The night was cold. The streets were quieter than they’d ever been. Claire and David walked side by side, though neither of them spoke. The weight of their mission was too heavy for words.
They didn’t know where they were going. But they knew they had to find the place—the place where the ritual started.
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Claire could feel the pull, like the air was charged with static. Something was coming.
And they were out of time.
They found the abandoned church on the outskirts of the city. It was old—cracked stained glass, a heavy wooden door, vines creeping up the walls like fingers.
“This is it,” David whispered, his voice trembling.
Claire nodded, her stomach a pit of dread.
They pushed the door open, stepping into the dark interior. The air was thick with dust, and the silence was suffocating.
Then they heard it.
A whisper.
It was the figure’s voice.
Claire’s heart slammed in her chest.
The voice echoed, but not from a single direction. It was everywhere. It was in the walls. It was in her mind.
“Don’t run,” it whispered.
And just like that, they knew.
There was no running. Not anymore.
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