“The Last Evocation”

Part I

The farmhouse was quiet before the screaming started.

It had been a dry summer, and the wooden beams groaned with every shift of the wind, dust and the scent of old, rotting wood lingering in the air. August Dewalt listened carefully, adjusting the weight of the EVP recorder in his grip. His daughter, Leslie, stood near the boarded-up doorway, her posture rigid, her fingertips grazing the splintered frame.

She wasn’t hearing what he was hearing.

“Something’s wrong,” she said, her voice nearly lost beneath the static hum of their equipment. “We need to leave.”

August could barely conceal his frustration. He motioned for Christian to check the readings, but his son remained unmoving, his features a mask of quiet dread.

August knew that look.

“It’s not what we thought,” Christian murmured. “I think this thing—” He hesitated, as if weighing his words. “—it’s not just a poltergeist.”

Leslie’s expression darkened. “We need to go.”

August had heard enough. He had spent four decades chasing shadows, pulling whispers from dark places, unraveling the unseen like threads from a frayed quilt. They had encountered entities that could throw objects, scratch skin, and whisper threats in the night. They had faced worse than this.

He pressed on, walking through the narrow hallway toward the farthest room, the one that had drawn them here. The tenant—long since fled—had described things moving on their own, guttural voices coming from the walls, the sense of being watched even in an empty room. But August had felt it the moment he stepped onto the property. It had been waiting for him.

And now it was here.

A cold ripple passed through the house, bending the candlelight, and in the corner of his eye, August saw something move.

Leslie gasped, and August turned just as she was lifted off her feet. Her body snapped backward, arms yanked to her sides, fingers curling, jerking, her mouth opening in a silent scream. Her eyes, wide and unseeing, reflected nothing but black.

Christian was already moving. “Let her go!” he shouted, running toward her, but August knew—with absolute certainty—that the moment had already passed.

Leslie convulsed, back arching, her head snapping to the side so violently it should have broken her neck.

And then the sound came—a wretched, hollow laugh. It poured from Leslie’s mouth in wet, stuttering fragments, a voice that did not belong to her.

August reached for his talisman, hoping to break the hold, but Leslie’s feet hit the ground before he could react. Her body swayed, knees barely supporting her, and when Christian caught her, he collapsed beneath her weight, dragging them both to the floor.

August moved forward, but Christian lifted a shaking hand. “Stay back,” he whispered.

Leslie’s body twitched once, and then fell still.

“She’s not waking up!” Christian said, panic rising in his voice.

August knelt beside her, pressing two fingers to her throat. She had a pulse, but something was wrong. Her expression was vacant, lips parted slightly, her hands curled inward like she was grasping at something unseen.

Christian pulled her closer, shaking his head in disbelief. “What did you do!?” he demanded, his voice raw.

The air around them was changing. The temperature had dropped so sharply that condensation formed on the wooden beams. August had seen this before—the entity was still here.

The rest of the team had already fled—he could hear their hurried footsteps on the porch, the engine of their van sputtering to life. Cowards.

But the thing inside the house wasn’t done with them yet. Every lightbulb in the room burst simultaneously, showering them in fragments of glass, and the laughter returned, warping into something far more sinister than before. This time, it didn’t emanate from Leslie’s mouth, but from every corner of the room.

August pressed his palm against her forehead, desperately whispering an incantation. But it was too late.

The walls trembled, and the laughter rose. Then, suddenly, a wave of darkness rushed forward, swallowing them whole.

* * * * * *

August barely remembered the drive to the hospital.

He didn’t remember how they got out of that house, how they had managed to carry Leslie’s unconscious body to the car, or how he had gripped the wheel so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

But he remembered Christian’s silence. And he remembered the moment Leslie’s eyes fluttered open for the first time since the incident—vacant, empty, seeing nothing at all.

She never spoke again.

She never moved again.

She never woke up.

The doctors called it a coma, but had no neurological explanation. They ran tests, performed scans, and administered medications—nothing changed.

Christian never returned his calls after that.

August Dewalt, once revered for his work in the supernatural, became a disgrace in the world he had built.

Worse still, the thing inside that house was still out there, somewhere, likely reveling, he surmised, in the destruction it had caused.

For August, this was not simply unacceptable—it was an abomination. One day, he pledged, he would confront the entity again. And when he did, he would finish what he started. He swore that if it was we the last thing he ever did, he would avenge his daughter and make it pay for what it had done to his family.

Part II

August hadn’t set foot in Hillview in years.

As he drove through the quiet town, he spotted the familiar, narrow alleyways and the church’s iconic steeple, casting its timeless shadow over the town square. The ghosts of his younger years lingered in every storefront, bringing to mind a past that felt both buried and undeniably alive.

And why shouldn’t it? August had spent half his life in Hillview, after all, back when his name meant something. Back when people came to him not with skepticism, but with trust.

Now, people barely met his gaze. He saw it in the cashier’s fleeting glance when he stopped at a gas station on the way in. He saw it in the way an old neighbor turned away sharply as he passed by on the sidewalk. And he knew, without even having to ask, that they all remembered.

They remembered Leslie.

He pulled into the driveway of an old friend’s house—a place he used to visit so often that it had once felt like a second home. Now, even the walls seemed to regard him with suspicion.

The man who opened the door was thinner than he used to be, his once-strong frame withered by time and grief. Mark Sullivan had been a firefighter in his youth, a man whose presence commanded respect. But now, his eyes were sunken, his hair grayer than August remembered, his shoulders weighed down by something August recognized all too well.

“August,” Mark said, his voice rough. “You actually came.”

August nodded.

Mark stepped aside, motioning him in.

The house was quiet. The living room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn even though it was mid-afternoon. August smelled coffee, but the pot on the counter looked like it had been sitting for hours.

Mark sat down with a sigh, rubbing his hands over his face before looking up. “I wouldn’t have called you if I didn’t have to.”

August leaned forward. “Tell me what’s happening.”

Mark shook his head. “It’s back, August, in my son’s house. The thing that took your daughter.”

Mark continued. “It started about a month ago. My granddaughter, Ellie—she’s only eleven. She started waking up with scratches on her arms, saying she heard someone whispering in her room at night. I thought it was just nightmares. But then things started moving around the house. Cabinets slammed shut on their own. And last week, Edith swore she saw something standing at the end of our bed.”

August clenched his jaw. He already knew what Mark was going to say next.

“She’s been talking to it, August,” Mark whispered. “Just like Leslie did.”

A distant memory surfaced, unbidden, of Leslie sitting cross-legged in her childhood bedroom, speaking in hushed tones to someone only she could see. August had found her like that countless times. And he had ignored the warnings until it was too late.

He pushed the thought aside.

“I need your help,” Mark said, gripping the edge of the table. “This thing… it’s going to take Ellie. And I don’t want her to end up like… like…”

He trailed off.

August’s fingers curled around the coffee mug in front of him. He hadn’t had a real case in years—not since the incident. But he wasn’t about to walk away from this one.

Not when it was the same entity and he had a chance to end it for good.

“You can count on me. I’ll do whatever I can,” August said. Mark’s shoulders sagged in relief. “But I need help.”

Christian was not happy to see him. August had expected that. What he hadn’t expected, however, was the extent of the venom in his voice, or the lengths Christian went to in order to avoid his father’s gaze when he first opened the door.

August’s only son stood in the entryway, arms crossed over his broad chest. He had aged—more salt than pepper in his hair now, lines carved deep into his forehead—but he still had his mother’s eyes. Eyes that had looked at August with admiration once.

Now, they held nothing but disdain.

“What do you want, Dad?” Christian asked flatly.

August cleared his throat. “I need your help.”

Christian let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Not interested.”

“It’s the entity,” August pressed on. “The same one. It’s back.”

Christian’s jaw tightened.

“I know you don’t trust me anymore,” August said. “Hell, I don’t blame you. But this thing isn’t finished. And if we don’t stop it now, it never will be.”

Christian said nothing.

Then, from somewhere in the house, a voice called out.

“Dad? Who’s at the door?”

A boy, about twelve, stepped into view. Tanner. August had only seen him in photos. The last time he had spoken to his grandson, the boy had still been in diapers.

Christian put a protective hand on Tanner’s shoulder, guiding him away from the doorway. “Go back inside.”

Tanner frowned. “But—”

“I said go.”

Christian’s voice was firm, but August didn’t miss the flicker of unease in his son’s face.

Tanner hesitated, his gaze flicking between the two of them before disappearing into the house.

“I know what you’re thinking,” August said quietly. “And you’re right. I shouldn’t be here. But I didn’t come for me, Christian. I came for you.”

Christian’s expression didn’t change, but August saw the tension in his shoulders.

“You think this is just about some old case,” August continued. “But it’s not. It’s about your son.”

That got Christian’s attention.

“Tanner’s been having nightmares, hasn’t he?” August asked. “Waking up scared. Hearing things that aren’t there.”

Christian’s silence was all the confirmation he needed.

August swallowed hard. “It’s after him too, Christian. Just like it was after Leslie. We can’t run away from this anymore.”

Christian turned away, his posture rigid, rubbing a hand over his face. When he spoke again, he was quiet, subdued.

“It never really left, did it?” Christian asked.

“No,” August said, shaking his head. “I’m afraid not.”

Christian stared at the ground. For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, finally—reluctantly—he met August’s gaze.

“What do we do?”

Part III

The house loomed in the fog, taller than August remembered.

He had been to Hillridge Manor once before, years ago. Back then, the old Victorian had already been in disrepair but it always seemed to hold its bones together, its walls intact, its foundation firm. It was a house with a storied history, a place that outlived generations. But now, it was something else entirely—its structure warped, its presence foreboding, like the land itself had been trying to reject it. All within the past month.

As August stood on the front walk, staring up at its exterior, he thought about the last time he had faced what had long ago taken up residence inside.

The air was still, dense with an unnatural quiet. The trees that lined the property had gone bare early this year, their skeletal branches curling inward toward the house like grasping fingers. The front porch sagged under its own weight, and the windows above reflected nothing.

Behind him, Christian parked the truck and stepped out. He hadn’t said much on the drive over, and even now, he stood stiffly beside his father, eyes locked on the house with an unreadable expression.

“Who else is coming?” Christian asked.

August checked his watch. “They should be here soon.”

“I still don’t know why you think this is a good idea,” Christian argued. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

“It’s not about being a good idea,” August said. “It’s about finishing this. And don’t worry about who’s coming. Calm down.”

Christian scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Dad.”

True to his word, the others August mentioned soon arrived in a single black SUV with tinted windows, pulling up beside Christian’s truck. The Dewalt Paranormal Group had once been a well-known name, back when they had worked as a family and their investigations had led to real results. Back before Leslie.

The team August had assembled this evening wasn’t theirs. The members were younger, fresh, some of them more interested in the social media side of the business than the danger they were walking into. Still, they were good enough.

The first to step out was Graham Ellis, a man in his early forties with the look of someone who had seen just enough horror to remain cautious but not enough to truly understand it. He had a compact, muscled frame, and his sharp, analytical gaze moved immediately to the house.

“Christ,” he muttered. “This is even worse than the pictures. You’re telling me someone lived here until recently? How did they not expect this place to be haunted?”

Behind him, Amelia Tran and Dev Patel emerged. Amelia, in her early thirties, was one of the more serious investigators August had interviewed. She was methodical, keeping her dark hair pulled back and her equipment pristine. Dev, a decade younger, was enthusiastic but often too eager to chase what he didn’t understand.

None of them had ever faced this level of entity before. August had made that clear.

“You sure about this, old man?” Graham asked, standing beside him now, looking at the house like he could see the memories trapped inside.

August didn’t answer.

They already knew the answer.

* * * * * *

They entered just before dusk.

The house wasn’t empty. The furniture was still in place, untouched except for the dust clinging to every surface. The air was stagnant, carrying the faint scent of something long decayed. Mark Sullivan’s son and their family had fled two weeks ago, and no one had set foot in it since.

The first shift in the atmosphere came when Christian stepped over the threshold. There was a pressure in the air, subtle but undeniable.

August saw the way his son hesitated, the way his eyes darkened with recognition.

“I don’t like this,” Christian muttered.

“You’re not supposed to,” August replied.

The others began setting up equipment—EMF detectors, thermal cameras, and EVP recorders. Graham checked his infrared scanner, frowning at the abnormally low temperatures.

“This place is colder than it should be,” he said.

August nodded. “It knows we’re here.”

Amelia glanced toward the staircase, where the hallway disappeared into darkness. “Where do we start?”

August gestured toward the back of the house, where the servants’ quarters had once been. “There.”

* * * * * *

It started with the whispers, just beneath the threshold of hearing.

Amelia was the first to notice. She turned, tilting her head.

Then Graham stiffened. “Did you hear that?”

The EVP recorder in Dev’s hand crackled to life, spitting out static before a disembodied voice cut through.

“I know you,” it rasped.

Christian froze beside August, his face going pale.

Dev swallowed hard. “What the hell was that?”

August had heard that voice before. So had Christian. Father and son exchanged a knowing glance.

“Keep going,” August instructed.

They moved deeper into the house, beyond the threshold of safety.

Tanner had described the feeling of being watched. The way something had stood at the foot of his bed, just outside the edges of his vision. He had heard the whisper before he saw it.

August had assumed the entity was still weak.

But he had been wrong.

Without warning, the house shifted violently, releasing a burst of energy. All at once, the equipment shorted out, plunging the hallway into darkness. The members of the investigation team gasped in unison, scrambling to get their bearings.

Amelia cursed, fumbling for her flashlight, and when it flicked on, it only illuminated what the darkness wanted them to see.

At the end of the hallway, a figure stood in the doorway of the attic.

It wasn’t human. Not even close.

It was tall and impossibly thin, its form stretching unnaturally, its limbs jerking with each shift of its stance. Its face—if it even had one—was obscured by shadow, but the eyes…

The eyes were all Leslie’s.

August didn’t hear Christian move, but felt him freeze.

The entity spoke again.

“You left her behind.”

Christian staggered back, nearly knocking over the motion sensor camera.

August had spent the last twelve years preparing for this moment. But he hadn’t prepared for the way Christian would break.

The thing in the doorway tilted its head, and as if on command, every single door in the house slammed shut at once.

This time, no one was leaving.

Part IV

The doors did not simply slam shut. They locked, not via traditional means, but held fast by something older and otherworldly. The members of the teams tried the doorknobs, the latches, and the deadbolts, but no matter what they did, the doors didn’t budge.

The walls around them trembled, carrying a low vibration through the air, a sound too deep for the human ear to fully register, but one that August felt in his core.

Beside him, Christian had gone still, his hands curled into fists. For years, he had refused to acknowledge what had happened to Leslie. Now he couldn’t deny it.

It was standing right in front of him.

At the end of the hallway, the entity still loomed in the attic doorway. Its form rippled chaotically, shifting unnaturally, but the eyes remained the same.

Leslie’s eyes.

August forced himself forward, past the others, including Christian, who had yet to break free from his trance. The team was unraveling—Dev was muttering under his breath, Amelia’s fingers hovered near the rosary she always kept tucked into her pocket, and Graham had his hands on his camera, but wasn’t recording.

The air pulsed again, and the darkness around the figure deepened.

Then the voice returned.

“It was supposed to be him.”

Christian flinched at the sound. The entity hadn’t said his name, but he knew instinctively it was referring to him.

At the same time, something inside twisted violently. The house shuddered, floorboards groaning beneath them.

August didn’t hesitate.

“Christian, move!” he ordered, stepping forward. His fingers found the iron talisman at his belt, the one he had used to banish a dozen lesser entities before. Their adversary this evening was stronger, perhaps, but it was still bound by rules—everything had rules, even this.

He lifted the talisman. “Leave this place and never return!” he shouted. “You don’t belong here!”

For a moment, the thing did not react.

Then, it laughed.

It was guttural, jagged, and decidedly inhuman, shifting in pitch like a thousand voices speaking at once. The sound vibrated through the walls, rippling the air.

Then it took a step forward, and August felt something pushing back, a presence sinking into his skull, embedding itself into his memories.

With increasing intensity, the talisman in his grip began radiating heat, and August staggered back, fighting the urge to drop it. But he held tight, even as his skin began to blister.

Christian let out something between a curse and a prayer. Then the entity moved again. One moment, it was in the doorway. The next, it was right in front of him.

Christian did not scream. He didn’t even step back. But August saw a flicker of recognition in his son’s eyes that hadn’t been there before.

The thing tilted its head, its face a blur of shadows, its mouth stretched to an unsettling degree. It reached out to Christian with a spindly, void-like appendage, the space where its fingers should have been writhing and distorted.

Christian didn’t move.

That was when Graham shouted something unintelligible, some sort of incantation, and snapped the moment in half.

The entity reacted violently, the walls shaking with enough force to knock plaster from the ceiling.

Amelia was already moving, dragging Christian backward by the arm, when the air shattered. A force unlike anything August had ever felt before ripped through the house, sending everyone sprawling to the floor, and the entity vanished into the dark.

* * * * * *

It took a full minute before anyone spoke.

“That was not a poltergeist,” Graham muttered, shaking his head. He was pale, sweat beading at his forehead.

August didn’t answer. He’d already known that.

Christian was still on the ground, his face slack, staring blankly at the spot where the thing had stood.

August crouched beside him. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

Christian blinked at him, then at his own hands, like he wasn’t sure what had just happened.

Then he swallowed hard. “It knows me,” he said. “It never wanted Leslie. It wanted me.”

The words sent a chill through August’s spine.

He had spent years trying to understand what had happened to Leslie, what had gone wrong, what had drawn that thing to her in the first place.

Now he understood.

It had never wanted Leslie. It had always wanted Christian. It suspected the easiest way to get to him was through his family. And it wasn’t wrong.

Amelia took a deep breath, rubbing her temples. “We need to regroup. Whatever that was, it’s not just some wandering entity. It’s anchored here.”

“No kidding,” Graham barked. “What exactly are we dealing with here?”

August rose to his feet, still watching Christian carefully. His son was shaken but functional, but there was something off—and August knew what it was.

He had felt it himself once before.

The moment you realize a thing has marked you. Not just haunted you. Claimed you.

“This isn’t over,” August said quietly.

Christian looked up at him. And in his eyes, August saw fear. Not for himself, but for Tanner.

Part V

Christian was somber as they walked back to the vehicles. He hadn’t spoken since they’d left the house, since he’d stared into that thing’s hollow face and recognized its true intentions.

It had never wanted Leslie. It had wanted him, and it had never stopped waiting. It had used Tanner and now Ellie to draw him and his father back in, demonstrating that its reach went beyond the walls of the Manor.

Even as everyone left the house, it was clear to Christian that the entity had no intention of letting him go, and that it would do whatever it took to lure him in and get what it wanted.

* * * * * *

They set up base in an abandoned church on the edge of town. The place had been gutted years ago, pews long since removed, leaving behind a vast, empty hall where prayers had gone unanswered for decades. August had chosen it because it was neutral ground, somewhere untouched by what they had stirred up.

For now.

Graham set up a makeshift workstation, pulling out laptops and monitors, syncing their scattered pieces of footage. Amelia spread out a map of Hillridge Manor on the floor, marking the hotspots of activity, her hands moving with practiced precision.

Christian sat off to the side, staring at nothing.

It was Dev who finally broke the silence. “So what’s the plan?”

August exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face. “We end it.”

Christian’s voice was low, hoarse. “You don’t know how to end it.”

August met his son’s gaze.

For years, Christian had refused to acknowledge what had happened to Leslie, refusing to be a part of anything touched by this world. But August could see it now—the shift, the realization, the way the truth had finally settled like a sickness in his bones.

“It’s bound to the house,” August said. “It was never free to roam, never something that could latch onto just anyone. It marked Leslie because she was sensitive, but she wasn’t the one it wanted.”

Christian’s jaw tightened. “It was waiting for me.”

“Yes.”

Amelia cleared her throat. “So how do we stop it?”

August already knew the answer, but saying it out loud made it real.

“We make it manifest fully,” he said. “And then we sever it from this world for good.”

“Meaning?” Graham pressed.

August’s expression didn’t change.

“Meaning we need bait.”

* * * * * *

The storm hit as they drove back to the house.

Wind howled through the streets, rattling loose shutters, kicking up dust in frantic, swirling bursts. The temperature had dropped sharply, the sky overhead churning black, thick clouds rolling in.

Christian sat in the passenger seat of August’s truck, staring out the window. He hadn’t spoken since they’d left the church.

“Tanner’s safe,” August said after a long pause.

“For now,” Christian said.

August didn’t argue.

He had seen what happened when something like this latched onto a bloodline.

It didn’t stop until it got what it wanted.

And Christian was the last thread it had left to pull.

* * * * * *

The house was waiting for them.

The second they stepped inside, the air dropped further.

Not just cold—wrong.

Christian clenched his fists. “Let’s get this over with.”

August didn’t hesitate. He moved to the center of the main hall, pulling a satchel of iron filings and salt from his pack. The others followed suit, setting up barriers, chanting quiet protection rites under their breath.

Christian took his place at the center.

August had fought many things before. Spirits. Poltergeists. Wraiths that had forgotten how to be human.

But this was different.

Because this was personal.

He pulled out the ritual dagger, the one he had carried for years but never used for this purpose.

“You ready?” he asked.

Christian’s hands trembled, but his voice was steady. “Yeah.”

August sliced the blade across his own palm, letting his blood drip into the circle.

And the house came alive.

* * * * * *

It started with the sound, a deep, unnatural groan. Then the shadows began to move.

Christian staggered back, eyes going wide. “It’s here.”

August gritted his teeth. “Hold your ground.”

The thing emerged from the dark, its form barely human now, its body shifting, unraveling, reforming.

It did not walk. It drifted.

Then it spoke.

“I have waited.”

Christian’s body locked up as the thing loomed closer.

“Keep going!” Amelia snapped, voice tight with fear. “Don’t stop the damn ritual!”

August threw more iron filings into the air, the particles glowing white-hot as they fell, forming a barrier.

The thing let out a horrid, scraping sound—not quite a scream, not quite a growl. It clawed at the air, but it could not pass the threshold.

August stepped forward. “You don’t belong here.”

The thing laughed.

“Neither do you.”

Then it lunged at Christian.

Christian had never been fast enough before. Not when it had taken Leslie. Not when it had followed them through the years, waiting for its moment. But this time—this time, he was ready.

As the thing closed in, he lifted the dagger—the same one August had used for the ritual—and drove it forward.

The blade struck home, piercing something that should not have been solid.

The thing screamed.

And the house began to collapse.

August grabbed Christian, dragging him toward the door as the walls shook, splintering inward.

The entity thrashed, its form losing cohesion, its shape breaking apart into a violent storm of shadows.

The others were already running, Graham shouting something into his radio, Amelia pulling Dev by the arm.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped—and the house went silent.

For the first time in twelve years, August felt the thing let go.

* * * * * *

They stood outside, watching as the house gave its final breath.

Christian was shaking.

“It’s over,” August said, more to himself than anyone else.

Christian didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Because for the first time in a long time, they both knew it was true.

And this time, there was nothing left to wait for.

Part VI

August had seen his fair share of endings.

Some were messy, drenched in regret, the kind that left people hollowed out and searching for something to fill the spaces they’d lost. Others were quieter—clean breaks that left scars but allowed those who survived to walk away.

But as he stood outside what remained of Hillridge Manor, watching the final embers sink into the blackened skeleton of its frame, he knew this ending was neither.

Because some things didn’t end at all.

They only faded, waiting to be remembered again.

* * * * * *

Christian sat on the hood of the truck, his face drawn, the lines around his mouth deeper than they had been before. He hadn’t said much since the fire had taken hold, since the house had caved in on itself.

August knew better than to push.

They had spent years at odds, stuck in the wreckage of the past, pretending that time could mend what had been shattered. But now, with nothing left between them but the ashes of an old battle, he could see it—the exhaustion, the resignation, the way Christian’s hands curled against his thighs, like he was holding onto something too fragile to name.

It wasn’t over. Not really.

“What happens now?” Christian asked.

August didn’t answer immediately. He watched as the last of the flames flickered out, the fire dying but not quite gone, embers still alive beneath the ruin.

“We move on,” August said finally. “Best we can.”

Christian huffed a laugh, but it held no humor. “Is that what you did after Leslie?”

August didn’t flinch. He deserved the question.

“I tried,” he admitted. “Didn’t do a very good job of it.”

Christian nodded slowly, as if that was the answer he had expected.

Neither of them said what they were really thinking—that maybe no one really moves on.

Maybe they just learn how to live in the wreckage.

* * * * * *

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and old paper, like sterilization layered over something deeper, something time-worn.

August had never liked hospitals, but he had spent too much time in them. He had watched too many people fade under the glow of buzzing fluorescents, had heard the soft beeping of machines measuring what remained of a life.

Leslie’s room was as still and quiet as it had always been.

Christian lingered near the doorway, hesitant, but August moved forward, drawn by something he couldn’t quite name.

He sat beside her, studying the angles of her face, the way time had softened them.

She had been twenty-three when it happened.

Now, she was thirty-five, and she looked like both and neither at once.

August reached out, let his fingers brush against hers where they rested against the blanket.

And then, she twitched.

It was barely perceptible, like a ripple in still water, but Christian had seen it.

And August had felt it.

“Leslie?”

She didn’t respond.

But for the first time in twelve years, there was a shift.

Something was waking up.

* * * * * *

Gregory Forrester met them in the hallway.

The look he gave August was the same as it had always been—cold, tired, a sharp edge dulled only by the weight of too many wasted years.

“You think this changes anything?” Gregory asked.

August didn’t answer right away.

Because he knew it didn’t.

Leslie was still trapped in that bed, her body alive but her mind lost somewhere he could never reach. One twitch of a finger didn’t erase twelve years. It didn’t fix what had been broken, what had been taken.

But it meant something.

And right now, that was enough.

“I don’t know,” August admitted.

Gregory nodded once, then turned and walked away.

They left the hospital without saying much.

Christian drove, Tanner asleep in the back seat, curled into the fabric like he was part of it.

August watched the road ahead, the yellow glow of streetlights stretching long in the dark, their glow flickering as they passed.

“I don’t think it’s gone,” Christian said eventually.

August didn’t look at him. “No. I don’t either.”

Christian gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “So what do we do?”

August let out a slow breath.

The fire had burned the house down, but it hadn’t burned the thing away.

It had just made it wait.

But that was the thing about endings.

Some of them weren’t endings at all.

Some of them were just a moment of quiet before something worse.

August closed his eyes.

“We’ll be ready,” he said.

And the night swallowed the road ahead.