, his priestly calm ringing true even in the hunter’s words. “And do you believe that, Father? That this is God’s hand?”
O’Donnell’s eyes shine with doubt. He swallows hard. “I… I do not know. But I fear it.”
Nellie shifts in her seat, a faint buzz pressing at her temples, like the static before a storm. She leans forward slightly, her voice soft but steady. “Father, forgive me if this sounds strange… but have you noticed anything spiritual here? Anything beyond the ordinary. Cold spots. Whispers. A presence that didn’t feel like God’s.”
He blinks, surprised at the directness of the question. His brows lift as though he hadn’t expected it from the quiet Sister Veronica. For a heartbeat, he seems to search her eyes, but whatever he sees there makes him sigh instead of rebuke.
“No,” he says at last. “Not at all. In fact, the opposite. We’ve had blessings.”
Sam tilts his head, listening carefully.
“The parish has struggled with numbers for years, but lately there’s been an upturn. Donations steadier. More of the young families are attending again.” A faint smile touches his lips, though it fades quickly. “Even managed something of a miracle. A benefactor helped us replace the old confessional. The one we had was practically falling apart. Now we’ve an antique, beautifully carved, one of the finest things this little parish has seen in decades.”
He nods gravely. “That’s good to hear.”
Father O’Donnell spreads his hands. “I know what you’re asking. But there has been no devil’s mischief here. No signs, no smells of sulfur, no shaking walls. This is a house of God, and He has been generous with us. Whatever afflicts my people, it is not in these walls.”
Nellie forces a small smile, though that faint buzz in her skull is back, curling under her skin like pins and needles.
“Still,” the hunter says gently, “we’ll keep watch with you, Father. If there is more to it, we’ll find it.”
The father nods, grateful but tired. “Then I thank you. Truly.” He rises from behind his desk, brushing invisible dust from his cassock. “We’ll need to begin preparations. Mass is nearly upon us.” He turns to Sam with a note of relief. “Father Paul, would you be so kind as to take confessions again? It eased many hearts yesterday.”
He inclines his head with that priestly calm he wears so well. “Of course.”
“And Sister Veronica,” O’Donnell says warmly, turning to Nellie, “if you’d help set the altar and see to the sacristy, I’d be most grateful.”
“Happy to,” Nellie replies, though her tone holds the faint stiffness of someone still learning the choreography.
The next half hour passes in a blur of candles, linens, and careful hands. Nellie moves with quiet determination, trying to mirror the staff’s efficiency. She lights candles, straightens hymnals, folds and refolds the cloth until one of the altar servers gently corrects her with a smile. By the time the bell tolls, her habit feels heavy on her shoulders. Still, the sanctuary glows with the reverent light of flickering candles and sunlight filtered through colored glass. She takes her seat alongside the other helpers, smoothing her skirt nervously.
Across the nave, Sam emerges from the confessional, his expression composed, almost serene. The carved wooden door eases shut behind a departing parishioner, who crosses themselves hastily before slipping into a pew.
Her eyes follow the man, lingering not on him but on the confessional itself. The polished wood, the antique detail Father O’Donnell had spoken of. It looms darker than the rest of the chapel, somehow, as if it holds shadows that no light can quite reach. She frowns, trying to stitch together what she knows. Illness. Paranoia. Families falling away. Her fingers drum against her knee. She still can’t name it. Can’t quite fit the pieces.
When Sam finally crosses the aisle and takes his seat beside her, Nellie leans just enough to murmur, “Confessional’s busy.”
He only gives a slight nod, his eyes fixed forward as the opening notes of the Mass begin.
She sits back, gaze drawn once more to the booth. Watching. Waiting. Still trying to catch the shape of what lurks beneath the surface of the church.
The Mass flows as it always has: measured hymns, the steady cadence of prayer, Father O’Donnell’s voice carrying across the nave. Nothing out of place, nothing extraordinary. Sam allows himself a fraction of ease.
Then comes communion. The congregation kneels, heads bowed. Nellie bends forward too, folding her hands, lips moving in quiet mimicry of words she half remembered from childhood. Sam glances at her, and his heart stops.
A thin rivulet of crimson slides down from the corner of her eye, followed by another, trailing like tears across her pale cheeks. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Her face is caught in an eerie stillness, as if something has seized her mind and locked it in place.
“Nellie,” he hisses under his breath, hand darting to her arm. No response. Her breath hitches, shallow and uneven, and he realizes with a sick lurch that she isn’t kneeling in prayer at all but caught in some sort of silent storm.
A scream shatters the quiet.
Sam’s head snaps up in time to see a parishioner, the same man who’d left the confessional earlier, point a shaking finger at Nellie. His eyes are wide with horror. “She’s bleeding! She’s not human! She’s a demon!”
The young woman wavers, her body tilting, and he catches her before she collapses. Around them, pews creak as people rise in confusion and fear.
Then chaos erupts.
The man lunges forward, shouting scripture half-mangled by his panic. Two women, both of whom he had seen slip from the confessional that morning, suddenly cry out, their faces twisting with wild terror. One clutches her head, sobbing that voices are condemning her; the other shoves past those around her, screaming about devils in their midst.
He tightens his hold on his niece, pulling her against him, shielding her with his body. “Stay with me, kid. Stay with me.”
The air itself feels wrong. Charged, sharp, buzzing with something feeding off the frenzy.
Parishioners shouting. Others tried to restrain those who were becoming violent. The pews clatter as people shove back in fear. Someone cries out for Father O’Donnell, but he stands frozen at the altar, horror washing over his features as his congregation dissolves into madness before his eyes.
Sam’s hunter instincts roar. This isn’t mass hysteria. It is coming from somewhere. The confessional looms dark and heavy across the nave, its carved doors seeming to drink in the candlelight.
Nellie’s eyes flutter, glassy but focused, blood still streaking her cheeks. She shudders in his grasp, her lips moving faintly, but no words come.
He hauls her to her feet, the storm around them reaching a fever pitch. It is as if all Hell has broken loose inside the house of God.
“You’re okay,” he whispers, brushing blood from her cheek with his thumb. “Stay with them.”
Two women from the parish staff hurry over, eyes wide. One reaches for Nellie’s arm. He meets her gaze, firm but trusting. “Keep her safe. Don’t let her move.”
They nod, guiding the young woman gently towards the side doors as she sags between them.
Sam turns back just in time to catch another man lurching from the pews, shouting, “She cursed us! She’s unholy!” The crowd is panicked, surging with fear.
“Enough!” His voice booms across the nave, carried by the authority of his borrowed collar. “This is the house of God. Sit down!”
For a heartbeat, the chaos slows. Then a figure stands, flashing a badge pinned to his belt. “Everyone, calm down!” the officer barks, cutting through the din. “Sit down or you’ll answer to me.”
The parishioners waver. With the combined force of Sam’s commanding presence and the officer’s authority, the worst of the riot stutters, then ebbs. Shaken voices fill the silence, confused, frightened, but no longer violent. At the altar, Father O’Donnell sags in relief, gripping the edge as if to steady himself. He gives them a grateful, trembling nod.
The sanctuary finally empties, pews left askew, hymnals scattered like fallen leaves. Sam followed O’Donnell down the narrow hall, his mind only half on the priest’s muttered apologies. Every muscle in his body bends toward one thought: Nellie.
The office door is already open. The two ladies hover near the couch, where Nellie lies limp, her habit dark against the cushions. A damp cloth rests on her forehead, its crimson tint visible where it had brushed her temples.
Sam crosses the room in three strides, dropping to his knees beside her. He presses his palm lightly to her wrist, searching. There it is, the flutter of a pulse. Weak, but steady.
“She just collapsed,” one of the women murmurs, wringing her hands. “She hasn’t woken since.”
He doesn’t answer. He smooths the hair peeking out from the habit from his niece’s damp face, thumb brushing the streak of dried blood beneath her eye. “You’re okay,” he whispers, more to himself than to her. “You’re okay, kid.”
Father O’Donnell stands stiffly behind the desk, guilt written across every line of his face. “I… I don’t understand. This shouldn’t have happened in the Lord’s house.”
His jaw clenches. He pulls the cloth from her forehead, rinsing it quickly in the basin on the credenza, and replaces it with a steady, practiced hand. His voice softens, the edges of command slipping away into something purely human. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
For a long while, that is all that mattered. Not the priest shifting awkwardly at the desk, not the shadows of the church. Just Nellie’s shallow breaths, the stubborn beat beneath her skin, and Sam’s silent promise that nothing — cursed booth, demon, or otherwise — is going to take her from him.
His voice is calm, measured, but it brooks no argument. “She needs to be seen. I’ll take her to urgent care.”
Father O’Donnell opens his mouth to protest, that such a thing isn’t necessary, that perhaps prayer would suffice. Still, one look at the hunter’s set jaw and the priest swallows his words. The staff exchanges anxious glances, a look of pity on their faces.
Sam carries her himself, cradled against his chest as if she weighs nothing. He murmurs thanks, accepting the priest’s blessing with a polite nod, and walks them out beneath the anxious eyes of the parish. But he doesn’t drive toward urgent care. He knows better. This isn’t a fever or fainting spell medicine can touch. Whatever had seized her comes from deeper than flesh and blood.
Once at the motel, he eases her out of the car and into the quiet room, laying her carefully atop the bedspread. Nellie doesn’t stir. He takes off the veil and pulls the thin blanket over her, then sits heavily in the chair beside the bed. For a moment, he just watches her still face, the rise and fall of her chest, the faint crease of tension that lingered even in sleep. He rubs his hands over his face, weariness tugging at him, but he can’t bring himself to look away.
“You’re tougher than you think,” he says softly, almost as though she might hear him somewhere in the haze. “But you don’t have to be, not all the time. Not with me.”
The room is hushed save for the rattle of the motel AC unit and his niece’s steady breathing. He leans back, crossing his arms, eyes never leaving her. The hunt can wait. For now, his only job is keeping her safe.
• • •
Nellie’s eyes snap open to the scrape of wood against wood.
She is sitting upright. A wooden bench presses hard against the backs of her thighs. Her hands, clammy and trembling, clutch at that habit pooling in her lap. Black wool sleeves swallow her arms, and the stiff wimple pinches against her scalp.
Her breath hitches.
She knows where she is before she even looks. The confessional booth.
The air is too thick, heavy with incense long since burned away, sweat and varnish. She shifts forward, tries the latch. It won’t move. The wood is ice cold beneath her palm, utterly solid, as if door and frame had been carved from one piece. She pushes harder. Nothing.
Her pulse thuds in her ears.
Then comes the whisper.
It seeps through the slatted partition at her right, low and sibilant, a voice meant to confess. But the words run together, indistinct. She presses closer, straining to catch meaning.
“Forgive me, Father —”
“… couldn’t stop —”
“… blood on my hands —”
Her stomach clenches. The voices multiply, layers folding over layers until the air inside the booth buzzes like a hive.
Nellie turns her head toward the priest’s side. The partition is only darkness. Not a silhouette, not an empty chair, just an endless, swallowing black.
Her throat tightens. “Hello?”
The black shifts.
Eyes bloom in the void. Dozens, then hundreds, luminous pinpricks blinking wetly in and out of existence. They overlap and press together, jittering, rolling, fixing squarely on her.
She jerks back, heart slamming. The whispers pitch higher, twisting into a cacophony. Sobbing, shouting, raw screams of grief and rage. The wood shudders with the sound, and she claps her hands over her ears, but it only burrows deeper, vibrating in her skull.
Then the hands come.
They slide out of the dark partition, pale and frantic, seizing her wrists, her shoulders, her hair. Fingers digging into her skin, cold as stone, tugging her down, pinning her to the bench. More sprout from behind, clawing at her back, curling around her throat. She thrashes, kicking against the floor, but the habit tangles around her legs like a shroud.
The eyes never blink. The screams rise higher. The hands yank harder, dragging her toward the partition, toward that seething, endless black.
She gasps, choking on incense and guilt, her own voice tearing raw from her chest. “Let me go!”
The booth gives way in a burst of soundless dark.
Nellie bolts upright in the motel bed, lungs burning as though she’d been drowning. The thin blanket clings to her sweat-damp skin, and the shadows in the corners of the room seem too deep, too patient. Beside her, Sam startles awake in the chair, boots thudding to the floor as he leans forward. His eyes lock on her in an instant, sharp with worry.
“Nellie?”
Her breath rattles out, uneven, as her gaze darts from corner to corner. No booth. No eyes. Just the hum of the motel’s buzzing neon and her uncle’s steady presence anchoring her back to reality.
He is out of the chair before she can steady her breathing, crouching at the edge of the bed. His hand brushes her shoulder, gentle but grounding.
“Easy. You’re okay. Just breathe.”
She swallows hard, blinking against the burning in her eyes. Her pulse still rattled in her chest. She lowers her gaze, staring at her arms. Faint red bands mark her wrists, wrapping pale skin in bruised crescents. She flexes her fingers, the skin tender where phantom hands had held her down.
“Sam…” Her voice comes out hoarse. She turns her wrists toward him. “It followed me out.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t pull away. He takes her hands carefully, as if steadying them might will the marks away. “Tell me.”
She nods, though her throat feels thick. “It wasn’t just a dream. I was in the booth again. Couldn’t get out. Voices. Confessions, thousands of them. And then…” She shudders, breath hitching. “Hands. They dragged me down. Screaming, accusing, begging. It wasn’t a demon, Sam. It’s the booth itself.”
His brow furrows, but his silence tells her he is already running the logic.
“Think about it,” she presses, urgency cracking through her fatigue. “We’ve both heard it. Father O’Donnell calling it their blessing, the new antique. The parish ladies bragging about the craftsmanship. It showed up only a couple of months ago.” Her voice drops, raw. “And that’s when the illnesses started. The paranoia. The man who called me a demon? He’d just been in the confessional.”
He exhales slowly, his thumb brushing the back of her wrist. “And the timing lines up.”
She nods, the red marks throbbing faintly as if in agreement. “It isn’t God testing them. It’s that booth poisoning them. Every second it’s still standing, people get sicker, more paranoid. Someone else could die.”
For a moment, the room is still, then Sam gives a grim nod, his hunter’s certainty settling in. “All right. Then we know what we’re hunting.”
Nellie hunches forward on the bed, wrists still sore beneath Sam’s careful hold, her pulse is just beginning to slow. Then a sharper thought cuts through the fog.
Her eyes lift to Sam’s, wide and unsettled. “Wait… the last thing I remember —” She stops, swallowing. “I was kneeling. During Mass. And now it’s night, and —” She looks around the motel room, panic sparking. “Sam, what happened?”
Sam hesitates, then exhales. His voice is steady, but his eyes betray the weight of it. “You collapsed. Right there in the sanctuary. I told O’Donnell and the others I was taking you to urgent care.” His jaw flexes. “So, I brought you back here. Hoping that you’d wake up from whatever was going on.”
She presses a hand to her face, trying to reconcile the gap in her memory. The dream still clings to her skin. She shudders, then looks back at him.
“Sam… we can’t wait. We need to go back to the church. Tonight. Before anyone else walks into that thing.”
He stays crouched by the bed, brow knitting tight, hunter’s focus locking squarely on her, but this time it isn’t the case that he is measuring. It is her.
“You cried blood, Nellie.” His voice is low, almost a growl at the edges. “In front of half the congregation. Then you blacked out for hours. You think that’s nothing? You think you can just shake it off and charge back in there?”
She draws in a sharp breath. She wants to argue, but the way he looks at her — like he’s already lost too many people — makes her pause. She reaches up, touching the side of his face lightly, forcing him to meet her eyes.
“I’m okay,” she says firmly, her voice steady now in a way it hadn’t been when she first woke. “Yeah, it rattled me. But I’m still here. And I’ll be better once we finish this. You know I’m right. That thing is feeding on them. Every second we wait, more people suffer.”
Sam closes his eyes briefly, jaw working. He wants to wrap her in salt lines and iron chains, keep her safe and far from the hunt. But her conviction is unshakable, and the red marks on her wrists prove she isn’t imagining any of it.
He opens his eyes, exhaling hard. “You’re stubborn as hell, you know that?”
A faint smile tugs at her lips. “Family trait, I guess.”
That breaks through his resistance. He stands, tugging his flannel off the back of the chair and grabbing the duffel from the corner. “Fine. But we do this together. You don’t leave my sight. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Nellie swings her legs off the bed, shaky but resolute. He gives her one last look, half worried, half proud, before zipping the duffel shut with a decisive snap.
They have their target. And it is waiting for them at St. Mary’s.
• • •
The church is a different creature after hours. No parishioners, no choir, no warm light through stained glass. Only the groan of old wood settling into silence, and the cold watch of votive candles burning low in their alcoves. Sam eases the door open just enough for them to slip inside. Nellie follows close, tugging her flannel tighter around herself, grateful to be free of the habit.
The nave is hushed, shadows swallowing corners the sun has once touched. The confessional booth looms against the side wall, darker still; more monument than furniture. They approach cautiously.
He slings the duffel off his shoulder and crouches to check the base. “If it’s cursed, maybe there’s a sigil carved into it somewhere. Hex bags. Something anchoring it here.”
She swallows hard, the faint psychic buzz already pricking at her temples. “Or it doesn’t need anything. Just feeds off guilt and keeps… collecting.” Her eyes drift toward the latticed partition, and she shivers. “I don’t know if burning it would even be enough.”
He straightens, eyes scanning the booth’s tall frame. “We’ll figure it out. But we need to be sure before we light up half the sanctuary.” His voice lowers. “Best case, it’s bound to something inside. Worst case…” He doesn’t finish.
They circle the booth in silence, speaking only in quick whispers. Every creak of the church seemed louder in the empty space, each flicker of candlelight throwing warped shadows across the floor. She reaches out, fingertips hovering an inch from the wood and pulls back, not ready to touch.
“Sam,” she breathes, “it’s humming. I can feel it. Like it’s waiting.”
Before he can answer, another sound breaks the quiet.
A soft cough. The shuffle of fabric.
Sam and Nellie spin around.
From the far alcove, a single votive flame illuminated Father O’Donnell, kneeling before a worn statue of Mary. His eyes widen at the sight of them. Not Father Paul and Sister Veronica, but them, in their own clothes, standing much too close to the confessional.
For a long heartbeat, silence presses heavy between them.
The father rises slowly, his face lined with exhaustion and something sharper: Realization.
“You’re not… what you said you were,” he murmurs, voice carrying just enough to reach them. He steps closer, the votive glow at his back throwing his face into half-light. His expression is not one of anger, but weariness has carved deep lines around his mouth and eyes. “For weeks now, I’ve prayed for guidance, I’ve begged for understanding. And tonight, I find the two of you here, stripped of collars and habit, whispering over the confessional.” His gaze flicks to the booth, then back to them. “Tell me I haven’t been blind all along.”
Nellie lowers her eyes, guilt pricking sharper than the psychic hum pressing at her temples. Sam shifts beside her, shoulders squaring as though he can absorb the weight of the priest’s despair.
“Father,” he begins carefully, his voice steady but lacking the priestly cadence he’d worn so easily before, “we didn’t come here to deceive you. Not for its own sake.”
O’Donnell’s hands clasp in front of him, trembling slightly. “Then why?” His voice cracks. “Why all the lies? The collars, the names? If you know what’s happening here —” He cuts himself short, breath catching. “If you can save them… tell me.”
Silence stretches between them. The flickering candles hiss faintly in their glass cups.
Nellie finally lifts her eyes, meeting his with quiet resolve. “You deserve the truth,” she says, her voice low but clear. “And you deserve more than prayer alone. You’re right. We’re not who we said we were.”
“And we’re here,” Sam adds, his voice a quiet oath, “because your parish is in danger. We intend to stop it.” His voice carries that low, steady calm he used when talking to civilians who are about to learn too much. “My name’s Sam, and this is Nellie. We’re hunters. Of… the supernatural. Things most people don’t even want to believe exist.”
The father’s brow furrows. His lips move like he might interrupt, but Sam presses on, respectful but firm.
“We deal with curses, spirits, possessions, things that slip through the cracks and hurt people. When we heard about your parish’s troubles, the sickness, the paranoia… we came to help. The lies, the collars, posing as clergy… That was to get close enough to see what was really happening. We weren’t here to mock your church, Father. We are trying to protect it.”
Father O’Donnell’s eyes flick from Sam to Nellie, searching her face, then back to the looming shadow of the confessional. His throat works as he swallows, the silence stretching until it nearly breaks.
“You expect me to believe,” he whispers finally, “that all this — the strange behavior, the fear, the… darkness — is not God’s test, but something unnatural? Something you can hunt?”
Sam doesn’t waver. “Yes. That booth behind you isn’t holy anymore. It’s feeding off your people. And if we don’t stop it, it’s only going to get worse.”
The priest’s gaze lingers on the booth, the tremble in his clasped hands betraying his composure. “I have seen my flock sicken, lose sleep, lose hope. I told myself it was a trial of faith. But if you’re right…” He trails off, shaking his head slightly, then looks back at them. “You say you can end it?”
Nellie straightens beside her uncle, her voice quiet but firm. “We can try. That’s why we’re here.”
Father O’Donnell closes his eyes, and for a moment, he looks as though the weight of the parish is crushing him flat. Then, with a ragged breath, he gives a small nod.
“Then I don’t care who you are,” he says softly. “Only that you do what you say you can.”
Her arms are folded tight across her chest as if to keep the buzzing out of her bones. “We’ve been looking at the pattern,” she says, her voice low but steady. “The sickness, the paranoia — it all started not long after this thing showed up. The timeline matches too cleanly to ignore.”
Sam’s eyes flick to the priest. “Do you know where it came from? Before it ended up here?”
He exhales slowly, shoulders sagging. “Only what I was told. A parishioner said it had been part of someone’s private collection, antiques, mostly. They thought donating it to St. Mary’s would be… a blessing.” His lips press into a tight line. “Before that, it belonged to a church called St. Lucia. That’s all I know.”
“St. Lucia,” Nellie repeats, the name tasting uneasy in her mouth. She turns toward him, urgency sharpening her voice. “Do you know where that was? The city, the diocese? Anything that can help us look it up fast?”
O’Donnell’s expression tightens with frustration. He shakes his head. “No. Only the name. I can ask the parishioner, but it may take time.”
Sam’s jaw sets as his eyes drift back to the booth. “Time we may not have.” He slides his phone from his pocket, thumb hovering over the screen. But before he begins the search, his eyes drift towards his niece. “Nellie, now that we know it’s the source… can you feel anything from it?”
Her lips press together, but she nods. Slowly, cautiously, she steps closer. She doesn’t touch the wood, not after what it had already done to her, but she lets herself breathe in the atmosphere around it. Her face tightens, shoulders curling in slightly.
“It feels… heavy,” she whispers. “Like the walls are drenched in guilt. Every sin poured out inside it, soaked deep into the wood. It’s… oppressive. Almost like it’s alive.”
Father O’Donnell frowns, worry flickering across his lined face. “What are you doing?” His voice isn’t sharp, but wary, like a shepherd suddenly realizing he doesn’t understand the tools in a stranger’s hands.
She hesitates, chewing the inside of her cheek. They’ve already lied once. Hiding it now would only twist things further. She turns back to him, her hands clenched at her sides.
“I’m a psychic,” she admits quietly. “I can read objects. They… speak to me. Show me things.”
His expression falters: shock, unease, then something closer to fear as he looks at her. “And that day, in the booth? When you bolted out as if you’d seen the Devil himself — what did you feel?”
She swallows, the memory tightening her chest. “It wasn’t just whispers. It was years of guilt and shame pressed into one space, clawing at me. After passing out at Mass, it followed me into my dreams. Hands grabbing me in the dark, eyes watching.” She rubs her wrists absently, as if the faint traces of those dream-hands still linger there.
Sam steps in, his voice steady, anchoring the moment. “The supernatural reacts to people like Nellie. Cursed objects, spirits, they sense her gift and go after it. That’s why she was hit first. That’s why the blood, the blackout… It’s not random. It’s the booth lashing out through her.”
Father O’Donnell’s gaze lingers on Nellie, sorrow and awe mingling in his eyes. His voice is barely above a whisper. “God help you, child.”
His face shifts in the candlelight, first the sharp flicker of fear, then a heaviness of uncertainty. His gaze lingers on her as though trying to decide if she is a danger or a blessing. But as she stands there, shoulders squared despite the tremor in her voice, his expression softens. Compassion overtakes the unease.
“It must be a terrible burden,” he says gently. “How does someone as young as you find herself bound up in such work?”
“I didn’t choose this,” she replies slowly, “not at first. I grew up in a house where things weren’t right. My mother… she wrapped herself up in dark matters. I didn’t understand what it was when I was little. Once I found out, she tried to kill me.” She pauses, drawing a breath, her eyes flicking toward her uncle. “Sam saved me. Since then, I’ve been learning hunting, fighting the things that hide in the dark. I want to make sure no one else has to grow up like I did. No one else has to look over their shoulder, wondering if the shadows are staring back.”
Father O’Donnell’s lips part, then close again, emotion breaking through the mask of a weary priest. His gaze shifts to the other hunter, and though he doesn’t ask, the truth of her reliance on him speaks loudly enough.
“And now here,” he says after a long silence. “Among strangers. Why risk your soul in my parish?”
Nellie straightens, her hands clenching loosely in front of her. “Because churches are meant to be safe,” she says simply. “A place where people find peace. I wasn’t in church much growing up, but I knew that much. And if something dark has made its way into St. Mary’s, I can’t just walk away. Your people deserve that safety. That peace. We’ll help you get it back.”
The father blinks rapidly, the sheen of tears on his lashes catching the light. His voice, when it comes, is hoarse. “You’ve borne more than most men twice your age could carry. Whether your gift is divine or dangerous, it is a cross you shoulder for the sake of others. And that is a holy thing.”
He lifts a trembling hand, hesitates, then steps closer. She freezes, uncertain, until the old priest gently touches her brow with two fingers.
“May God grant you strength,” he whispers, sketching the sign of the cross in the air before her. “May He guard your mind against the shadows that would claim it. And may He forgive me for failing to see the truth sooner.”
She blinks hard, swallowing past the lump in her throat. She gives a slight nod, her voice catching. “Thank you, Father.”
“Found something,” Sam calls out. “St. Lucia. Small Catholic parish, Louisiana. It burned down in 1956 under… mysterious circumstances. No cause of fire ever found.”
The priest crosses himself instinctively. “God have mercy.”
He goes on, his voice steady but grim. “The papers at the time said the congregation had started showing strange behavior in the years before the fire. Symptoms sound familiar: people who were once faithful, peaceful, suddenly paranoid, ill, violent outbursts during Mass.”
Nellie’s stomach knots. “Same thing that’s happening here.”
“Yeah,” he says, lifting his eyes to hers. “Only difference is that when the fire finally came, the only thing left standing was the confessional. Untouched.”
The silence after that lands like a weight. Even Father O’Donnell seems to shrink a little, glancing over at the booth that now looms larger in his imagination.
Sam slides the phone into his pocket, his expression grim. “I don’t think St. Lucia was the first. Might not be the last, either. It takes years of listening, of soaking in people’s guilt and shame, for something like this to turn cursed. Maybe decades. We could be looking at a trail of parishes where this thing’s been… feeding.”
Her jaw tightens. “Like a parasite. And St. Mary’s is just its latest host.”
Father O’Donnell whispers a prayer under his breath, his voice breaking halfway through.
Sam exhales, rubbing the back of his neck as he studies the booth’s silhouette. “If I’m right, we’re not just fighting a haunted object. We’re fighting the weight of every sin it’s ever absorbed. And that’s… a lot of firepower.”
Nellie steps closer to him, her eyes fixed on the wooden structure. “Then we need to figure out how to cut it off. Permanently. Before it decides to spread any further.”
He crouches beside one of the pews, flipping open his duffel. The sound of zippers rasping in the quiet surrounding them as he lays out salt canisters, small bottles of holy oil, iron blades wrapped in cloth, and a leather-bound ritual book worn thin from use. She kneels opposite him, pulling out chalk and her uncle’s notebook, its margins crammed with sigils and field notes.
The father stands over them, wide-eyed but trying to keep his composure. “What… what will it take? Fire?”
Sam shakes his head. “Not just fire. The booth survived a church fire once and came out untouched. If we’re going to burn it, it’ll need to be with holy oil. But first we’ve got to weaken it, break the curse holding it together.” He glances at his niece. “We’ll need to prep both options. Binding ritual first. Burn after.”
She runs her finger down a page of sigils, lips pressed thin. “It’ll fight back. I can feel it already, like it’s listening.”
She isn’t wrong. Across the nave, a votive candle flickers suddenly, the flame guttering as though in a draft, though the air is still. One of the hymnals on a pew’s edge tips forward and slips to the floor with a soft thud. Father O’Donnell startles, but Sam keeps working, oblivious.
Nellie’s head snaps toward the confessional. The air near it feels heavier, charged, like the quiet before a storm. She swallows and forces herself to keep laying out chalk in careful, practiced lines.
The priest’s gaze darts to her, unsettled. “You sense it, don’t you?”
She nods, voice low. “It knows.”
Sam finally looks up at them, his expression steady but grim. “Good. Then it knows what’s coming.” He reaches for the ritual book, flipping to a page marked with a scrap of ribbon. “We’ll start with a binding prayer, lock it down so it can’t lash out. Then we douse it in holy oil and burn it until there’s nothing left.”
Her hands still over the chalk lines when she notices the way Father O’Donnell is hovering. His lips pressed together, his gaze darting between their tools and the looming booth. The weight of helplessness sits heavily on his shoulders, and she feels it as sharply as the charge in the air.
She looks up at him, softer than her usual tone. “Father… maybe you could pray. For the church. For us. Sort of… cleanse the ground before we deal with the booth.”
He blinks, startled, then nods slowly, as though she’s given him permission to reclaim his role. His eyes well, and for a moment, he looks twenty years younger. He draws in a steadying breath, then steps toward the altar. His voice, hoarse at first, grows stronger as he lifts his arms.
“Lord Almighty, guard Your house against the works of darkness. Sanctify these walls that have sheltered generations, and protect Your children who labor now to restore Your peace…”
The words fill the nave like incense, echoing against stone and wood. Sam and Nellie bend back to their work, arranging salt lines and setting out the holy oil, almost ready to begin the ritual.
In the shadows near the booth, another hymnal slips to the floor, louder this time. The air thickens, pressing closer. Nellie’s skin prickles, her senses whispering louder with every word of the prayer. She tightens her grip on the chalk, jaw set.
Sam’s voice cuts steadily through the quiet. “Almost ready.”
Father O’Donnell’s voice carries through the chapel, steady and strong now. The words of his prayer roll like thunder through the rafters. With each syllable, the candles gutter and flare. The stained-glass windows shiver faintly in their frames.
And the booth… it responds. Its shadows seem to deepen, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. A low murmur swells, muffled whispers threading through the wood as though a hundred voices are speaking from within.
Sam’s eyes flick up from the salt lines, watching the unnatural play of light on the booth. His chest tightens as he looks at Nellie.
She is already watching him, wide-eyed, sensing what he is about to say.
“Nell,” he begins, his voice low, heavy with hesitation. “The prayer’s hurting it, but not enough. To crack the curse, we’ll need more than words and oil. You’ll have to… push. Focus on it. Just like you did with the dollhouse.”
Her stomach drops at the memory: the storm of voices, the draining pressure, the way it had left her trembling for days. But she also remembers what it had done, how her strength had tipped the balance, let the ritual work.
His hand hovers near hers, not quite touching. “I wouldn’t ask if there was another way.”
She draws in a slow breath, grounding herself. Then she nods. “If it’ll help this church… if it’ll stop it from feeding on anyone else, I’ll do it.”
The whispers inside the confessional rise in pitch, as though it understands her promise.
His jaw tightens. “Then let’s end this.”
He opens the ritual book to the marked page, and together they turn toward the wooden structure, its shadow stretching long across the nave. He presses his palm to the open page of the ritual book, voice cutting firm and commanding through the storm:
“By holy name and sacred blood, we bind you, break you, cast you out —”
The confessional screams.
It isn’t a sound made by wood, but by countless throats, layered whispers erupting into shrieks. Hymnals tear from the pews and spiral through the air like angry birds. Stained glass cracked in jagged webs, raining fragments of colored light. The pews themselves rattle on their bolts, wood groaning like ships in storm-tossed seas. The booth convulses, its wood groaning as though centuries of hidden sins clawed to be heard.
Sam’s jaw clenches. “Keep praying!” he barks to the priest, his own voice straining against the roar. He throws a glance to the side.
Nellie kneels, palms pressed hard against the stone floor. Her eyes squeeze shut, breath ragged. Then the first rivulet of blood slips down from the corner of her eye, stark against her pale skin.
His heart lurches. “Nellie!”
But she shakes her head, whispering hoarsely through the storm. “I’ve got it.”
The psychic flood is nearly unbearable. Confessions, laments, and anguish from lifetimes poured through her mind, crushing in their grief and shame. For an instant, she feels like she is drowning in every sin ever spoken within those walls. Her nails scrape the stone floor, but she holds on, pushing back. Her whole body trembles as the flood of anguish hammers through her mind. Crimson streaks run freely down her cheeks now, her breath hitching with every wordless scream inside her head.
His voice rises louder, driving the ritual words into the chaos, refusing to falter. Each phrase feels like hammering another nail into the coffin of the curse. Father O’Donnell’s voice cracks, tears streaking his face as he shouts prayers over them, his faith burning brighter than his fear.
The booth groans louder, its whispers twisting into shrill confessions: Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…overlapping, endless, suffocating.
Sam risks a glance at his niece. She is swaying, nearly breaking under the weight of it. His stomach lurches, but he roars the next line, refusing to stop.
“By the blood of the Lamb and the fire of the Spirit —”
Every muscle in Nellie’s body screams to give in, but she pushes harder. Her energy burns like wildfire, forcing her will against the tide of years-old guilt. She feels herself sinking, the voices clawing at her sanity, but she drives her focus deeper.
Her voice comes ragged, but steady. “Sam, now!”
He raised the vial of holy oil high, ready to pour.
The booth’s shadow rears like a living thing, black tendrils stretching across the church walls. With a deafening crack, it explodes outward; a storm of splintered wood and burning shadow erupts into the church. The walls shake, pews shudder, and then, in one breathless instant, the chaos collapses into silence. Smoke curls from the smoking pile of wood. The oppressive whispers are gone.
Nellie sags forward, the blood streaking her cheeks at last slowing. But fresh crimson wells from her nose, dripping onto the stone floor. Her strength gives way.
“Nellie!”
Sam lunges, but Father O’Donnell is closer. He catches her just as she crumples, cradling her carefully as the last of the blood ceases. She is pale, but breathing. Alive.
He presses a hand to her shoulder, his voice rough with relief. “I’ve got you. It’s over. You did it.”
She stirs, her lashes fluttering. Her voice is faint, muddled, like she is still half-dreaming. “… did we do it?”
He crouches close, searching her face, his own voice soft but steady. “Yeah. We did.”
Her lips tug into a tired grin, streaked with dried blood. “Good. ’Cause if I had to wear that awful habit again, I think I’d rather fight a demon with a drinking problem.”
He huffs a laugh, relief breaking through the tension. Humor is a good sign. “That bad, huh?”
“Scratchy as hell,” she mumbles, leaning against her uncle.
His shoulders loosen. If she can joke, she is still herself. But he can see the toll, the paleness of her skin, the tremor in her hands. She is drained; wrung out by the push she’s given.
Between them, he and Father O’Donnell help her ease into a pew. She sinks back, breathing hard but steady.
The priest glances at Sam, still trembling from the ordeal. “What now? Is it… truly gone?”
His gaze cut to the smoking wood. He shakes his head.
“Just in case,” he says grimly, “we burn the pieces. Holy oil, the whole lot. Leave nothing behind.”
O’Donnell swallows hard, but nods, faith bracing him for the task.
Sam begins moving with hunter’s precision across the nave, the scrape of broken wood against stone echoing in the hush. His jaw is set, but his ears tilt toward the pews where Nellie still sits, as if part of him is always listening.
The father returns with a basin, a cloth, and a small cup of communion wine. He lowers himself onto the pew beside the young woman, his hands still trembling faintly from the ritual.
“Let me see you,” he says softly.
She tilts her chin obligingly. The cloth is cool against her overheated skin as he wipes away the streaks of blood from her cheeks and lips.
She smirks faintly, voice raspy but cheeky. “Bless you, Father, for having a bottle handy.”
He huffs but doesn’t take the bait. “You joke, child. But I know what you’re doing. Covering pain with humor. A clever mask, but still a mask.”
Her smirk falters. She stares into the cup he placed in her hands, rolling the liquid gently as though it might spell something out for her.
“When I was a kid,” she begins, voice quieter, “my mom used to drop me at church. Said it was ‘free childcare.’” A dry laugh escapes her. “Guess she wasn’t wrong. But for me? It was… a place to breathe. It wasn’t home.” She sips the wine, letting it burn its way down. Her voice tightens. “Home was a place where you walked on glass. Sometimes literally. So, I sat in pews like this, staring at stained glass and feeling like maybe I was safe for an hour. Not loved, but… safe.”
The priest listens, his hands folded in his lap, letting her unspool the memories.
“I didn’t know what I was until recently. The psychic thing. But even before that, I always felt… wrong. Like I’d been marked before I even had a chance. And now?” She lifts the cup halfway before setting it down on the pew between them. “Now I wonder if I’m too tainted for God. Too broken. Too… freakish to belong in a place like this.”
The silence that follows is so complete that even Sam pauses in his work, his shoulders taut.
Father O’Donnell finally sets the cloth aside and rests a weathered hand over hers. His grip is firm, grounding.
“Child,” he says, voice steady, “if this house was only for the perfect, the whole, the holy… these doors would never open. Every soul who kneels here comes with cracks and wounds. It is not in spite of them that God welcomes us — it is because of them. You are not tainted. You are human.”
Nellie turns her head quickly, as if to hide the sheen in her eyes.
After a pause, he sighs and leans back slightly in the pew. “Do you know, I became a priest after nearly walking away from God entirely? I lost a brother in the war. I shouted at heaven until my voice broke. For years, I thought faith was a lie. And yet…” He looks up at the space where the confessional once stood. “… God did not let go of me. Broken men can still serve. Broken women can still be whole.”
She lets herself sag against the pew, the exhaustion pulling at every inch of her frame. But beneath the fatigue, the words root somewhere deeper. Her hand brushes at her cheek where the blood had been. For once, she doesn’t make a joke.
• • •
The three of them worked in silence, carrying the remains of the confessional out the side door. Even broken into fragments, the wood feels heavier than it should, as though it still clings to the sins it had swallowed. They set the last of it down in the cracked asphalt of the back parking lot. The night air is cool, sharp in their lungs.
Sam unscrews a flask of holy oil and pours it liberally over the pile. The stench of smoke and ash mixes with the sharp tang of oil as he strikes a match and tosses it. Flames roar to life, orange against the dark.
Nellie leans against her uncle, her body sagging with exhaustion, but her eyes fixed on the blaze. For the first time in days, her shoulders ease. “It’s over,” she whispers.
Father O’Donnell stands beside them, his hands clasped before him. “You have done more for this parish than I could ever repay.”
She, loopy with fatigue but smiling faintly, shakes her head. “Your words tonight… were payment enough.”
Sam’s gaze stays on the fire, his voice low but firm. “Still, cleanse the church. Bless it before the next Mass. Just in case any trace lingers.”
The priest nods solemnly. “I will.”
They linger only a few minutes more, watching the cursed wood collapse in on itself. Sam feels Nellie’s weight tipping more heavily into him, her body demanding real rest now. He lays a steadying hand on her shoulder, then turns toward the priest. “We should go. She needs to sleep.”
O’Donnell’s eyes soften as he looks at the young woman. “Nellie,” he says gently, “hear me even through the fog of your weariness: you are not defined by the darkness behind you, nor by the gifts you did not ask for. You are defined by the choices you make. Tonight, you chose to protect, to sacrifice, to love. Hold fast to that.”
She gives a faint, wobbly smile. “That… sounds like a homily.”
He chuckles quietly. “Then perhaps it is. But it is true.”
Sam squeezes his niece’s shoulder. “Come on, kid. Let’s get you back to the motel.”
The fire snaps behind them as they walk towards the Impala, leaving the ashes of sin and curse to the flames.
• • •
The motel room may smell faintly of old carpet and cheap cleaner, but to Nellie it is heaven compared to incense and smoke. Sam helps her to the bed before kicking off his boots and sitting on the other bed.
She blinks at him, her eyes heavy but still sharp enough to catch the expression on his face. “Don’t give me that look.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What look?”
“The one that says, ‘You scared the hell out of me, kid, and now I’m gonna worry myself bald.’”
He huffs a soft laugh, leaning forward on his knees. “You’re not wrong.” His voice drops quieter. “You pushed yourself too hard tonight. I know what that thing did to you. And you’re still figuring this out; your abilities, your limits. I don’t want you burning out before you even get a chance to live your life.”
She tugs the blanket over her legs, giving him a crooked smile. “You sound like an old man.”
“Yeah, well, hunting will do that to you.” His hand rubs the back of his neck, eyes softening. “But I mean it, Nell. You’re strong. Stronger than I ever was at your age. I’m proud of you. But I don’t ever want your strength to come at the cost of… you.”
For a long moment, she just watches him, her uncle with his too-big heart and his worn-down edges. Then she whispers, “Thanks for catching me when I fall. Even when it’s ugly.”
A soft smile spreads on his face, a fatherly look in his eyes. “That’s what family’s for. Always.”
She returns the smile, finally settling down into the bed. Her eyes flutter shut, finally surrendering to the exhaustion. Within minutes, her breathing is steady and soft, against the hum of the AC unit.
Sam sits back, letting the silence settle. Outside, the world carries on, but here, for tonight at least, she is safe. And he will keep it that way.
Author's Note: The name Father Paul chosen for Sam’s cover was inspired by the character from one of my favorite mini-series “Midnight Mass.” The name is also a reference to Paul the Apostle, who spread the teachings of Jesus in the first-century world.
The name Sister Veronica chosen for Nellie’s cover was inspired by the movie “Veronica” and its prequel “Sister Death.” The name is also a reference to St. Veronica, who is known for offering her veil to wipe Jesus’ face during the Passion. She is more a figure of Catholic tradition rather than a Biblical one.
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