Déardaoin. Thursday.

You knew something was wrong when the Fossoway boy was quiet at choir practice. 

Thomas Fossoway, the oldest of the Fossoway boys, was always one for mischief. Not enough to cause worry—the right amount of mischief for an eight year old boy past the age of hiding behind his mother’s skirts. He could never make up his mind on what he wanted to be when he was grown up: last week he’d wanted to be a sailor. The week before, he’d wanted to be a black bear, and would hear none of how it wasn’t possible. The worst thing he’d ever done was two months ago, when he’d yanked on Abigail O’Carroll’s blond hair when she had teased him for living in a “rickety old shack”. After a conversation with his mother where she’d threatened to yank on his hair, to see how he’d like it for a change, it had never happened again. 

No, Thomas Fossoway was not who you would think of when you imagined a “quiet child”. When he walked into choir that chilly September day, he looked as though he was waiting for someone to yell at him for something he’d done. If you’d been alarmed, it had only been because you were wondering what he’d done to make him look so guilty. He did everything he was asked, and did nothing else but look at the floor, whereas the rest of the children of the choir were rambunctious as ever.

The children’s choir had been your endeavor ever since you’d arrived to the parish last spring. Here you would remain at the little parish until you were due to take your vows. Since then, you’d warmed up to many of the children and their mothers who you’d speak with after choir. 

Mothers like Rowan Fossoway, whose son was currently acting as if he was about to take a long walk off of a short pier. It was not like him at all, brewing an uncertainty in your chest. Perhaps you would leave it for today, and wait until you saw him again. Children so quickly oscillated between lively and silent. He might have had a cold. His mother might have been cross with him earlier. It could have been anything.

It was halfway through choir practice during a moment of rest that an unexpected visitor entered the room. His presence drew the attention of the children, and briefly brought your rehearsal to a screeching halt. 

“Father Duncan!”

To a certain extent, you didn’t want to fault him. It was near impossible for someone like Father Duncan to go unnoticed whenever he walked into a room, especially a room full of small children. To them, he stood as tall as an oak tree, a wondrous feat for the little ones. His warm, welcoming demeanor with them also contributed to their excitement at his entry. He was so gentle with them, so soft spoken and kind for someone as big and broad. He was like that with most everyone, you thought, stomach curling with shame and frustration.

Everyone except you. He hated you, it seemed. 

Which was a shame. You, him, and Father Lyonel were the ones who oversaw the parish. You and Lyonel got along extremely well. When Duncan arrived in the summertime, it created the strangest schism in your daily life. Duncan was a ray of light until he came face to face with you. You could see the veil of disdain drape over his face. You couldn’t pinpoint why he disliked you so, and you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

The little ones crowded around him immediately. It almost made you want to laugh, the sheer difference in size between him and the children. He grinned down at them, and you stood in front of the lectern, one hand crossed over the other at your front, unsure of what to do with yourself.

“Hello, children,” He said warmly once they had quieted. He was trying to get them to settle, but his smile was wide. “Now, now, calm down, all of ye.”

A moment later, he seemed to register your presence off to the side. He gave you a bland side glance, and gave a non-committal nod. “Sister.”

“Father,” You greeted awkwardly, forcing a smile, “Have you come to hear the children?”

“Aye, I have.” He gestured at the front of the room, where you had a lectern set up in front of a wall. “Will they be singing again this Sunday?”

“Yes, they will.” You turned to the little ones, smiling. “Alright, everyone, back to the front. Let’s show Father Duncan what you’ve been working on.”

After wrangling them, you turned the page on the lectern, and led them in song. They sang him two of the hymns you had been working on, and did lovely doing it. Children singing was often sweet, but could sound out of tune. You had known from the beginning that they could do well if they just worked hard, and your encouragement paid off well. It did you no good to be boastful, but there was an undeniable swell in your chest as they sang Be Thou My Vision to the priest, and their sweet voices mixed in the harmony you had arranged with them. It brought a smile to your face as you led them in song.

Duncan stayed through the rest of rehearsal. He sat in a chair in the corner, beaming at the boys and girls and brooding at you any time he had the displeasure of having to interact with him. You were used to this. The first few months, it had taken everything in you to not flinch at his rude demeanor. You had spent countless nights agonizing over why he might not enjoy your presence when he seemed to enjoy everyone else’s. He was from Cork, you’d learned. He’d never been to Sligo—there was no way he knew you or your family before either of you had arrived. There was no slight you could have identified prior to his arrival, and his distrust had been apparent since the first moment you met. 

He was a mystery. A tall, soft-spoken, hateful mystery.

Now, you took it in stride. If one strike thee on thy right cheek, turn to him also the other, Christ had insisted. And so you did, even if the wrongdoing came from a man of the cloth. You included Father Duncan in your prayers, just as you included Father Lyonel and all the members of the parish. You prayed for his deliverance and salvation at night and remained cordial during the day. It was all you could do to be a good Catholic.

 So you pushed his glowering to the back of your mind, choosing instead to beam at the children of the choir and offer firm but gentle correction. 

All the while, Thomas Fossoway remained withdrawn. You tried to get him to join into the occasional laughter in between bouts of singing, but he didn’t want to meet your eyes. He acted this way until choir was over. Some of the children walked home by themselves, some walked with their friends, and some were picked up by doting mothers. Thomas was a part of the last group, and Rowan grabbed him by the hand with a haste that could either mean she had much to do at home or that she did not wish to speak with you or Duncan. You chose to believe it was the former, and made a mental note to mention their family specifically in your prayers that night.

“They sound lovely.” 

You turned, eyes wide. Duncan had crossed the room. Closer, but still keeping a distance from you. You managed a nod, acknowledging his compliment. 

“They’ve worked hard,” You said, “I only guided them along.”

He pursed his lip. “Guidance is a funny thing. It walks a fine line between the gentle and the harsh, wouldn’t you think?”

You blinked. “I do not push the children further than they can handle, Father. They’re only little, but I know they can accomplish something that will make them proud of their hard work.”

He stared at you like he didn’t believe you. After a beat, he stood up straight, towering over you more than he already was. “Do you remember Colossians? Chapter three, verses twenty-three to twenty five?”

You thought for a moment, before nodding. “Whatsoever you do, do it from the heart, as to the Lord, and not to men: Knowing that you shall receive of the Lord the reward of inheritance. Serve ye the Lord Christ…” You paused, trying to remember the rest of the passage. “F-for he that doth wrong, shall receive for that which he hath done wrongfully: and there is no respect of persons with God.”

He nodded in turn. “Do not promote pride to the children, Sister,” He huffed, “It does not serve them well.”

Frowning, you opened your mouth, hoping to retort. He was gone before you could, slipping past you and out the door. He left you alone, incensed at the accusation. There was a difference in pride in one’s self versus the efforts of hard work paying off, you wanted to say. Moreso when it involved serving Christ. How could he not see that was what you were doing?

A frustrated sigh left your lips, leaving the room. Your fingers twitched, and against your better judgment, you reached for the box in the pocket of your tunic as you walked toward an empty hallway. You would ask for forgiveness later, you thought bitterly, grabbing one of the cigarettes and holding it between your lips. 

The smoke filled your lungs as you inhaled and danced around you as you exhaled. The dimly lit hallway felt a little less lonely as you imagined a friend within its coils. Present, listening.

“God is listening,” You mumbled to yourself.

Much to your dismay, you had a fleeting thought—is he really?

Dé Domhnaigh. Sunday.

It started after the evening mass. 

The weather had been the same all week. Hazy. Wet. Nippy. 

The evening mass had been uneventful. Father Lyonel’s sermon was well received. The children of the choir sang well. You and Father Duncan handed out the Eucharist to those who approached. After the service, wives approached you to ask for prayers for their children and husbands. You complimented the mothers of your little choir members, and made small talk about their schools, their homes, parish events.

Thomas Fossoway kept a wide berth, holding his youngest sister in his arms. His mother and father were at the altar for the Virgin Mary, deep in prayer.

From across the chapel, you could see him speaking with other members of the congregation, shaking hands, trying his best to make conversation. He had the nervous smile of a man trying to figure out how best to pet a dog he had just met.

“What do you think of him?” The mother smiled, looking back at him. “You’d not expect someone that big to be so gentle, like.”

Forcing a smile—though not too hard—you attempted an air of agreement. “I’m sure he is, but I’ve not gotten the chance to know him well enough just yet. We’ve both been busy, is all.”

That’s only a half truth, you thought, he hates me.

The woman, now shifting back and forth in an attempt to shush the fussing child in her arms, beamed. The woman next to her kept her green eyes trained on the tall priest. “Busy with studying, then? You must be so excited to finally take your vows.”

At this, your smile turned genuine. “I’m counting down the days until January.” 

Finally, the other woman seemed to return to the conversation. She looked back at you, but when she spoke, she gave no indication she cared about what had just been mentioned.

“Is he something of a night owl, Sister?” She asked. Your smile disappeared as the topic returned to Father Duncan. You tilted your head, furrowing your brow.

“As far as I know, no, but I don’t typically see him after we’ve cleaned up after mass,” You explained, “Then it’s time for me to compline and go to bed. Why, Mrs. Connelly?”

She shook her head. “David said that when he was walking home from work last week, he saw someone who looked like Father Duncan out for a walk in the wee hours. He wasn’t sure whether it was really him or not, but David said he was rather tall, like. I was just wondering why he’d be out so late.”

Your eyes flickered towards Duncan, who was waving off some parishioners as they walked towards the door. The crowd was beginning to dwindle—likely off to supper or to prepare the children for bed. You frowned, looking back at Mrs. Connelly.

“There’s not many as tall as he, but I don’t think he’d just up and leave the rectory. Could it have been someone else he saw?”

Mrs. Connelly nodded, eyes narrow in a manner that indicated she didn’t fully believe you. “Maybe... Well, Sister, I must be off. David has the children waiting over there and they’ve got school in the morning. Have a good night, and God bless you.”

“God be with you, Mrs. Connelly,” You bade drily as she began to walk away.

The rest of the crowd shuffled out of the chapel, and soon it was just you and the two priests. You exchanged pleasantries, complimenting Lyonel’s sermon, and him thanking you both for your help.

You smiled in return, before pointing towards some chairs that needed readjusting. “Of course. Now, should we—“

The door to the parish opened, the sound echoing across the now empty space. Both of you looked up to see a familiar man making his way down towards the altar. His face was somber and almost bewildered.

“Fathers. Sister. I’m sorry for the interruption.”

You shook your head. “No worries, Mr. Fossoway. Did you forget so—“

Raymun Fossoway waved his hands dismissively, before turning to Lyonel. “No. Father, I need a blessing performed in my home.”

A blessing. Not uncommon. But not typically requested with such an urgency that it shifted the air around you all. Certainly not when you knew Raymun and his wife had been in the same home since their eldest son had been born nine years ago. You recalled Thomas’s behavior and looked at Lyonel, who contemplated the combination of Raymun’s demeanor and request. Duncan cleared his throat awkwardly.

“…Of course, Raymun,” Father Lyonel finally declared, albeit reluctantly, “I can pass by tomorrow when—“

“No,” Raymun sounded more insistent now. The fear in his eyes shone like that of a cornered animal. “Now, Father. Please.”

“Is everything alright, Mr. Fossoway?” You interjected. “Are Rowan and the baby—“

“My wife and the child are fine as can be, under the circumstances, Sister,” Raymun interrupted, “It’s the house. Something… There’s something in it.”

“Some… thing?” Duncan asked. Raymun nodded, eyes verging on frantic. 

“I don’t know what it is. I couldn’t tell you. Rowan—she didn’t believe me at first. But we’ve all since resorted to sleeping in the baby’s room. It’s the one room where it doesn’t follow.”

Unease rippled through the now empty church. You placed your hand in your tunic pocket, reaching for the rosary beads placed inside. Duncan clenched his jaw, and Lyonel frowned. 

“You believe it to be a spirit?” Lyonel asked, looking between the three of you. “When did it begin?”

Lyonel’s hands squeezed into fists at his sides. He shook his head. “A few weeks ago. The boys went playing in the woods as they always do when their chores are done. They came back in tears. S-said something spoke to them. Rowan thought it was all nonsense, just the children’s imagination acting up.”

“And then?” You asked. His face darkened in the candlelight. 

“Things started moving to where they shouldn’t be. The children started waking up, saying something was in their room. Then… Then I heard it. A voice, in the walls. Saying all sorts of hideous things. Things I can’t be saying here, in the Lord’s house. And then Rowan heard it. We haven’t seen it. But we know it’s there. Waiting. Getting ready.”

The air in the church felt colder now, and you held back a shiver. You chose to bless yourself instead, making the sign of the cross with one hand, gripping your rosary in the other.

The three of you, still at the foot of the altar, exchanged a look. A moment later, Lyonel spoke. His tone left no room for argument.

“Sister Y/N, would you be so kind as to fetch a brown calfskin leather bag from my office in the rectory. It should be in the second drawer of the desk. Father Duncan… let us say a prayer with the Fossoways, and all of us will return to his home to perform the blessing.”

The Fossoway house was at the end of a cobblestone path, a modest home just big enough for a family of newly six. Rowan had given birth to the youngest almost two months ago, and had been members of the parish since before their oldest was born. The entirety of the family led you back to their home, Rowan holding hands with Rupert, her second youngest, while bouncing baby Kerry on her hip. The other two walked hand in hand, neither of them meeting your eyes. 

From outside, the house looked normal. Abigail O’Carroll was not entirely wrong when she told Thomas Fossoway that he lived in a rickety old shack. The house was old, and beginning to ever so slightly lean to the left. For six, it was cramped. Three boys to a bedroom where they slept on the floor. The nursery. Rowan and Raymun’s room. A small kitchen with a fireplace and a small dining table. 

The moment you crossed the threshold, it felt as if someone breathed dread into you. It settled over you like an exhale, blanketing your being in a manner more suffocating than comforting. Perhaps it was how convinced Raymun seemed to be, how he seemed to cower back behind Lyonel and Duncan, and how the children seemed to cower behind him and Rowan. You stood at Lyonel’s side, peering around the house, now dark as night fell. The darkness surrounding you immediately registered to you as different. You were not one to entertain the idea of spirits or ghouls, but everything about tonight felt fundamentally wrong. 

As soon as the sensation rolled down your spine, you felt your body lock up. This was some deep animal instinct, something primal, that was causing your limbs to stiffen and telling you to run the other way. Out of the corner of his eye, Duncan visibly tensed. Lyonel crossed himself, but his posture remained 

“Boys.” Lyonel’s voice was dangerously quiet. “What did you do—that day in the forest?”

The three of them were silent. Rowan scowled. “Tell him. Tell Father Lyonel what you told me, boys.”

Thomas’s lip wobbled. James seemed to curl in on himself. Sworn to silence, it seemed. It was little Rupert who cracked first. The youngest of the boys, only 5. He got very quiet, before saying, “Someone spoke to us. We didn’t see him, but he asked if we wanted to play a game.”

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath. Lyonel sighed. “Mary, Mother of God. And you said yes?”

“We wanted to play. He said he would chase us. And he did, and it was fun. But now it’s not fun no more. He didn’t stop chasing.”

Lyonel made a soft noise of disgust. His lip curled a little. “Oh,” he tutted, “Oh, I hated that. Never do that again.”

Rupert nodded, eyes welling with tears. Rowan growled at Thomas and James. “Boys.”

They nodded in agreement, and mumbled similar promises. They seemed as ashamed as they did afraid. You remained silent the entire time, trying to keep your breathing steady. 

“Sister Y/N,” Lyonel murmured, turning to you, “Stay here with the family. Pray a rosary with them. Duncan and I will bless each room in the house.”

He and Duncan parted, heading for the boys’ bedroom. You sat with the Fossoways at their dinner table, at Rowan’s left. The moment you pulled out your rosary from your tunic pocket, the darkness seemed to deepen. If any of them noticed, they didn’t say anything, and neither did you. Why would you? They were terrified enough. You would not fill their heads with more dread, would not hand them more fabric to cut their nightmares from. You wanted so badly to believe there was nothing there. 

So you would believe it, you resolved. The boys had overactive imaginations. What child didn’t imagine monsters under the bed? Rowan and Raymun were likely tired. Kerry was two months old, and they had three other rambunctious children to look after. This had to be part of the reasoning behind it. Never mind the creeping darkness. Yes. Yes, this was the work of vivid childish nightmares and parental exhaustion. 

You licked your lips, throat feeling dry. “I… Close your eyes. Let us pray.”

The sign of the cross. An Apostles’ Creed. Three Hail Marys. You let your eyes fall shut, leading the family in prayer. This was a familiar ritual of yours. The only difference was that tonight, you were sitting at the Fossoways’ dining room instead of in your little room in the rectory. Instead of silence, you could hear the family praying along with you. At your side, Rowan’s breathing was a bit loud. You were not alone in your prayer tonight, joined by this little family and their soft prayers. 

An Our Father. You began the First Mystery. Ten Hail Marys. Rowan’s breathing grew louder. Your eyes remained closed. A Glory Be. The Second Mystery. You could hear Duncan and Lyonel in the room right over, murmuring prayers as they blessed its corners with holy water. God and Christ to protect the members of the family. Children of God, lambs led by their shepherd. Ten Hail Marys. A Glory Be. You kept the rhythm, words flying from your lips like second nature. You certainly couldn’t tell Rowan her breathing was too loud right in the middle of your prayers.

And then her breathing grew closer. The Third Mystery. Ten more Hail Marys. Duncan and Lyonel shuffled into the next room in the distance. The devil was not welcome in this home. Not now, not ever. Your grip over the rosary beads tightened, face scrunching as you tried to pray this darkness away. Your shoulders had risen up to your ears since you’d started. Why was Rowan breathing so loud? A Glory Be. Why did it feel like she was leaning closer to you?

The Fourth Mystery. You could not take it anymore. You opened your eyes, ready to shift away from her. You began your first Hail Mary. Your eyes landed on her copper hair. 

She had not moved, glued to the chair next to you. Her eyes were closed, lips pursed in preparation to follow you. The breathing against your cheek did not stop. The prayer died in your throat, eyes widening, and your fingers went cold. 

Silence. Other than the breathing. You looked to the left. Christ, those heaving puffs of air that came from no one at all, but still landed on your cheek, hot and insistent. Rowan’s brow furrowed, and her eyes cracked open. 

She looked at you, saw the horrified expression on your face. Immediately, she looked behind her, wondering if you were seeing something behind her. When she saw nothing, she looked back at you, looking gravely concerned. You shook your head desperately, before looking down. You began praying again. It was all you could do.

You forced yourself through the Fourth Mystery. Whatever it was, it trained its breath on the apple of your cheek, wet, hot, rancid. Beads squeezed between your fingers in one hand, blunt bitten fingernails digging into the palm of the other. This could not be happening. Whatever hysteria had taken the Fossoways, it had now taken hold of you too. Burning. Heating your cheeks while the rest of you was ice cold. Somewhere, in another one of the rooms, you could hear Duncan and Lyonel.

You finished the final Glory Be as the breath moved from your cheek to the back of your neck. Never touching, never landing. Always hovering close enough to disturb and disrupt. You took a shaky breath as you began your fifth and final stretch of Hail Marys, and realized that whatever it was, it was not touching you because of your prayer. These beads, the strength of your savior, was what was keeping it at bay. And when the two priests entered this room, simultaneously blessing the room as you continued leading the Fossoways, the breathing got lighter.

The unease began to fade, unlocking your shoulders and knuckles. Hearing Lyonel and Duncan nearby and knowing you were near the end of your prayer had you settling back into your body. The air no longer felt heavy or oppressive. When you finished the prayer and you opened your eyes, the darkness did not seem as foreboding. The candlelight seemed to stretch further, and your body fully relaxed. 

All of you, Duncan and Lyonel included, did one final sign of the cross to close out the prayer. Then, Duncan and Lyonel went around the table, blessing each member of the family.

“Please let us know if anything changes,” Duncan said softly, “We’re happy to come back.” 

Raymun gave a sigh of relief, leaning back in his chair. The dark circles under his eyes were much more prominent in this light. He gave Duncan a hopeful smile. “Thank you, Father. We’ll let you know.”

“I must say,” Lyonel added, “I didn’t feel anything. The house felt a bit dark, yes, but I didn’t… I felt no presence here.”

“Have you dealt with these presences before, Father?” Rowan asked, a current of skepticism beneath her curiosity. Lyonel tilted his head back and forth, seemingly unsure of how to answer. He licked his lips, before giving the woman an earnest look.

“When I was sent to Rome,” he began, “I witnessed the exorcism of a young woman. I did not participate. But I learned things about Christ and Satan that week that I would not have learned in any ordinary seminary. Things I will not explain now, when your family is this… vulnerable. But I did not feel those things here tonight. And our work here tonight will hopefully expel anything that remains.”

She didn’t respond, but her features eased ever so slightly. You wondered how much of it she believed. You did not know how much of it you believed. At his side, Duncan said nothing. His eyes were trained downwards, brows creased. He seemed deep in thought, mulling Lyonel’s words over. Then, he asked Lyonel to speak privately. 

Lyonel turned to look at you and Duncan. “Wait for me outside,” he said, “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

You bade the family goodnight, offering Thomas a hopeful smile as you exited. You weren’t sure who needed it more, him or yourself. He didn’t smile back. 

The two of you waited in mostly silence. The wind was strong enough to whip at the mantle draped over your head. You were glad you’d left the box of cigarettes under your pillow in your room. You’d have gone through two the second you stepped out and started on a third, nerves still whipping around your chest. You were staring straight ahead, past the Fossoways’ gate and towards the path that had led you here. Lost in thought, you didn’t notice Duncan staring at you.

Lyonel had several years of clerical training ahead of you. He had trained in the finest seminaries in Rome, and by virtue of his being a man, was permitted to participate in spiritual exercises you would have been barred from otherwise. If Lyonel had felt nothing in the house… 

You swallowed the lump in your throat. The human mind was fickle, especially when afraid. It could have been anything.

“...Are you alright?”

Slowly, you turned to look at him. He was looking at you with the same hardness in his ocean-colored eyes, but the usual downward curl in his brow was absent. You would almost call the expression indifference. Asking only because he had to. Not because he cared. You pressed your lips together, before offering a small smile. 

“Fine, thank you. Just a bit hard to see the whole family affected so.”

He nodded once. He looked back at the house, then back at you. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “I did not know Father Lyonel was so… versed in these kinds of matters.”

You hummed, trying to remember what he had said. “It was a very brief time when he was in Rome, or so he’s told me. I believe they offered him an exorcism apprenticeship, but he said no.”

Duncan blinked. “It’s a highly selective path. Why would he say no?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

He said nothing. You kept your silence until he broke it again. “He didn’t feel anything.”

You nodded. “I… I trust his word,” You mumbled, looking at a patch of grass next to your feet. Duncan hummed non-committally. The mantle blocked your view as you looked down. You didn’t see him open his mouth, before gritting his teeth. 

Finally, he closed his mouth. He frowned, putting his hands on his hips. “Aye. As do I.”

 Lyonel and Raymun came out a few minutes later. “I cannot thank you enough for what the three of you have done tonight. Even if you felt nothing, Father Lyonel. Your prayers are reassurance enough.”

“Sometimes, prayer is the biggest shield,” Lyonel told him. 

The walk back to the rectory was quiet. You walked behind them, trying to silently talk yourself down from the unease. When Duncan tried to speak, Lyonel cut in.

“Let us discuss this tomorrow, Father Duncan,” He said, “After tonight, we could all do with some prayer and peace.”

His decision did little to soothe you.

When you returned to your room, you took off your mantle and your habit. You undid your hair, which you had tied up to be out of the way this morning. The tension releasing from your scalp brought a sigh from your lips, shoulders finally dropping. You hadn’t realized how drained you were.

You bathed, then brushed out your hair. When you said your prayers, you took extra care to include each member of the Fossoway family by name in your intentions. Raymun. Rowan. Thomas. James. Rupert. Baby Kerry. You prayed for their safety and salvation. You prayed for their peace and protection. It wasn’t until after you had finished, and gotten under the covers, that you realized you had forgotten to include yourself.

Maybe that was why it came to you.

When sleep finally found you, something came to you in a dream. You could not say what it was. Perhaps it was something you had carried back to this room. Perhaps it existed deep within you long before tonight. It could have even been both. 

Whatever it was, wherever it came from, the memory would be gone by morning. What would remain was the sensation, the ache, the emptiness a drunk feels when deprived of the bottle. It had black, bloodied talons that scratched at your breasts and left indents in your thighs. White, spiky hair. Wicked violet eyes. A long, silky, forked tongue that reminded you of the snake’s in the Garden of Eden, pulling Eve towards perdition. One that lapped at your tears before it coiled around your own, muffling your pleas for more. 

And a voice. A voice soft and smooth on one side, that so quickly turned jagged and cutting as your eyes rolled back into your head. That growled from behind grinning, too-sharp teeth, words that had been whispered against your skin at the Fossoway house. You had heard them then, jumbled amongst prayer, but only understood them now, tangled together as he placed them at the base of your throat:

Let me in. 

You want me.

Let me in. 

I want you.

On the floor above yours, in a room down the hall from Lyonel, Duncan also dreamed. But he did not dream of sins of the flesh, brought on by something born of hellfire. No. That would come later, though he had no manner of knowing it now.

Duncan dreamed of a boy.

A little boy in the woods, peering from behind a tree trunk. Draped in a scratchy, olive colored tunic, with pale eyes and no hair. He looked afraid as Duncan approached. As if Duncan would reprimand him, or worse. A look Duncan had worn at this boy’s age, once. He felt his chest ache at the sight. 

After what he had endured, he had vowed never to lay hands on anyone. Duncan raised his hands, and knelt a few feet from the tree. It seemed to be dusk. The woods were covered in fog, and tinged in a pale, blue light that evoked early mornings.

“You have nothing to fear from me, lad.”

The boy shook his head, shrinking into himself. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. As if he were worried he would wake someone. “It’s not you I fear, sir.”

Duncan froze. “Who, then?”

“He’s here.”

“Who’s here?”

The forest darkened. The boy’s eyes widened. 

The last thing he said before fading in front of Duncan’s eyes, before the darkness swallowed the forest, before swallowing Duncan himself, made the hair on Duncan’s neck stand straight up.

“Evil is afoot.”

thank you for reading, i hope you liked it!!! if you'd like to be included in future updates for this fic, pls let me know <3 please note: i will not tag you if you are a blank/ageless blog.