They visited more churches after that, dragging hope behind them like a broken lantern. Each priest welcomed them with warm smiles, offered hollow reassurances, and saw nothing wrong. They looked into the boy's eyes and found no darkness. No echoes of the storm.
But the family knew better. They had seen what priests could not.
And each time they left a church empty-handed, the hope inside them dimmed a little more.
By the time they returned home, the silence between them was heavier than any prayer. The boy said nothing as he walked toward his room. James, hands trembling, reached out to stop him.
"Wait," he said softly, as though speaking too loud might shatter the moment.
The boy turned slowly. His face was calm—too calm. "It's alright, Dad."
He opened the door to his room.
Blood still painted the hallway floor between his door and the bathroom in dark, rusted streaks. The trail had dried, staining the wood like something burned into it.
But inside his room, everything was worse.
The mirror stood shattered like a wounded eye, glass teeth glittering in the dim light.
The floor was dark and sticky. The walls wore smudges of old panic.
The air carried the stench of fear that hadn't faded, no matter how long they'd been gone.
James instinctively stepped forward.
"You can't stay in here. Come back with me—"
But the boy raised his hand and made a slow motion through the air.
In an instant, the room changed.
The blood vanished.
The mirror reassembled, its fractures sealing like wounds reversing time.
The air cleared.
Everything became… normal.
Unnaturally normal.
The hallway behind them still reeked of death.
The trail of dried blood remained, leading to the bathroom like a wound the house itself had suffered.
But his room—his space—was pristine.
"Do you see," the boy whispered, "what I've become?"
James stood there, stunned. "We'll fix everything," he said, but the words tasted hollow in his mouth. "Together."
The boy gave him a faint smile. But it wasn't real. It was the memory of something that used to be alive. Then he stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a quiet finality.
When James returned to the living room, Olivia was waiting. Her arms were crossed, her face tight with fury.
"You left him alone again?" she asked. "After everything?"
"I tried talking to him," James replied. "He—he changed the room, Olivia. He waved his hand and it was like it never happened."
"And that's exactly why he shouldn't be alone!"
Their voices didn't rise beyond a tense whisper, but the fear underneath was deafening.
Alex sat nearby, silent. He hadn't said much since the incident. But now he spoke up, his voice low and uncertain.
"He's not… the same. He's still Angelo, but… he's different now." He hesitated. "When I see him, I don't know if I'm looking at my brother or something else."
James looked at his eldest son, searching for reassurance. "Do you think he'd hurt us?"
"I don't know," Alex said honestly.
Before anyone could say more, the doorbell rang.
Alex went to answer it.
A woman stood in the doorway.
She looked ordinary at first glance—long dark coat, worn boots, a messenger bag slung over one shoulder—but there was something off about her. She stood too still, like a photograph held in place. Her tired eyes scanned past Alex, past the walls, like she could see through the house and beyond.
"I need to see your son," she said.
James stepped into view. "Who are you?"
"My name is Sophia Hawthorne," she answered calmly. "I can help him. But only if you let me in."
He paused. "How do you even know about him?"
Sophia didn't answer.
She didn't mention the call she had received from Father Aldric the day before. He had spoken with urgency, his voice low and shaken.
"Go to them," he had said. "The boy is not what he seems… but he may still be saved."
"I don't expect you to trust me," she said. "But you let me in, or you lose him."
James hesitated. The weight of everything they'd seen, everything they feared—it all pressed down on his shoulders like stone. And yet, in her voice, he heard no doubt. Just certainty.
He stepped aside.
The moment Sophia entered the house, something shifted. The lights dimmed slightly. The air thickened, heavy with a presence unseen.
Sophia's breath hitched. "There's something in this house," she said, quiet but firm. "Something watching."
Olivia left the room and returned moments later, holding Angelo's hand.
He stepped into the living room.
Sophia froze.
It wasn't what she saw—it was what she felt.
The pressure. The cold. The weight of something vast and ancient stirring behind the boy's eyes. Her heart skipped a beat.
Alex stiffened beside his parents. "He doesn't feel like my brother anymore," he whispered.
James placed a hand on his shoulder. "He's still ours."
Olivia nodded silently, her grip on Angelo never faltering.
Sophia stepped forward, her voice softer now. "Angelo."
He looked at her—truly looked at her. And for a brief moment, she felt it. The presence inside him turning its gaze on her.
Her hands trembled, but she didn't flinch.