The air in the corridor was damp, every step they took echoed faintly as they moved deeper into the bowels of the mansion. The single lantern Modret carried swung gently, its light showing shadows across the walls.
Sammy, his frame hunched slightly, walked up beside the old butler. His voice had a deep accent to it.
"Modret," he said, his accent coloring the words, "you truly believe dis Messenger is real? A man sent by the goddess of night herself? You believe dat?"
Modret's eyes stayed fixed ahead, his voice steady though wearied by his age. "I believe in the Oracle. She has never lied to me. And if she says he is the goddess's Messenger, then I must believe."
Sammy scoffed, shaking his head. "Four years, my friend. Four long years of torment. Every time we hope for salvation, it is another trick by this spirit. What if dis Messenger is same? Another lie. Another trap from dat spirit."
He turned his head toward Paul, who walked behind them. Paul was a hulk of a man. He had thick brown beards that covered most of his face. He was tall and built like a tank.
"What you say, Paul?" Sammy asked.
Paul only gave a grunt and shrugged, his motion slow and unconcerned.
Sammy clicked his tongue sharply. "Useless. Always useless. You never help, eh?"
From the rear, Mara's soft voice broke in, quiet yet carrying in the silence. She was slight, her hands clasped in front of her like a shield. "He… he looked kind. Like a good man. We should… we should give him a chance."
Sammy whirled on her, eyes narrowing. "And dat is your problem, Mara. You trust too easy. Anyone smile at you, and you follow dem straight into the grave."
Mara flinched, her gaze falling to the floor.
They turned a corner and began to descend a narrow stairway, the air growing colder as the steps wound downward. Modret's lantern kept bobbing ahead.
From the middle of the group, Gregor's voice broke the uneasy quiet. "What if the spirit is here?" His tone was sharp, suspicious. His gaze cut toward Sammy. "What if it is among us right now?"
Sammy frowned. "What are you saying?"
Gregor stepped closer, his face harsh in the lantern glow. "You've been pointing fingers since we left the room. Quick to doubt. Quick to question the Messenger. That is exactly how a deceitful culprit would behave.Perhaps you are the spirit, and you want us to doubt the one person that can save us."
The words struck like a bell. The others slowed, unease rippling through the group. They moved as each gave a step of distance, their eyes narrowing in unison toward Sammy.
The man froze under the sudden scrutiny. His lips parted, but no words came at first. Then, forcing a laugh that rang hollow in the stairwell, he raised both hands up like he was surrendering. "Come on now, brothers, sister. You know me. It cannot be me. It is obvious."
But his laughter failed to ease their stares. Even Modret's expression had darkened, suspicion written in the lines of his weathered face. He had lived longer than any of them in the Duke's mansion. He had seen them all arrive. He had watched them suffer. Yet, even at this moment, he could not tell who from what.
"Tell me, Sammy," Modret said at last, his voice low but edged with command. "What is the worst soup you ever tasted? You hated it so much, you spat it out on the floor."
Sammy blinked, startled by the strange question. "Pumpkin," he said quickly. "I cannot stand pumpkin soup. Never could."
Modret narrowed his eyes, the lantern light flickering across his sharp features. Something in the answer gnawed at him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Mara's small, trembling voice cut in.
"Where… where is Loran?"
The group froze. Their heads turned, eyes searching the shadows. Loran had been there, quiet and meek, trailing at the back. Now, only blackness filled the space where he should have been.
Almost at once, the lantern burst in Modret's hands with a sharp crack. Glass and flame shattered outward. The corridor plunged into absolute darkness.
Screams tore through the air.
"Mara?" "Sammy?" "Where's—"
The frantic calls overlapped, rising to hysteria as shadows seemed to press in on every side. Footsteps scrambled against stone. Bodies collided. Fear fractured the group into chaos.
Then came the first scream of true agony.
Gregor.
It ripped down the hallway, ragged and raw, the sound of a man being torn apart. Wet tearing followed, meat against stone, and over it followed a laugh so wicked. The sound slithered through the dark, coiling into their ears.
Panic seized them. The survivors scattered, each soul running blind, driven by terror more than thought.
Mara fled. Her lungs burned as she sprinted, her hands clawing against stone walls for direction. Tears blurred her eyes, though there was nothing to see.
She was seventeen and had grown up in this castle. Her mother had been a maid here, long before the spirit arrived. A kind woman with tired eyes and calloused hands, she had taught Mara how to scrub floors until they shone, how to keep silver bright and beds tight.
She had promised her daughter life would hold more than stone walls and brooms. But that promise had died with her, her smile stolen by the very spirit that now hunted Mara through the dark.
Mara's sobs broke into sharp breaths. She pressed her hands to the wall, desperate for guidance, until her palm brushed wood. A door.
She threw herself inside and shut it with a muffled thud. She clapped a hand over her mouth, forcing herself to silence. Her own heartbeat thundered against her palm, so loud she feared it would give her away.
Then she heard it.
Movement outside. Slow. Uneven. A body dragging itself across the floor.
"Help," a voice rasped, broken and weak.
Her breath caught. She knew that voice. Sammy. His thick accent, usually so brash, now strained into desperation.
She shut her eyes tight. Should she go? What if he was the host? What if the spirit was baiting her through him?
"Mara…" The voice cracked, weaker now. "Is… is that you?"
Her chest heaved with a silent sob. Sammy's tone carried pain, not malice. Still, she hesitated, nails digging into her lips as she muffled her breathing.
"Please…" he begged.
She exhaled sharply. The decision broke her in two, but her hand gripped the latch, and she called through trembling lips, "Sammy?"
A ragged relief answered her. "Mara! It's me…"
She burst through the door, stumbling back into the corridor, her voice cracking. "Sammy! Where are you?"
"Here… here," his voice guided her through the suffocating dark.
Her hands stretched forward, groping until they collided with something solid. Warmth. Flesh.
She gasped. His body was slick, her fingers sliding against sticky wetness that clung to her skin. The smell hit her next. It smelled like iron.
"Sammy, you are hurt." She said, almost tearing up
"Dis is nothing," he muttered through clenched teeth, though his voice trembled. "We… we have to go back to da shrine. Not safe here."
"Who did this?" she asked, her voice breaking.
His breath shuddered against her ear. "Loran… he killed Gregor. Then, he chased me. He's da host now. I managed to get away."
Her stomach dropped.
Sammy sagged against her, his strength fading fast. She swallowed her fear, slipped his arm around her shoulders, and braced herself under his weight.
"Come on," she whispered, forcing steadiness she did not feel. "We'll make it."
Step by step, they stumbled forward through the dark, hoping to reach the shrine.