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“Stay on him,” Cade advised. “But keep your distance.”

“I'll call you if anything changes.” I started the engine as Hayes pulled away from the curb.

Hayes drove for another fifteen minutes, deeper into the older part of town where Victorian houses stood in various states of decay. The street lamps here were fewer and farther between, casting islands of sickly yellow light amid long stretches of darkness. Eventually, he turned onto a street I didn't recognize, lined with houses that had clearly seen better days.

I killed my headlights and slowed down, maintaining a careful distance. Through the rain-streaked windshield, I watched as Hayes's sedan crawled to a stop in front of what had to be the most dilapidated house on the block. The place looked abandoned—shutters hanging at odd angles, weeds strangling what might once have been a garden path, porch sagging under years of neglect. A proper haunted house if I'd ever seen one.

“Jaysus,” I whispered, pulling over and cutting the engine.

Hayes sat in his car for a long moment, apparently steeling himself for whatever came next. Then, with visible reluctance, he climbed out, clutching his bag of supplies against his chest. Heglanced around nervously, scanning the shadows as if expecting something to lunge at him from the darkness.

For a moment, I thought he'd spotted me, but his gaze passed over my car without pausing. His focus was on something else, something I couldn't see. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as he suddenly jerked his head to the side, as if someone had called his name.

Moving quickly, Hayes hurried toward the abandoned house, shoulders hunched against the light drizzle that continued to fall. At the porch steps, he hesitated, looking back over his shoulder one last time before climbing up and disappearing inside.

9

THE LIGHT THAT BURNS

SEAN

Iwatched from my car as Edward Hayes slipped through the front door of the rundown house like he owned the place. Typical haunted house shit from every B-movie ever made.

But something had changed in Hayes since I'd followed him here. Gone was the nervous, paranoid man glancing over his shoulder. Now he moved with purpose, as if whatever had been calling to him had finally taken full control.

The rain had stopped, but the air remained thick with humidity, the kind that makes your clothes stick to your skin and your hair curl in ways it shouldn't. I'd been following Hayes for nearly an hour, watching him buy ritual supplies before driving to this abandoned dump on the edge of town where normal people don't go after dark.

My instincts were screaming. This was it. Whatever had been hunting the prayer revival men was about to make its move on Hayes.

I reached for my phone, dialing Cade. It rang five times before going to voicemail.

“Dammit, Cade,” I growled, ending the call. He was probably still following Whitmore, who apparently was behaving like a perfectly normal family man. Just my luck to get the one heading straight into the monster's jaws.

I stepped out of the car, the night air pressing against my skin like a warm, wet blanket. The street was eerily quiet—no passing cars, no distant sirens, just the hum of crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves. I popped into the back seat, grabbing my duffel of emergency supplies: salt, holy water, silver knife, gun loaded with consecrated iron rounds. Probably useless against whatever ancient thing we were dealing with, but old habits die hard.

The silence felt wrong, heavy, like the world was holding its breath. I checked my phone again and fired off a quick text to Cade: “Get your ass here. Now.” I followed it with my location, hoping he'd see it soon. Whatever was about to happen, I didn't want to face it alone.

Moving across the overgrown yard, I kept low, stepping carefully to avoid snapping twigs or rustling leaves. Years of hunting had taught me how to move silently, how to become part of the shadows. The house loomed before me, a dark silhouette against the night sky.

I crept up to a grimy window, wiping away decades of dirt with my sleeve to create a small viewing space. Through the smudged glass, I could make out Hayes standing in what must have once been a living room. The furniture was gone, leaving only a bare wooden floor covered in dust—except where Hayes had clearly been moving around.

He was speaking, his voice a low murmur I could barely hear through the glass. But that's what threw me—he was talking like he was having a conversation, but there was no one else in the room. At least, no one I could see.

“I'm ready,” I caught Hayes saying, his voice hushed, almost reverent. “I understand. Just make it quick.”

“Bollocks,” I cursed under my breath. This was worse than I thought. The poor bastard was talking to thin air, which in our line of work usually meant one of two things: either he was completely off his rocker, or something invisible was in there with him.

Given our current case, I was betting on the latter.

I moved toward the front door, testing the handle. Locked, of course. I sized it up—old wood, rusted hinges. Nothing I couldn't handle. Glancing around to ensure the street remained empty, I took a step back, then rammed my shoulder against the door, putting my weight behind it.

The door gave way with a splintering crack, swinging inward to reveal the darkened interior. The air that rushed out was cold, unnaturally so given the summer heat outside. Wrong. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, a primal warning system honed by years of facing things that shouldn't exist.

“CITD” I shouted, an automatic cover that hardly mattered now. “Edward Hayes, I need you to step outside!”

No response. Just silence.

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw them—symbols. Circular, intricate designs drawn onto the walls in what looked like a mixture of chalk, ink, and... was that blood? The patterns formed a complete circle around the room, covering every wall in flowing script and geometric shapes that made my eyes hurt to look at directly.