Page 31 of All Ghosts Aren’t Dead (The Forgotten #1)

BLUE

“ O n your knees, impurity.”

I dropped fast, knees cracking against stone. Cold rushed through the floor into my bones. My hands folded just like they taught me, left thumb over right, fingers pressed softly to the center of my lap.

“What do you say?”

“Thank you for your correction, Father.”

My lip was still split from yesterday. It was my fault for smiling when I wasn’t supposed to. An accident, but they happened a lot. I was always breaking rules I didn’t understand.

The blood hadn’t dried right. Crusted sharp at the edge and still stuck to the corner of my mouth. Every breath tugged it raw, but I didn’t touch it.

Touching it made it worse.

“Are you truly thankful, Bailey?”

I didn’t answer. It was a trick. Words were always a trick.

My stomach drew in. Breath thinned behind my ribs while my muscles folded smaller. The floor felt colder suddenly, hard against the skin below my kneecaps. Even my fingers began to ache, not from pain, but from holding still too long. I felt my spine start to stiffen, but I refused to let it.

Movement could be mistaken for defiance.

The back of my neck prickled, and the silence pressed in so hard my throat started to close.

I heard it then.

One. Two. Three. Four.

The sound of his steps stopped, but I didn’t need to look up to know he was in front of me.

Ezekiel’s presence filled every corner of the punishment hall. The white robes he wore never moved when he walked. They hung in perfect lines, every edge pressed flat. There were no wrinkles, or tears, or stains like there were on the robes I wore.

Prophets deserved perfection.

Sinners deserved nothing.

A cross rested at the center of his chest—silver, polished, and always warm when it touched your skin. One hand stayed tucked behind his back. The other hung loose, fingers relaxed. He didn’t look cruel, and I think that’s what made him so scary. Ezekiel never smiled, but he never yelled either.

His calm was worse than most men’s rage.

“You disobeyed, Bailey.” He made a disappointed sound and crouched in front of me. The cross at his chest swung, catching just enough light to sting my eyes. “Speak louder. Let the devil inside you know we’re listening.”

My throat burned. “Thank you for your correction, Father.”

Ezekiel’s fingers were warm when they touched my chin, tilting my face toward the flickering altar. He leaned close, his breath stale as it touched my cheeks. “Open your mouth.”

My mouth fell open, and though I wanted to shut my eyes, I knew it would be worse if I did.

A sinner never turned away from a prophet.

Two thin fingers slid past my lips, pressing down on my tongue first and then lifting it gently. His inspection was slow and measured, sweeping the inside of my cheeks, my teeth, my gums, and the roof of my mouth.

I never understood what he was looking for, but I knew he would never find it.

“Still red,” he murmured, standing to his feet. “Still unclean.”

One. Two. Three. Four.

My heart beat in time with his steps as he approached Father.

“Double the fast,” he said. “Lock him in the dark. No water. If he speaks before sunrise, cut the lies off his tongue and feed them to the fire.”

The air in the punishment hall thinned. I could feel the dark pressing against the edge of my vision, waiting to swallow me whole.

I wasn’t supposed to blink, but I did anyway.

“Blue.”

I blinked again, harder this time.

“Still with me, Blue baby?”

Daddy.

The stone floor dissolved into warmth behind my spine—broad shoulders, a steady chest, and the creak of leather under my weight.

Daddy’s arms bracketed mine. One hand curled at my side, while the other spread across my ribs.

His gloves were in my lap. We were bare-skinned, pulse to pulse, and I could feel his heartbeat in the space between my shoulder blades.

“You’re okay, baby,” he whispered near my temple. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

I swallowed, but it tasted like water—old, cold, chlorinated basil water.

One breath for purity.

Two for obedience.

Three to break the devil in you.

The memory hadn’t left. Not really. But the weight in my chest loosened when Daddy ran a hand up my spine, counting the vertebrae like he needed to make sure I was in one piece.

“Take another breath, sweetheart.”

I inhaled, and he made a noise like he was proud of me just for breathing.

“Good boy.” He hummed. “We’re almost there.”

The van shuddered over gravel and roots, its headlights off. No one spoke or moved unless they had to. The only sound was Hiro shifting gears and the occasional click of a safety being checked.

The vehicle slowed, and everyone seemed to lean forward at once, like gravity had changed.

A faint crackle broke across the comms. Miller’s voice filtered through the earpieces. “All teams check in.”

Rune answered first. Then Mei. Then Bishop.

Daddy didn’t speak right away. He tilted his head toward the mic curled against the base of my neck. His thumb swept once along my ribs, and then he pressed the button.

“We’re in position,” he said. “Team C, ready.”

Hiro eased the van to a stop, engine idling low. Everything inside shifted—the subtle lurch of gear weight, the creak of boots bracing for stillness.

Daddy’s lips brushed the edge of my ear. “Remind me of the plan, baby.”

I swallowed once. “We go in through the east shaft. No sound. No sudden moves. Team A secures the upper floor. Team B gets the women and kids. We head straight to cell seven. I don’t leave your side.”

“Good boy.”

He slipped a blade into my belt, then his hands moved lower, brushing over the gun already holstered at my waist. There was another gun in my boot, and he felt for it gently, fingers pressing to the leather before he rose and reached around my back.

The rifle shifted against my spine as he adjusted the strap, tightening it a notch.

One final check.

His touch wasn’t rushed. It was ritualistic , like dressing me for war meant more than just readiness. Daddy was making sure I was still his, even under all the steel.

As if I could be anything else.

The comms buzzed again, and Miller spoke. “We’re green. Go.”

Daddy reached past me and yanked the door handle. The steel groaned as it slid open, the van shuddering as cold air rushed in.

I moved first, boots hitting the earth with a muffled thump. They sank into the wet moss.

Daddy followed with a hand on my back. Pressing a quick kiss to my cheek, we started to run, side by side, toward the slope that curved around the lower side of the Sanctum.

The tunnels weren’t visible yet, but we’d studied the map for hours, layer by layer, blueprint by blueprint, until I could see the turns in my sleep.

“South tunnel’s ten meters out,” Miller buzzed in again. “Brick inset. Covered by root overgrowth. Third cluster of trees past the ridge. You’ll see a broken pipe left of that.”

“I’ve got it,” Daddy said. His hand caught my arm just long enough to steady my steps. “Eyes up, baby.”

I nodded. My lungs burned already, but I didn’t care.

Not when Jonah was somewhere in that building.

We reached the ridge. Daddy slowed, crouched low, and pointed. The tunnel mouth was exactly where Miller said it’d be —partially obscured by thick vines and rock, just wide enough to crawl through.

“We go quiet from here,” Daddy murmured. “You first. I’ll be right behind you.”

I swallowed, then dropped to my knees and crawled into the tunnel.

Dirt pressed into my palms as I moved forward. Roots hung low from the ceiling. The stone floor was uneven, slippery with moss. The occasional crunch of gravel popped under my weight.

Behind me, Daddy followed. His movements were heavier. I could hear the scrape of his shoulders against the brick, the shift of his belt, and the quiet thud of his boots dragging as he crawled.

“I love you, Daddy,” I said, because I just… needed to.

“I love you too, baby,” he whispered. “You’re doing great.”

His praise made the tightness in my chest loosen a little.

The tunnel curved left, then right. Narrowed. Widened again. I counted the turns in my head and matched each wall to the map we’d studied.

Three more curves.

Two.

One.

We reached the grate.

Rust clung to the bars, flecked with mildew. It was already loose, just like Bishop said it would be. Daddy came up behind me, his breath warm on the back of my neck. “You good?”

I nodded.

Reaching past me, he gave the grate one careful pull. It opened with a soft groan. Our boots hit the concrete with a muted thud as we dropped into the hall.

The ceilings were low, the floor wet and uneven. There was a faint glow from old safety lights wired into the corners. It was quiet except for the drip of water from somewhere above us and the echo of our own breathing.

The walls were carved of cracked concrete and stone, and they smelled just like the punishment hall, only worse , like mold and bleach and blood.

Daddy moved ahead, hand raised in a silent signal.

My steps were light and measured as I followed, eyes clocking each door we passed. They were identical to one another—same square bolts and iron slots.

It was all so familiar—the size, the shape, and the dread .

“You’re close,” Miller said in our ears. “Two more down. Left-hand wall. Cell seven.”

My heartbeat doubled, and I broke into a jog. Daddy grabbed my hand, but didn’t stop me. Our fingers threaded together, and he moved close enough that I could still feel him.

I kept counting the doors.

Five...

Six...

There.

My hand curled around the latch and yanked. It wasn’t locked. The steel made an ugly, grinding sound against the floor as I tugged.

The room was small and… empty .

“J—Jonah?”

The walls were damp, swollen with old water and dotted with dark patches that could’ve been mold, but were probably blood. A metal bucket with a rusted rim sat in the corner. Thick iron chains had been bolted into the floor, dried blood crusted where they met the ground.

There was a cot, but it wasn’t wide enough for Jonah.