The air inside Cynthia’s house was thick with silence after Liam left. She pressed her palm to the window and watched his battered Honda fade into the dusk, headlights flickering through the skeletal branches of the oak tree. The world outside looked untouched, calm—no sign of the phantom pressure building just beneath reality. Cynthia let out a slow breath, her reflection wavering in the glass. She could almost pretend life was normal, just for a moment.
A sharp, electric chill crept down her spine, slicing through the illusion. Cynthia’s heart beat faster. The room grew colder. The familiar ache started behind her eyes, a sensation like falling into an icy lake, and with it—whispers. Faint, at first, overlapping like wind through dry grass. Her mother’s voice floated near, singing the old lullaby, but it was overlain by something guttural, something wrong. The air around her began to ripple, the light warping until colors bled into shadow. She turned slowly, scanning the room. The spirits could never quite hide from her, even when they tried.
Thelma manifested first, outlined in a soft, silvery glow. Her mother’s face was tender and anxious, eyes darting over Cynthia’s shoulders. "Honey, you have to listen now. It’s starting. You need—"
But Cynthia’s attention was wrenched away as the temperature dropped again. The walls shuddered. The lights flickered in rapid, frantic Morse. In the corner by the old grandfather clock, a second presence shimmered into being—a tall native man, his braids impossibly neat, his eyes sharp with warning. Many Horses stepped forward, his voice grave and deep. “Do not answer. Do not open the door.”
Even as he spoke, a heavy knock sounded. It reverberated through the house, not just through wood and air, but through Cynthia herself—the kind of knock that felt like a fist in her chest. She reeled backward, pulse thrumming loud enough to drown out all but the most desperate, urgent spirits.
The knocking came again. Relentless. A pause, then a scraping sound, as though claws dragged across the paint. The room filled with the scent of burnt cedar and sulfur. Cynthia clamped her jaw shut to keep from screaming. She dragged her consciousness up, up, above the terror, reaching for the strange well of power inside her, forcing herself to stand her ground.
From the darkness between the kitchen and the foyer, another figure appeared. Zeke, her father—silent, always, with a smile soft and distant. He said nothing, just inclined his head toward the door. Cynthia searched his eyes for meaning, but they reflected only calm acceptance, as if everything that came next was as inevitable as sunrise.
It was not the first time something from the Veil reached for her in the flesh, but this was different. Malevolence radiated through the door in oily, pulsing waves. Thelma hovered close, her hands moving frantically, trying to shield her daughter with arms of light. Many Horses raised a hand, chanting words in a language older than memory. Cynthia’s vision doubled; she could see her living room and, overlaid, a ruined plain scorched by unnatural fire. In that wasteland, a shadow took shape—tall, twisted, crowned with horns.
Astaroth.
He was here.
Cynthia’s hands curled into fists. She could feel the lion inside her, restless, prowling below her skin. Her breath came in ragged bursts, but she stood between her spirits, fixing her gaze on the door as the third, final knock rattled the whole house. The knob began to turn—slowly, deliberately, as if daring her to act.
Glass in the windows shivered. The lights guttered and died. In the suffocating darkness, Cynthia heard Astaroth’s voice—silken, cruel—curl through the crack beneath the door: "Come now, little prophet. Let’s see what you’re made of."
A wild, impossible heat rose in Cynthia’s chest. Her gift demanded to be unleashed, every instinct in her body screaming to run, to fight, or to call for help—but what she chose next would change everything.