The moment Lucien's fist connected—
Something cracked.
Not bone.
Not flesh.
Something hollow.
Ella's face twisted under the impact, the skin splitting—not with blood, but with something wrong beneath it. The surface peeled back in thin layers, like paint stripped from old wood.
For a second, she still looked human.
Then that illusion broke.
Underneath—
Gray.
Lifeless.
Cold.
Like something that had never been alive to begin with.
Jamie froze where he stood, his mind struggling to keep up with what he was seeing. His chest rose sharply, breath catching halfway as reality shifted again—harder this time, more brutal.
"…She's—"
He couldn't even finish it.
Because Lucien didn't stop.
Another punch followed. Then another.
Each one landed clean. Heavy. Controlled.
The sound echoed through the room—dull, solid, wrong. The floor beneath them cracked slightly from the force, thin fractures spreading outward like spiderwebs.
Jamie stared.
This wasn't what he expected.
Not even close.
Exorcisms—at least the kind people talked about—were supposed to look different. Holy water. Prayers. Crosses. Rituals.
Not this.
Not someone standing there, beating a ghost's vessel into the ground like it was nothing.
"What the hell…" Jamie whispered under his breath.
Lucien didn't answer.
Didn't slow down either.
His movements were steady, deliberate. There was no anger in them, no wasted force—just precision. Like he understood exactly what he was hitting.
And why it worked.
Because this wasn't just physical.
Something else moved with every strike.
Something that went deeper.
The thing wearing Ella's body tried to rise—once, twice—but each time it barely got halfway before Lucien forced it back down. No struggle lasted more than a second.
It wasn't a fight.
It was suppression.
And slowly—
The resistance weakened.
The face beneath the broken skin collapsed further, structure distorting as if whatever held it together was starting to fail.
Then—
It stopped trying.
For a brief moment, everything went still.
Too still.
Lucien's eyes narrowed slightly.
He shifted his stance just a fraction—
And the body moved.
Not naturally.
Not like something standing up.
It slid.
Sideways.
Fast.
So fast it almost blurred.
Lucien's next strike missed by inches.
The figure twisted unnaturally, limbs bending at angles they shouldn't, and in the next second—
It was gone.
The window exploded outward.
Glass shattered into the night.
By the time the sound caught up—
The body was already outside.
Running.
—
Across the street, inside a parked car—
The Walker couple sat frozen.
They hadn't dared leave.
Not after what they had heard.
At first, there had been silence.
Complete, unnatural silence.
Then—
A scream.
Sharp.
Inhuman.
It cut through everything, leaving behind something worse than fear—something deeper, something that settled into their bones.
And after that—
Impact after impact.
Heavy.
Relentless.
Like distant thunder that never stopped.
Mrs. Walker gripped the edge of her seat, her fingers white. "We should go," she whispered, but her voice didn't carry any strength.
Mr. Walker didn't move.
He had already shifted into the driver's seat earlier, keys ready, engine just one turn away from life.
But he hadn't started it.
Not yet.
Because something told him—
Running too early might be worse.
Then—
The second-floor window shattered.
Both of them flinched.
A figure dropped from above, hitting the ground hard enough to make a dull crack.
It didn't stay down.
It got up immediately.
One arm hung at an unnatural angle, broken completely—but it didn't react. Didn't slow down.
It just ran.
Fast.
Too fast.
The clouds above shifted, and for a brief second, moonlight broke through.
That was enough.
Enough for them to see its face.
Or what was left of it.
Mrs. Walker's breath caught in her throat.
"Oh my God…"
The features were destroyed—twisted, broken—but beneath that wasn't just flesh.
There was wood.
Fragments of structure.
Something built.
Something made.
Mr. Walker didn't say a word.
He couldn't.
Because there was only one name that fit.
And he didn't dare speak it.
Not here.
Not now.
The two of them sat in silence as the figure disappeared into the dark—
And a single thought settled in both their minds at the same time.
That man—
Lucien—
Had forced that thing to run.
—
Upstairs, Lucien stepped toward the broken window and looked down.
His expression didn't change.
He didn't chase.
Not immediately.
Behind him, Jamie pushed himself up from the floor, his breathing uneven—but his eyes had changed.
The shock was still there.
But something else had replaced the hesitation.
Clarity.
"Lucien."
His voice was steadier now.
"You're going after it… right?"
Lucien didn't answer right away.
Jamie stepped closer, fists tightening.
"Take me with you."
There was no hesitation this time.
No doubt.
Just anger.
And something heavier behind it.
Everything clicked now.
His father.
His wife.
And something he hadn't realized until just moments ago—
"…She was pregnant," Jamie said quietly.
The words landed hard.
Lucien glanced at him briefly.
"She wasn't part of the bloodline," Jamie continued, his voice tightening. "There was no reason—no reason for her to be targeted unless—"
He stopped.
Didn't need to finish it.
The answer was obvious.
His hands trembled once—
Then steadied.
"I've got nothing left," he said.
No dramatics.
No shouting.
Just truth.
"So yeah," he looked up again, eyes locked forward, "I'm coming."
Lucien studied him for a second.
Then nodded.
"Fine."
No argument.
No warning.
Just acceptance.
Jamie exhaled once, sharp and controlled. "When do we move?"
Lucien turned away from the window, already heading for the stairs.
"Not yet."
Jamie frowned slightly but followed.
"Mary Shaw doesn't appear randomly," Lucien said as they moved. "She needs anchors. Mediums."
"Those dolls…" Jamie muttered.
"Exactly."
They stepped outside, the cold air hitting immediately.
Lucien continued calmly, "There are only a few places left in this town where she can manifest now."
"The graveyard," Jamie said instantly.
Lucien shook his head. "Already checked."
Jamie blinked. "What?"
"Empty," Lucien replied. "Every grave. Every coffin."
That stopped him.
"All of them?"
"All."
A pause.
Then realization hit.
"…Ella."
"She dug them up," Lucien confirmed. "Or something using her did."
Jamie ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. "That's over a hundred graves…"
"And now all those dolls are in one place."
Lucien stopped walking.
Jamie looked at him.
"Where?" he asked.
Lucien's eyes lifted slightly toward the distance.
"The theater," he said.
"The one by the lake."
Jamie's expression tightened.
Mary Shaw's old stage.
Her origin.
Of course.
"That's where this ends," Lucien added.
No hesitation.
No uncertainty.
Jamie nodded slowly.
"Then let's go."
Lucien glanced at him.
"First, you're getting something."
Jamie straightened slightly. "What?"
Lucien's tone didn't change.
"Gasoline."
Jamie blinked.
"…What?"
"For the dolls," Lucien said simply.
Silence.
Jamie stared at him, trying to process that.
"No holy water? No… ritual? Nothing like that?"
Lucien looked at him.
Flat.
Unimpressed.
"Do you want them gone or not?"
"…I do."
"Then get the gasoline."
Jamie opened his mouth—
Closed it—
Then shook his head quickly. "Right. Yeah. Got it."
No more questions.
He turned and jogged off immediately.
Lucien watched him go for a second.
Then—
Headlights appeared.
A car pulled up near the house.
The door opened.
And a familiar figure stepped out, shotgun in hand.
The detective.
Lucien didn't look surprised.
Just slightly… annoyed.
"…You again," he muttered.
The detective shut the car door and walked forward, eyes sharp, scanning the scene.
"This time," he said, "you're explaining everything."
Lucien didn't answer.
He just stood there.
Waiting.
Because whatever came next—
Was going to be louder than words.