“The Chimney Oracle”

The cottage had an uncanny way of amplifying silence. Every creak of the floorboards or gust of wind outside seemed magnified, unsettling. That night, as Sam tucked Elliot into the small bed in his room, he couldn’t shake the boy’s earlier words.

“They said they’d be back tonight.”

It was likely nothing. A child’s imagination. Still, the memory of Elliot’s solemn expression stayed with him as he sat alone in the living room, nursing a mug of lukewarm coffee. The hearth seemed larger in the dim light of a single lamp, its blackened interior swallowing the glow.

Sam’s eyes lingered on it longer than he intended. It wasn’t just big—it was wrong. The stones didn’t fit together the way they should, and the soot stains formed vague, unsettling shapes, as if the chimney had been scorched from the inside by something alive.

He turned away, shaking his head. It was an old house, and old houses carried their history in odd ways.

The first whisper came just after midnight.

Sam was dozing on the couch when it reached him—a faint, lilting murmur that sent a shiver down his spine. His eyes snapped open, and he bolted upright. The sound was faint but unmistakable, drifting from the hearth like smoke curling into the air.

He edged closer, straining to catch the words. They were indistinct, layered like voices speaking over each other, but one phrase stood out clearly:

“We see you, Sam.”

He recoiled, nearly dropping his mug. His mind scrambled for explanations. The wind? A trick of acoustics in the chimney? But deep down, a gnawing certainty took hold.

He wasn’t imagining this.

* * * * * *

The next morning, Sam tried to put the incident behind him, convincing himself it was the result of exhaustion. Elliot, however, seemed energized in a way that left Sam uneasy.

“Did you sleep okay, buddy?” he asked over breakfast.

Elliot nodded, his expression distant. “They talked all night.”

Sam froze. “What do you mean?”

“They told me things,” Elliot said between bites of cereal. “About you. About her.”

Sam’s blood turned to ice. “Elliot, listen to me. There’s nothing in the fireplace. It’s just an old chimney. Sometimes the wind makes noises. That’s all it is.”

Elliot set his spoon down, his gaze locking onto Sam’s with unnerving calm. “It wasn’t the wind. They said you’d try to lie about it.”

The boy’s tone was so matter-of-fact that Sam had no response. He left the table, muttering about needing air, but the weight of Elliot’s words followed him.

By the third day, the whispers had grown louder, and Sam could no longer ignore them. He heard them not just at night but in the middle of the day, faint and insistent, like a distant conversation bleeding through the walls.

Elliot spent more and more time by the fireplace, his small form hunched on the floor. He claimed the whispers were telling him stories—secrets about the house, the village, and things far older than either.

Sam tried to distract him, suggesting walks in the woods or games of catch, but Elliot always returned to the hearth.

On the fifth night, Sam finally heard his name.

He was in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner, when the voice came clearly through the air:

“Sam.”

It wasn’t Elliot. It wasn’t even human. The voice was deep and resonant, with a strange, melodic quality that made the hair on Sam’s neck stand on end. He rushed into the living room to find Elliot sitting cross-legged in front of the fireplace, staring into its dark interior.

“Elliot!” Sam barked. “Get away from there!”

Elliot looked up, startled. “They weren’t talking to me this time,” he said quietly. “They want to talk to you now.”

Sam grabbed his son’s arm and pulled him away from the hearth, his voice trembling. “Enough of this. It’s over. We’re done listening to… whatever this is.”

Elliot didn’t protest but glanced back at the fireplace, his expression unreadable. “They’re not going to stop, Dad. They’re waiting for you.”

That night, Sam moved a heavy chair in front of the hearth and shoved pillows into its gaping mouth to block it off. Still, the whispers came.

“Sam.”

“We know your grief.”

“We can give her back.”

He pressed his hands to his ears, but the words only grew louder, carving into his mind like knives.

* * * * * *

The next morning, Sam woke to find Elliot sitting at the kitchen table, drawing. The picture in front of him made Sam’s stomach churn.

It was a crude but unsettlingly detailed sketch of a figure with long, spindly limbs and a head crowned with sharp, branching antlers. Its hollow eyes stared directly at the viewer, and its clawed hand pointed to the child in the corner of the drawing—an unmistakable representation of Elliot himself.

Sam snatched the paper from the table, crumpling it in his fists. “Where did you see this?”

Elliot shrugged. “I didn’t see it. They showed me.”

Sam’s hands trembled as he threw the drawing into the trash. The whispers were no longer just words. They were ideas, growing roots in his son’s mind.

He knew they had to leave the house.

But the whispers had other plans.

Part III

Sam stood before the fireplace late that evening, fists clenched at his sides. The cottage was silent, and Elliot had fallen asleep upstairs, but Sam doubted his rest was peaceful. The boy had taken to muttering in his sleep, his words unintelligible yet heavy with something that made Sam’s skin crawl.

He stared at the hearth, its jagged stones faintly illuminated by the dim glow of a single lamp. The darkness inside was deeper than it should have been, as if the chimney swallowed more than just smoke.

Sam’s voice cracked the silence. “What do you want?”

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, from deep within the chimney, the whispers coalesced into a single voice—low, melodic, and unnervingly calm.

“We want to help you, Sam.”

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to hold his ground. “Help me? By doing what? Terrorizing my son?”

The voice chuckled softly, the sound reverberating through the room like the echo of a distant storm. “Your son is not afraid. He listens because he understands.”

Sam’s chest tightened. “Understands what?”

A cold wind rushed down the chimney, extinguishing the lamp and plunging the room into darkness. The shadows seemed to shift, and when Sam’s eyes adjusted, he saw it: a figure emerging from the hearth.

It was tall and skeletal, with impossibly long limbs and skin stretched taut over jagged bones. Its antlers scraped against the top of the hearth as it stepped forward, its hollow eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.

Sam stumbled back. “What the hell are you?”

The creature tilted its head, its voice resonating with an unnatural harmony. “You already know, Sam. I am the answer to your grief. The end to your suffering.”

He shook his head. “Stay away from my son.”

The Horned Man’s grin widened, exposing teeth that were too many and too sharp. “We do not wish to harm the boy. We wish to offer you what you desire most.”

Sam froze.

“We can bring her back.”

The words cut through him like a blade, and for a moment, the room seemed to spin. The image of his wife, alive and smiling, filled his mind—her laughter, her warmth, the way she’d been the anchor for both him and Elliot. The ache of her absence surged to the forefront, raw and consuming.

“How?” he whispered.

The Horned Man’s voice softened, almost tender. “A life for a life. A simple trade. Your son will be cared for—loved—just as you were. In return, she will walk among you again, whole and untouched.”

Sam staggered back, shaking his head. “No. No, that’s insane. I could never—”

“Think, Sam,” the voice interrupted, its tone persuasive and honeyed. “She was your world. You’ve lost everything. Your son is young, resilient. He won’t even remember the pain. But you—without her, you are empty.”

The words struck a chord deep within him, dredging up feelings he’d tried to bury. The guilt he carried—the resentment that had festered in the months since the accident—surfaced like a dark tide.

Sam’s voice cracked. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

The Horned Man stepped closer, its hollow eyes locking onto his. “I know exactly what I am asking. The question is, do you? Is one life not worth the return of another?”

The room grew colder. Sam wanted to scream, to fight, to run—but he was rooted to the spot, the offer circling his mind like a vulture.

“Decide, Sam,” the Horned Man whispered. “But do not wait too long. The boy’s soul weakens with every passing night. If you will not act, we will.”

The figure retreated into the hearth, its form dissolving into shadows that swirled upward into the blackened chimney. The room fell silent again, but Sam’s thoughts were anything but.

* * * * * *

The next morning, Elliot barely ate. His skin was pale, his eyes sunken. He didn’t speak of the whispers, but Sam could tell they hadn’t stopped. The boy’s frail appearance only deepened Sam’s guilt.

That evening, as the sun set behind the pines, Sam made a decision. He packed a bag with essentials and loaded Elliot into the car.

“We’re leaving,” he told his son firmly. “I don’t care about the lease or the landlord. We’re getting out of here.”

But when he turned the key in the ignition, the car refused to start. He tried again, and again, but the engine wouldn’t turn over. The headlights flickered once and died, leaving them in eerie twilight.

Elliot’s voice was small. “They won’t let us go.”

Sam pounded the steering wheel in frustration before pulling Elliot out of the car. They walked back to the cottage in silence, the woods seeming darker than usual.

When they reached the front door, Sam stopped short. There, lying on the porch, was one of Elliot’s drawings.

It depicted the Horned Man standing over a small figure with antlers of its own. Beneath it, in Elliot’s neat handwriting, was a single word:

Choose.

Part IV

The days that followed were a blur of sleepless nights and growing paranoia. Sam couldn’t shake the Horned Man’s voice from his mind. It whispered constantly, not just from the fireplace but from the corners of the cottage, the shadows of the woods, even in his dreams.

Elliot grew weaker with each passing day. His once-bright eyes were dull, and his face was gaunt, as though the very life was being drained from him. He barely spoke now, but when he did, it was to repeat fragments of the Horned Man’s words.

“They’ll take me if you don’t.”

Sam tried everything to break the hold the entity seemed to have over them. He shoved heavy furniture against the fireplace, lit candles and incense to ward off whatever evil lingered there, and even called a priest from the next village over.

The priest’s visit lasted less than ten minutes. He entered the cottage, took one look at the hearth, and muttered a hasty prayer before retreating. “Leave this place,” he warned Sam, his face pale. “Some doors should not be opened.”

But leaving wasn’t an option. Every attempt to escape was thwarted. The car remained dead, and the villagers offered no help. They avoided Sam entirely now, their gazes averted whenever he passed.

One night, Sam awoke to the sound of Elliot crying out. He rushed to his son’s room to find the boy sitting upright in bed, his small body trembling.

“They were here,” Elliot whispered. “They touched me.”

Sam’s heart dropped. He knelt by the bed and pulled Elliot into his arms. “It’s okay, buddy. I’m here. They won’t hurt you.”

But even as he said the words, he didn’t believe them. He could feel something in the room—a presence, cold and malevolent, watching from the darkness.

The whispers returned that night, louder than ever. They echoed through the walls, the floor, the very air itself, a cacophony of voices all speaking at once. Sam clamped his hands over his ears, but it was no use.

The Horned Man’s voice rose above the rest, clear and commanding. “Time is running out, Sam. Choose, or the choice will be made for you.”

* * * * * *

By the next morning, Sam was on the verge of collapse. His body ached from exhaustion, and his mind felt stretched to its limit. He found Elliot sitting in the living room, staring into the fireplace again.

“Elliot, get away from there,” Sam snapped, pulling the boy to his feet.

“They’re angry,” Elliot said softly, his voice distant.

“I don’t care!” Sam shouted. “You’re not going near that thing again. Do you hear me?”

Elliot didn’t respond. He simply looked at his father with a blank expression, as though the boy Sam knew was already gone.

That evening, Sam discovered a journal tucked away in a drawer in the attic. The leather cover was cracked and brittle, and the pages were yellowed with age. The entries were written in a shaky hand, detailing the life of the previous tenant—a man named Caleb Morris.

Caleb wrote of hearing voices from the chimney and seeing a figure with antlers in his dreams. He described how the whispers promised him wealth and power in exchange for a single act of sacrifice. When Caleb refused, the entity turned its attention to his daughter, slowly draining her life until she was little more than a shell.

The final entry was short:

I tried to leave, but it wouldn’t let us go. She’s gone now, and I’m next. If you find this, God help you.

Sam slammed the journal shut, his hands trembling. The Horned Man wasn’t just a figment of his imagination. It was real, and it had been here long before him.

* * * * * *

That night, Sam sat alone in the darkened living room, staring at the fireplace. His mind raced with conflicting thoughts—anger, fear, desperation.

The whispers began again, softer this time, almost soothing.

“You can end this, Sam. One life for another. It’s so simple.”

Sam clenched his fists. “Why? Why do you want him?”

The Horned Man’s voice was calm, almost pitying. “He is pure, untainted by the burdens of this world. A gift of such innocence is rare, and we honor those who give it.”

Sam’s throat tightened. “And if I refuse?”

The fire flared to life, though Sam had not lit it. The flames danced wildly, casting twisted shadows on the walls.

“Then the boy will suffer,” the Horned Man said, its voice cold and final. “And you will suffer more.”

Sam stared into the flames, the heat searing his face. He thought of Elliot’s pale, fragile body, his wide eyes pleading for protection. He thought of his wife—her laughter, her warmth, her absence that had left a void he could never fill.

The fire flickered, and for a brief moment, Sam saw her face in the flames. She was smiling, her hand reaching out to him.

“We could be together again,” the whispers promised. “All you have to do is choose.”

Part V

Sam paced the living room, his every step pounding against the floor like a hammer driving nails into his resolve. The Horned Man’s offer echoed in his mind, the words weaving their way into his thoughts, tangling with his grief.

Elliot was upstairs, fast asleep—or so Sam hoped. The boy’s face had been pale and sunken earlier, his small frame trembling like a leaf in a storm. Whatever presence was feeding on him, Sam could feel its grip tightening.

“I won’t let you take him,” he said aloud, his voice hoarse.

“You already have,” the voice replied, smooth and calm, as though it had been waiting for him to speak.

Sam spun toward the hearth, his fists clenched. “Show yourself!”

The fire surged, illuminating the room in an unnatural glow. The Horned Man stepped from the flames, its antlers brushing the ceiling, its hollow eyes glowing faintly.

“You are out of time, Sam,” it said, its voice low and resonant. “You have brought him here. You have opened the door. Now, you must decide.”

Sam backed away, shaking his head. “There has to be another way. Anything but this.”

The Horned Man tilted its head, almost as if considering his plea. “Another way? There is only the truth, Sam. You have always known it. One life for another.”

The flames flickered, and within them, Sam saw a vision: his wife standing in the doorway of their old home, her arms outstretched, her smile warm and inviting. His knees buckled at the sight, a sob rising unbidden from his throat.

“She is waiting for you,” the Horned Man said, stepping closer. “You can have her back. A family whole once more. All it takes is a single choice.”

Sam’s mind swirled with anguish. He thought of Elliot’s laugh, the way his tiny hand fit into his own. He thought of the nights spent rocking the boy to sleep after the accident, promising him that they’d make it through somehow. Promises he now seemed powerless to keep.

The fire flared brighter, casting Elliot’s face into the flames. The boy’s lips moved, but the words were wrong—a mimicry of Elliot’s voice, distorted and warped.

“Dad,” the voice said, desperate and pleading. “Save me.”

Sam pressed his hands to his ears, shaking his head violently. “Stop it!”

The Horned Man laughed, a sound like branches snapping in a winter storm. “You cannot hide from the truth, Sam. It has already claimed you. Accept it, and all your suffering will end.”

“Why him?” Sam asked, his voice breaking. “Why my son?”

The Horned Man crouched low, its hollow eyes meeting Sam’s. “Because you brought him here. Because you knew, deep down, that this place would demand something from you. All gifts require sacrifice, Sam. You chose this path the moment you arrived.”

Upstairs, a crash jolted Sam from his despair. He bolted up the stairs, the Horned Man’s laughter echoing behind him.

Elliot’s room was in chaos. The window was open, the curtains flapping wildly in the cold wind. Elliot was on the floor, his small body curled into a ball.

“Elliot!” Sam dropped to his knees, pulling the boy into his arms.

“They’re taking me,” Elliot whispered, his voice faint. “Please… don’t let them.”

Sam’s vision blurred with tears. He held Elliot tightly, his mind racing. There had to be another way. He couldn’t lose him—not like this.

But the Horned Man’s voice filled the room, cutting through Sam’s thoughts. “It is time, Sam. Choose, or the choice will be made for you.”

Sam carried Elliot downstairs, his body trembling with rage and desperation. He placed the boy gently on the couch, turning to face the hearth.

“I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll take his place.”

The fire roared, the flames leaping higher. The Horned Man emerged once more, its grin wide and toothy. “A noble offer. But will it be enough?”

Sam didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, the heat of the flames scorching his skin. “Take me. Leave him alone.”

The Horned Man inclined its head. “Very well.”

The fire consumed him instantly, but there was no pain. Instead, Sam felt an overwhelming sense of weightlessness, as though he were drifting in a vast, endless void. Images of Elliot flashed before him—his laugh, his smile, the way he clung to Sam’s hand on the worst nights.

Then came the memories of his wife. Her voice, her touch, the way she filled every corner of his heart.

Sam reached for her, but she faded, her form dissolving into shadow.

* * * * * *

Elliot woke to find the cottage silent. The hearth was cold, the fire extinguished. His father was gone.

The boy climbed to his feet, his body still weak but lighter, as though a great weight had been lifted. He didn’t remember everything, but he knew one thing for certain.

His father had saved him.

Part VI

Years later, Elliot Rivers still dreamed of the cottage. The visions came unbidden, dredging up fragments of a past he rarely spoke about. He could never recall the finer details—the way the hearth’s black maw seemed to watch him, or the exact words whispered by the voice in the chimney—and still the memory of those nights clung to him.

Elliot had tried to move on. He lived in a modest apartment in the city, far from any forest or lonely village. He worked a quiet job in a bookstore, avoiding small talk and deflecting questions about his childhood. When people asked about his parents, he kept the answers vague. “They’re gone,” he would say, and that would usually be enough.

On stormy nights, though, when the rain lashed against his windows and the wind howled through the narrow streets, Elliot would light a single candle and sit by the window. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was a habit carried over from those endless nights in Briarglen. Maybe it was something deeper, something he couldn’t quite name.

* * * * * *

It was on one of these nights that the knock came.

It was faint at first, blending with the rhythm of the rain. Elliot almost ignored it, but when it came again—louder, more insistent—he set down his book and went to the door.

A man stood on the threshold, his coat soaked and his face obscured by the shadows of the flickering hallway light. He held a small, worn leather notebook in his hand.

“Elliot Rivers?” the man asked, his voice hesitant.

Elliot stiffened. “Who’s asking?”

“My name’s David,” the man said. “I don’t mean to intrude, but… I think you might know something about this.” He held up the notebook.

Elliot recognized it instantly. The leather cover, cracked and brittle with age. The faint smell of soot. His hands trembled as he reached for it.

“Where did you find this?” he asked.

David hesitated. “I… I moved into a cottage a few years back. In a village called Briarglen. Found this in a drawer in the attic.”

Elliot’s stomach turned. He tried to hand the notebook back, but David didn’t take it.

“There’s something wrong with that place,” David continued, his voice tinged with unease. “The fireplace… the whispers… they’re getting louder. And the drawings—” He broke off, his expression pained.

“I can’t help you,” Elliot said quickly, stepping back.

David reached out, desperate. “Please. I don’t know what to do. My daughter—she’s starting to talk about… something with horns.”

The words struck like a thunderclap. Elliot closed his eyes, his mind racing with memories he’d tried to bury. His father’s face, pale and lined with exhaustion. The Horned Man’s voice, low and commanding.

“I’m sorry,” Elliot said, his voice shaking. “But I can’t go back there.”

David nodded slowly, his shoulders slumping. He turned to leave, but paused at the threshold. “If you think of anything… anything at all…” He didn’t finish the sentence, instead vanishing into the rain.

Elliot closed the door, locking it behind him. He leaned against it, the notebook clutched tightly in his hands.

He didn’t open it. He couldn’t.

That night, the dreams came again. The Horned Man’s hollow eyes stared at him from the darkness, and the whispers coiled around his mind like smoke. When Elliot woke, his face was wet with tears, and the candle by the window had burned down to nothing.

He knew, deep down, that the cottage would never truly let him go.

Part VII

Elliot couldn’t sleep. The rain hammered against the window, filling his apartment with the steady rhythm of unease. The notebook David had left sat on the table across the room, unopened. Its presence seemed to darken the space around it, a subtle but undeniable pull on Elliot’s thoughts.

He’d told himself he wouldn’t look. That whatever horrors lurked within those brittle pages were not his problem anymore. He had escaped. He had survived.

But the image of David’s face—the desperation in his voice—kept intruding. Worse still were the memories the man’s words had dragged to the surface: the whispers, the shadows, the suffocating grip of the Horned Man’s gaze.

Finally, as the clock struck midnight, Elliot gave in. He crossed the room, hesitated for a moment, then flipped the notebook open.

The first entries were mundane, written in neat, methodical handwriting. David described his move to Briarglen, how he thought the cottage would be a peaceful retreat for his young family. But as the entries continued, the tone shifted.

The whispers started last week. At first, I thought it was the wind through the chimney. Now I’m not so sure.

Elliot’s hands trembled as he read further. The details mirrored his own childhood experiences—David’s daughter hearing voices, seeing shapes in the firelight, and drawing antlered figures that seemed to watch her.

The final entries were frantic, the writing jagged and uneven.

It’s growing stronger. The fire doesn’t go out anymore. I tried to leave, but the car won’t start. It’s feeding on her, just like it did before. I think… I think it’s the same one.

Elliot slammed the notebook shut.

“The same one.”

The words echoed in his mind, a terrible realization dawning. The Horned Man hadn’t stopped after his father’s sacrifice. It had simply waited—for another family, another child.

Elliot clenched his fists. For years, he had buried the guilt, telling himself he was powerless to stop what had happened. But this—this was different. If he did nothing, David’s daughter would suffer the same fate he had narrowly escaped.

He couldn’t let that happen.

* * * * * *

The drive to Briarglen was long and grueling. Elliot hadn’t been back to the village since his childhood, and the memories of the forest-lined roads brought a tightness to his chest. He gripped the steering wheel, forcing himself to focus.

The village was even smaller than he remembered, the streets deserted, the houses leaning into each other like tired old men. Elliot parked near the center of town and stepped out, the cool night air biting at his skin.

As he walked toward the cottage, he noticed something strange. The forest seemed to have grown closer, its trees leaning over the village as if watching. The air smelled faintly of smoke, though no fires burned.

When he reached David’s cottage, the windows were dark. The door hung ajar, creaking softly in the wind.

“David?” Elliot called, stepping inside.

The house was silent. Dust motes floated in the beam of his flashlight, and the air was heavy with the scent of ash. The living room was empty, save for a scattering of toys and a single piece of paper lying on the floor.

Elliot picked it up. It was a child’s drawing, crude but unmistakable: a figure with spindly limbs and branching antlers standing over a small girl.

The walls seemed to close in. Elliot’s pulse quickened as he backed out of the house.

The cottage that had been his childhood home loomed at the edge of the village, its crooked chimney silhouetted against the dark sky. Elliot hesitated at the gate, his feet rooted to the ground.

He had spent years convincing himself that place was behind him. Now, standing in its shadow, he realized it had never truly let him go.

With a deep breath, he pushed the gate open and stepped inside. The house was exactly as he remembered it: the sagging roof, the ivy-covered walls, and the massive, yawning fireplace that seemed to dominate the room.

The whispers began immediately.

“Elliot.”

He froze, the sound sending a shiver down his spine. The voice was soft, almost soothing, but its familiarity was like a knife twisting in his gut.

“We’ve been waiting for you.”

Elliot gritted his teeth. “I’m not here to bargain. I’m here to end this.”

The fireplace roared to life—and the Horned Man stepped from the hearth, its antlers brushing the ceiling, its hollow eyes glowing faintly.

“You cannot end what you do not understand,” it said, its voice calm and commanding.

Elliot took a step forward, clutching the iron poker he’d brought from his car. “Then teach me.”

Part VIII

The Horned Man tilted its antlered head, its hollow eyes fixed on Elliot. The flames behind it flared, illuminating its grotesque, skeletal frame. Smoke curled lazily from its body, as though it were made of the very fire it commanded.

“You’ve grown, Elliot,” it said, its voice low and melodic. “But you’ve not outgrown fear.”

Elliot’s grip on the iron poker tightened, his knuckles white. “I’m not afraid of you anymore.”

The Horned Man chuckled, a sound like brittle branches snapping. “Oh, but you are. I can taste it. Fear lingers, even when you bury it deep. You reek of guilt, of anger… and of loss.”

Elliot stepped closer to the fireplace, forcing himself to hold the creature’s gaze. “I’m not here to play your games. I know what you’ve done—to me, to my father, to everyone who’s ever lived in this cursed place. It ends tonight.”

The creature’s grin widened, exposing rows of jagged teeth. “You think you can stop me? This house is mine. This village is mine. I have lived in the hearths of men for centuries, and not one of you has succeeded in breaking my chains. What makes you think you’re any different?”

Elliot raised the poker, pointing it at the Horned Man. “Because I don’t care what happens to me. As long as I take you with me.”

The Horned Man moved with impossible speed, its elongated limbs carrying it across the room in an instant. Elliot barely had time to swing the poker before the creature’s clawed hand lashed out, striking him across the chest. He stumbled backward, the air knocked from his lungs.

The creature loomed over him, its voice a low growl. “Brave words. But bravery alone will not save you.”

Elliot scrambled to his feet, using the poker to steady himself. The journal had mentioned the Horned Man’s physical form was tied to the hearth—if he could disrupt the connection, it might weaken the entity.

He darted to the fireplace, grabbing the salt-filled jars he’d prepared earlier. The Horned Man laughed, its hollow eyes narrowing. “Salt? Iron? Do you think I am some simple spirit to be warded off like a ghost?”

Elliot ignored the taunt, smashing one of the jars into the flames. The salt sizzled and sparked, and the fire dimmed slightly. The creature let out a low hiss, recoiling for a brief moment before regaining its composure.

“You’ve learned nothing,” it spat, advancing again.

Elliot ducked as the Horned Man’s claws swiped toward him, the force of the attack splintering the wooden beam behind him. He threw another jar of salt into the hearth, this time chanting the words scrawled in the journal.

The flames sputtered, and the creature let out an anguished roar, its form flickering like a dying candle. For the first time, Elliot saw something beneath the smoke and shadow—a figure, frail and human, bound in chains that snaked into the heart of the fire.

“Dad?” Elliot whispered, his voice breaking.

The Horned Man straightened, its antlers scraping the ceiling. “Foolish boy,” it snarled, its voice trembling with rage. “Do you think he can save you? He gave himself to me willingly. His sacrifice is eternal.”

Elliot’s chest tightened. “No. He didn’t give himself to you. You took him. Just like you’ve taken everyone else.”

The creature lunged, but Elliot was ready this time. He thrust the poker into the hearth, stirring the flames violently. Sparks erupted, and the house seemed to groan as if in pain.

“You cannot destroy me!” the Horned Man bellowed, its voice shaking the walls.

Elliot gritted his teeth, his hands blistering from the heat. “Maybe not. But I can bury you.”

The house trembled as Elliot grabbed the kerosene canister from his bag. He splashed the liquid across the walls, the floor, and finally into the hearth itself. The Horned Man lashed out, but its movements were sluggish now, its form flickering and unstable.

“You think fire will save you?” it hissed, its voice dripping with venom.

Elliot lit a match, his eyes locked on the creature. “No. But it’ll save them.”

He threw the match into the hearth. The kerosene ignited instantly, the flames roaring to life and engulfing the room. The Horned Man screamed, its body writhing as the fire consumed it.

The floorboards buckled beneath Elliot’s feet, and he stumbled toward the door, coughing as smoke filled his lungs. He turned back once, just in time to see the creature collapse into the flames, its antlers shattering like glass.

Outside, Elliot collapsed onto the grass, gasping for air. The cottage burned behind him, the fire illuminating the forest in an eerie orange glow.

For a moment, he thought he heard his father’s voice again—soft, almost indistinct.

“Thank you, son.”

Elliot closed his eyes, tears streaming down his face as the fire roared into the night.

Part IX