That night, when James returned home — his tie loosened, fatigue lining his face — Olivia was already waiting for him.
She told him everything that had happened: the cut, the screaming, the mark on Angelo's back, and the wound that healed before their eyes.
James's eyes widened. "Where is he now?"
"In his room," Olivia replied softly. "You should talk to him. He looked… shaken."
James nodded and walked down the hallway toward Angelo's door. But as he drew closer, he heard a voice from inside — Angelo's voice, shouting:
"Die, die, die!"
James froze. His pulse quickened.
What's going on? Why is he shouting that?
He crept closer. The door wasn't fully closed; a sliver of light spilled through the gap. Then came another sound — laughter. Angelo's laughter.
James took a shaky breath and pushed the door open.
Inside, Angelo was sitting on his bed, playing a game on Alex's phone. Alex was beside him, teaching him how to play properly.
James exhaled and facepalmed. "He was just playing games," he muttered under his breath.
Both Angelo and Alex looked up. The game paused.
"What's wrong, Dad?" Alex asked.
Angelo tilted his head. "You're sweating a lot. Did you run home or something?"
James wiped his forehead and said, "Your mom told me what happened. Are you alright now?"
Angelo dramatically patted himself down and threw a thumbs-up. "I'm A-OK."
Alex rolled his eyes and smacked the back of his head. "Stop pretending to be fine."
"Hey!" James scolded. "Why'd you hit him?"
"Because he's faking it," Alex said bluntly. "He doesn't want anyone to worry about him."
James's expression softened. He stepped closer and asked quietly, "Is that true?"
Angelo didn't answer. His head hung low.
"You don't have to worry about causing trouble for us," James said gently. "No matter what happens, we'll stay with you. Always. Now, tell me — how are you really feeling?"
Angelo's hands clenched at his sides. His voice trembled as he spoke.
"It hurt so much," he whispered. "I thought… I'd die. And leave you all behind."
Tears rolled down his cheeks.
James and Alex pulled him into a hug. James whispered, "We won't let anything happen to you. We'll always protect you."
They held him close until his shaking eased. James eventually stepped back and said, "Can you show me the mark?"
Angelo nodded, wiping his eyes. Alex hesitated but moved aside. Angelo turned his back and lifted his shirt.
The mark sat between his shoulder blades — jagged, twisting symbols burned into his skin. James leaned in, inspecting it closely. The surface felt smooth, no bumps or burns.
"Can I see it?" Angelo asked. "Alex won't let me."
Alex shook his head quickly, silently pleading for his father not to show him.
But James ignored it. "Hold on," he said, taking out his phone. "I'll take a photo."
He snapped a picture and showed it to Angelo.
Angelo stared at the image for a long while, studying every line. "This looks like… an unfinished magic circle."
James frowned. "A what?"
"A magic circle. Like the ones in fantasy shows."
Alex crossed his arms. "Whatever it is, I don't like it."
Angelo nodded. "Yeah. Me neither."
James sighed. "Tomorrow, I'll take the day off. We'll see a doctor."
Angelo nodded again, though he already felt it — doctors wouldn't have the answers he needed.
The next day, James kept his word. He took Angelo to the hospital. They ran every test, examined his right palm, the mark on his back — but found nothing wrong.
The doctor pulled James aside and spoke in a low voice. "Mr. Walker, I know you told us to keep this confidential… but if you truly want to understand what's happening to your son, we may need to inform the higher-ups."
James's eyes hardened. "Can you guarantee they won't treat my son like a lab rat?"
The doctor hesitated, adjusting his glasses. "… I can't guarantee that."
"Then you keep everything you know to yourself," James said coldly.
The doctor nodded. "Understood."
James turned to leave when the doctor spoke again. "One more thing. You might find this strange, but… you should see a priest."
James paused mid-step. "A priest?"
"Yes," the doctor said, scribbling something on a notepad. "His name is Father Aldric. He's not an ordinary priest — and he might actually be able to help your boy."
James took the paper and nodded.
Later that day, he drove to the address with Olivia and Angelo. Alex stayed home to look after Emma.
As the car disappeared down the quiet road, a low wind brushed against the trees — as if something unseen was watching, waiting.
That evening, James, Olivia, and Angelo reached the address the doctor had given them. It was an old church on the edge of Silverton Town, where the asphalt faded into gravel and the air smelled faintly of damp stone.
As they stepped out of the car, James frowned. "All these years living in this town, and I never knew there was another church here."
Angelo glanced at the cracked walls and crooked cross. "Is this place even safe?"
Olivia looked at him, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"I saw on TV," Angelo replied seriously, "that people who live in places like this are either the real deal… or criminals lying low."
Olivia shuddered. "Don't say things like that."
James gave a small chuckle. "Don't worry. I'll protect the two of you."
They walked to the heavy wooden doors and knocked. After a moment, the door creaked open, revealing a young boy in plain clothes.
"Are you here to meet Father Aldric?" the boy asked.
"Yes," James said. "Is he here?"
The boy nodded. "Please, have a seat. I'll tell Father you've arrived."
He disappeared down the dim corridor. The Walkers sat on the old pews, the air thick with incense and dust.
Angelo sniffed, wrinkling his nose. "This place looks—and smells—shady."
James blinked. "I get that it looks shady, but how do you 'smell' shady?"
Angelo smirked. "I heard a character say it on TV. Sounded cool, didn't it?"
James gave a silent nod of approval, but Olivia sighed. "Don't say things like that about a church."
"Okay, okay. I won't."
Just then, Father Aldric entered. He was in his sixties, hair gone gray, but his posture was still firm.
"Please," he said gently, "tell me how I can help."
They explained everything — the screaming, the cut, the healing, the mark. Aldric listened in silence, hands folded behind his back. When they finished, he asked, "Is it possible for me to see the mark?"
Angelo crossed his arms. "Nope. Not taking my clothes off for a stranger."
Olivia whispered sharply, "What are you doing? Show the Father your back."
"No way," Angelo muttered. "What if he's a pedo? I'm not taking that risk."
Olivia froze. "You watch too much TV. Nothing wrong will happen."
"Famous last words," he said, deadpan.
Her patience cracked. "Show the Father your back!"
"No."
Their whispered argument dragged long enough that James finally stepped in. "Excuse me, Father. Give me a moment."
Aldric nodded. James turned to them and sighed. "What's going on?"
Olivia pointed. "He's refusing to show his back."
Angelo raised a hand. "What if he's a pedo? No thanks."
James facepalmed. "You really need to watch less TV." He let out a breath. "Fine. You don't have to strip. I still have the picture."
Angelo grinned. "You're a lifesaver, Dad."
James handed the phone to Aldric. "He's shy. Will this work?"
Aldric adjusted his glasses and examined the mark carefully. The black pattern glowed faintly in the photo's flash. "Yes," he murmured. "This will do."
He studied it for a long moment. Then, with a slow exhale, he handed the phone back. "I'm afraid I don't recognize this symbol. But…" His voice lowered. "I believe it may be a stigmata. A mark of God. Your boy has been chosen."
Olivia's breath caught. James's eyes softened with awe. But Angelo… wasn't sure whether to be relieved or terrified. The mark didn't feel divine. Yet, when he saw the joy on their faces, he forced a smile.
From the other room, the young boy overheard everything.
Before leaving, James offered a donation, and Aldric clasped his hands. "Keep him safe," he said quietly.
"We will, Father," James promised.
The Walkers drove home with lighter hearts. But they weren't the only ones carrying news. The boy from the church whispered what he'd heard—to friends, to strangers, to anyone who would listen.
By morning, everyone in Silverton Town knew about the boy with the mark of God.
That day, James left early for work. When Alex opened the front door for school, he froze.
The yard was full.
People crowded the street—some holding gifts, others bringing sick relatives, some simply watching.
"Mom!" he shouted. "Why are there so many people outside?"
Olivia hurried to the door, frowning. "What are you—"
Then she saw.
The crowd whispered and pointed.
They said the boy was blessed. That his presence kept the monsters away. That God had chosen him to protect their town.
Olivia slammed the door and locked it. "Use the back door, Alex," she said, pulling the curtains shut. "Go to class. Don't tell anyone anything."
"What about Angelo?"
"He's staying home. I don't want him anywhere near them."
Alex obeyed and slipped out the back.
Angelo came downstairs moments later, backpack slung over his shoulder. "I'm late—wait, what's going on?"
Olivia took the bag from him. "You're not going to school today. I'll tell them you're sick."
He blinked, confused—but when she smiled, he grinned back. "Alright! No complaints here."
Hours passed. Boredom set in. He played with Emma, watched TV, even studied a bit. But curiosity gnawed at him.
When Olivia wasn't watching, he cracked the front door open—and froze.
A crowd. Dozens of faces.
And when they saw him, they knew.
"There! It's him!"
"The chosen boy!"
"Bless us!"
They reached toward him—some threw money, some wept, some begged for miracles.
Angelo's heart pounded. He slammed the door and stumbled back, chest tight. The house felt too small, their voices pressing against the walls. He bolted through the kitchen, out the back door, and into the forest.
The forest was still. Too still.
No birdsong. No wind. Just the soft creak of branches shifting above him.
He walked deeper, trying to breathe. To think.
Then—motion. A rabbit darted across his path, chased by a coyote. The rabbit froze behind his leg, trembling. The coyote snarled, eyes locking on Angelo instead.
He raised his arms instinctively. "Back off."
The coyote lunged at Angelo, knocking him to the ground. Its teeth sank deep into his left arm.
He screamed, shoving the beast away with all his strength. Blood gushed from the wound—then sealed shut before his eyes. The pain faded, but the blood stayed, warm and real against his skin.
"What the hell…"
The coyote snarled and sprang again, clamping down on the same arm. Angelo screamed louder this time, vision blurring as pain flooded every nerve. His breath came in sharp gasps; the world tilted. Desperation took over.
He swung his right fist—blindly, instinctively.
It connected—and kept going. His hand tore through fur and flesh like it wasn't there. He felt everything—the heat, the slickness, the bones giving way beneath his knuckles.
Then silence.
The weight of the coyote slumped over him, lifeless. Blood spilled down his arm, soaking through his clothes, painting the ground red.
Angelo shoved the body aside and staggered to his feet. His hands trembled, dripping. His heart pounded so hard it hurt.
He stared at the blood, at what he'd done—then panic took hold.
He turned and ran.
Branches whipped his face. Roots tore at his legs. His breath came ragged. He wasn't running from the forest—he was running from himself.
Then—crunch.
He looked down.
The rabbit. Tiny. Still.
Flattened beneath his heel.
He staggered back, horror rising like bile.
He didn't scream. He couldn't.
By the time he reached home, he was shaking. Blood on his hands, on his shirt. Olivia turned at the sound of the back door—and froze.
For a heartbeat, she couldn't move. Then instinct broke through. She ran to him.
"Sweetheart?" she whispered.
He flinched when she reached out.
"What happened to you?"
He didn't answer. Just stood there, silent and small, staring at the floor.
Then she stepped forward—and pulled him into her arms. Tight. Trembling.
Blood smeared across her clothes. She didn't care.
And that was it. The dam broke. Angelo collapsed, sobbing into her shoulder, voice cracking as he told her everything—the forest, the coyote, the healing, the strength, the rabbit.
Her hands shook but never left him. She didn't scream. Didn't recoil.
"It's alright," she whispered into his hair. "I'm here. No matter what you are or become, you're still my son, and always will be."
She held him until the sobs faded. Then guided him to the bathroom, helped him undress, and turned on the warm water.
The shower ran for a long time, washing away the blood—but not the fear.
When he stepped out, clean and quiet, fresh clothes waited on the sink.
So did she.
She had changed, but faint stains still clung beneath her nails. She hadn't tried to scrub it all away. She'd waited.
He crawled into bed, the weight of everything pressing down like lead.
"Will you stay?" he whispered.
She brushed his damp hair from his forehead and sat beside him. "For as long as you need."
That night, for the first time in a long time, there were no dreams.
No whispers.
Just silence—
and her hand, resting gently on his.