The mark burned like fire beneath Ethan Harper's skin.
It had been two days since the old man, Gabriel, had stood in his doorway and uttered those words—"You're marked, Ethan. The devil's chosen you." Two days since Ethan had stopped sleeping, stopped eating, stopped pretending that this was all in his head.
The thing in his house, the voice in his dreams, and the black stain on his floorboards—it was all real. Unshakably real.
And now, something inside him was beginning to crack.
The mirror didn't lie.
Every morning, Ethan looked into his own reflection and saw someone else staring back—someone darker, thinner, eyes sunken and shadowed. Sometimes, the reflection would twitch slightly out of sync with his movements. Other times, it would smile on its own.
He hadn't told anyone. Not because he didn't want help, but because he couldn't. The devil—or whatever had taken residence in his soul—wasn't letting him speak freely anymore. His throat would tighten. His thoughts would blur. And when he tried to leave the house, the world outside seemed to shift around him, folding the streets into a loop that always brought him back to the front door.
He was trapped.
And then Gabriel returned.
---
It was just after midnight when Ethan heard the tapping at the window again. Slow. Deliberate.
Tap... Tap... Tap...
He rose from his bed, sweat glistening on his forehead despite the chill in the air. The curtains swayed slightly, though the windows were sealed shut.
"Not again," Ethan whispered, reaching for the lamp. But it wouldn't turn on. The bulb buzzed, then popped, drowning the room in darkness.
The tapping continued.
He crept forward, hands trembling, and pulled the curtain aside.
But this time, it wasn't fog or shadows waiting for him.
It was Gabriel. Standing outside. Watching him with those sharp, predator-like eyes.
Ethan rushed to the door and threw it open. The air outside hit him like ice. Gabriel stepped inside without a word, his long coat dripping from the damp night.
"You look worse," Gabriel said.
"I feel worse," Ethan muttered. "You said I was cursed. Marked. That something was inside me. What is it, really?"
Gabriel studied him for a long moment. Then he pulled something from inside his coat—a worn, leather-bound book with strange sigils burned into the cover.
The Grimoire.
"This," Gabriel said, "is the only reason I'm still alive. And the only chance you have of surviving what's coming."
He sat at the dining table and opened the book. The pages were brittle, hand-written in a mix of Latin, Greek, and something Ethan didn't recognize.
"You ever hear the story of the Hollow Creek Pact?" Gabriel asked.
Ethan shook his head.
"Hundreds of years ago," Gabriel began, "before this town was even called Hollow Creek, there was a group of men who made a bargain. Farmers. Priests. Judges. Good men—or so they thought. They wanted prosperity. Long life. Power. So they offered up something precious to the entity beneath this land. Not gold. Not livestock. Blood. Souls. And in return, they were given blessings. Land that never died. Wealth that never ran out."
Ethan leaned forward, his mouth dry. "You mean like a deal with the devil?"
"Worse," Gabriel said. "The thing they summoned was no devil from the Bible. It was older. A sleeper in the dirt. A god of decay. And when they died, they passed on the mark—generation to generation. Bloodline to bloodline."
Ethan felt the air thicken. "My family..."
"Harper," Gabriel said with a grim nod. "Your great-grandfather was one of them. And now, it's your turn."
Ethan looked down at his wrist. The mark was darker now. Thicker. It throbbed with his pulse.
"Why now?" he asked. "Why me?"
Gabriel closed the book. "Because something's waking up. And it's hungry. The seal is breaking, and it needs a host."
Ethan felt something twist inside his gut. A low voice echoed in the back of his mind.
He lies. Kill him. Tear out his throat.
He slammed his eyes shut, hands gripping the table.
"It's in my head," he whispered. "All the time now."
"I know," Gabriel said softly. "But it's not too late. There's a ritual. Dangerous. Difficult. But it can force the entity out—at least for a time."
Ethan looked up. "What do I have to do?"
Gabriel reached into his coat and placed a curved silver blade on the table. The handle was carved with protective runes.
"You'll need to face it. Alone. In the place where it first entered your bloodline. The original Harper estate. The old plantation on Ridge Hill."
Ethan's stomach dropped.
The Harper estate had been abandoned for years. Overgrown. Condemned. Local kids dared each other to break in, but few returned with stories that didn't end in screams or silence.
"Midnight," Gabriel said. "Three nights from now. Bring the blade. And the book. I'll meet you there. But after that, it's all on you."
He turned to leave but paused at the door.
"One more thing, Ethan. If it offers you power—don't accept. It lies with beautiful words. Always."
Then he was gone.
---
That night, Ethan dreamed of fire.
He stood in the center of a burning forest. Trees blackened and twisted around him. The sky was crimson, pulsing like a heartbeat. And from the fire stepped the figure—tall, robed in darkness, with no face. Just eyes. Glowing red, bleeding light.
"You are mine," it said in a voice that echoed through the ground. "I am the truth that lies behind every shadow. I am the hunger beneath your skin."
Ethan tried to move, but his legs wouldn't respond. His mouth opened to scream, but no sound came out.
The figure stepped closer, pressing a hand to Ethan's chest.
And then, Ethan felt it—a second heartbeat.
Not his.
Something else's.
Inside him.
---
He awoke screaming.
The morning sunlight felt wrong, too pale, too sterile. Like it didn't belong.
He staggered to the bathroom, splashing water on his face, but when he looked into the mirror this time, his reflection was smiling.
Not a twitch.
Not a trick.
Just a slow, smug grin... with black eyes.
Ethan recoiled, falling to the floor.
The mirror stayed still.
---
He didn't leave the house again for the next two days.
He studied the Grimoire. Memorized the Latin phrases, though the words twisted in his mind. Each night, he heard scratching in the walls. Sometimes it sounded like fingernails. Other times, like something crawling. Breathing.
On the third night, just before midnight, Ethan stood at the edge of Ridge Hill, staring up at the decrepit ruins of the Harper estate.
The house looked like a corpse—shriveled, broken, full of rot.
He held the silver blade tight in his right hand, the book under his arm, and the mark on his wrist burned like a brand.
Behind him, the wind whispered through the trees.
Ahead, the front door creaked open on its own.
Ethan swallowed hard.
And stepped inside.