The bells stopped.
But the chanting didn't.
"Prophet… Prophet… Prophet…"
The sound rolled through the fog like a living thing, each syllable slithering along Harrison's spine. He tightened his grip on the dagger, its cold hilt slick with sweat, and stepped closer to Evelyn.
"How many do you count?" he whispered.
Evelyn didn't answer right away. Her gray eyes darted through the mist, tracing faint outlines of robed figures.
"Too many," she murmured. "If this goes sideways, we won't make it ten steps."
"Good to know," Harrison said dryly.
The nearest figure stepped forward, his robes brushing the damp grass. He was tall—at least a head taller than Harrison—and moved with an eerie fluidity, as though the fog itself parted for him.
When he spoke, his voice was smooth, melodic, and utterly wrong.
"The time has come, Prophet."
Harrison swallowed hard. His sixth sense surged violently, filling his head with a sound like whispering water. He swore he could feel the golden sigils on his chest stirring under his skin, responding to the man's words.
"Not your Prophet," Harrison said. His voice came out steady, but his grip on the dagger tightened until his knuckles went white.
The robed man tilted his head.
"You were marked from birth," he said. "The Crawling Chaos claimed you long before you could speak his name."
Evelyn stepped in front of Harrison, her revolver raised. "Back off. Now."
The man didn't flinch.
"You shouldn't be here, Evelyn Veyra. This is between him and the Thousand-Faced God."
"I don't care if it's between him and the goddamn sun," she snapped. "Step. Back."
⸻
The other Choir members stirred. Their chanting faltered, replaced by low murmurs, like insects crawling over each other. Harrison's stomach churned as he realized the sound wasn't coming from their mouths—it was vibrating directly in his skull.
"You feel it, don't you?" the tall man said softly. "The connection. The pull. You've been fighting it for years."
Harrison's throat felt dry.
"I don't feel anything except nausea," he lied.
The man chuckled. "You'll come to understand. You're not here to resist, Prophet. You're here to ascend."
⸻
The figure reached for his hood.
"Let me show you."
Harrison opened his mouth to shout a warning, but the man pulled the hood back before he could speak.
Where a face should have been, there was only skin stretched taut over bone, smooth and featureless except for a faint golden sigil burned into the center of the forehead.
Harrison's sixth sense spiked. His vision swam. The sigil seemed to glow brighter, filling his head with Nyarlathotep's voice:
"This is what awaits you, child. A perfect vessel… hollow and eternal."
Harrison staggered, clutching his head.
Evelyn fired.
The shot rang out sharp and bright in the fog. The faceless man didn't move. The bullet stopped inches from his skull and hovered there, spinning lazily before dropping harmlessly to the ground.
⸻
The Choir began to chant again. Louder now. Faster.
"Prophet… Prophet… PROPHET…"
Evelyn grabbed Harrison's arm. "We're leaving."
The tall man raised a hand.
"You can't leave," he said. "The song has already begun."
⸻
Harrison's chest flared with heat.
The golden sigils blazed to life, vines of light snaking up his neck and down his arms. He cried out as his fingers curled tight around the dagger, the blue runes flaring so bright they lit the fog.
His legs moved.
Not his own choice.
One step forward. Then another.
"Evelyn," he gasped. "I—I can't stop—"
She yanked at his arm. "Fight it, Harrison!"
The Choir's voices surged like a wave crashing over him.
"Prophet. Ascend. Prophet. Ascend."
The tall man stepped closer, his faceless head tilting.
"You've carried the gift long enough," he said. "It's time to embrace it."
Harrison screamed—and swung the dagger.
⸻
The blade sliced clean through the man's neck.
There was no blood.
Instead, his body dissolved into a cloud of black moths, their wings shimmering gold as they scattered into the fog.
The chanting faltered.
For a single heartbeat, there was silence.
And then chaos.
The Choir lunged as one, their robes flaring like wings. Evelyn fired twice more, each shot sparking against an unseen barrier.
"Harrison, MOVE!" she screamed.
⸻
Harrison tore free from the invisible force holding his legs. His chest still burned, but the dagger's glow began to dim as he ran, Evelyn at his side.
Behind them, the chanting rose again—now a guttural roar that shook the trees.
But above it all, Nyarlathotep's voice coiled through Harrison's mind:
"You're slipping, Prophet. Each step brings you closer."
Harrison didn't answer. He just kept running.
The fog swallowed their footsteps as Harrison and Evelyn ran.
Behind them, the chanting grew louder, warping in pitch until it sounded less like voices and more like the shrieking of wind through shattered glass.
"Prophet… Prophet… ASCEND… ASCEND…"
Evelyn's hand gripped his arm like a vice, dragging him forward whenever he stumbled. His chest felt like it was on fire, the golden sigils pulsing in time with his pounding heart.
"Left!" Evelyn barked.
They veered down a narrow alley, the rotted wood of leaning buildings scraping their shoulders. Harrison's vision blurred at the edges, the world twisting like oil on water. The dagger's blue glow had faded almost completely now, but the whispers in his mind had not.
"You can't run from yourself."
The voice was smooth, calm, maddening.
"You were never running. You were coming home."
⸻
They burst out into a cobblestone square.
Arkham's clocktower loomed overhead, its cracked face locked at midnight. Beneath it stood a circle of Choir members, their black robes fluttering though there was no wind.
Harrison skidded to a halt.
"They're everywhere," he muttered.
Evelyn raised her revolver. Her expression was calm, but her knuckles were white. "We'll cut through them. Don't stop moving."
"Right," Harrison said, though his legs felt like lead.
The Choir turned as one.
"Prophet…" they whispered in unison.
Then they parted.
⸻
At the center of the circle stood a girl.
Clara.
Her blue dress was torn and streaked with ash. Her bare feet were blackened, as though she had walked through fire.
But it was her eyes that froze Harrison in place.
They glowed faint gold.
"Clara," he whispered.
She smiled.
"Hello, Prophet," she said.
The voice wasn't hers.
⸻
Evelyn aimed. "She's a vessel!"
"Wait—" Harrison started.
The Choir closed ranks around Clara, their chanting rising again.
"ASCEND. ASCEND. ASCEND."
Harrison's sixth sense flared violently. He clutched his head as a fresh wave of whispers flooded his mind.
"She's already mine."
Nyarlathotep's voice.
"But I'll share her with you… if you wish."
"Shut up!" Harrison roared.
The sigils on his chest blazed to life, their light searing through his shirt. The Choir hissed and stumbled back.
Evelyn grabbed his arm. "Control it, damn it! Don't let him in!"
⸻
But it was too late.
Harrison's body moved on its own again.
He stepped forward, the dagger rising.
The Choir fell silent.
"You see?" Clara said—Nyarlathotep said—her voice smooth and warm. "You've been mine since the first moment you opened your eyes. Why fight it now?"
Harrison's hand trembled. The dagger's runes flickered between blue and gold.
"No…" he muttered. "Not me. Not her."
⸻
"NOW!" Evelyn screamed.
A shot rang out.
The bullet struck Clara's shoulder, spinning her around.
She didn't fall.
She didn't even bleed.
Instead, her skin rippled, and black ichor seeped through the torn fabric of her dress.
She looked back at Harrison, her smile wider now, too wide for her small face.
"That wasn't polite, Prophet."
⸻
The ground split.
Black tendrils shot up from the cobblestones, writhing like snakes. Evelyn fired again and again, each shot tearing through the fog.
"MOVE!" she shouted.
Harrison forced his legs to work. He sprinted for Clara, swinging the dagger in a wide arc.
The blade hummed as it connected with one of the tendrils. The thing shrieked and recoiled, spattering black ichor across the square.
Clara tilted her head, golden eyes glowing brighter.
"Do it, Prophet," Nyarlathotep whispered through her mouth. "Carve the vessel. Carve yourself. The choice is yours."
⸻
Harrison raised the dagger.
His chest burned. His head throbbed.
He saw Ethan's face.
Screaming.
Begging.
And above him, the Black Pharaoh smiling.
"Not again," Harrison growled.
He swung—
And drove the dagger into his own hand.
⸻
Pain shot up his arm like lightning.
The sigils on his chest flared blinding blue.
The Choir screamed as one.
Clara stumbled back, clutching her head. "It burns!" she shrieked. "MAKE IT STOP!"
⸻
Evelyn lunged forward, grabbing Harrison's shoulder.
"Out! Now!"
They ran.
The fog boiled around them, shapes writhing in its depths. Harrison's blood dripped onto the cobblestones, each drop hissing as it hit.
Behind them, Clara's voice echoed through the mist.
"YOU CAN'T HIDE FROM ME, PROPHET. YOU ARE ME."
⸻
They didn't stop until they reached the outskirts of Arkham.
Harrison collapsed against a crumbling stone wall, gasping for air. His hand throbbed where the dagger had pierced it, but the golden sigils on his chest were dimmer now.
Evelyn crouched beside him, her revolver still smoking.
"You fought him," she said softly. "That's a start."
Harrison looked up, his blue eyes burning.
"She's alive," he rasped. "I felt her in there. She's still fighting."
"And so are you," Evelyn said.
⸻
But somewhere deep in Harrison's mind, Nyarlathotep's laughter coiled like smoke.
"You can't save her, child. You can't even save yourself."
⸻
End of Chapter 7