Evelyn locked herself in her bedroom.
She lit a candle and sat on the bed, heart racing. Only one thing ever calmed her — Scripture.
She opened her Bible.
The pages trembled.
Not from wind.
From anticipation.
They flipped violently, slapping her fingers, stopping on Luke.
She leaned closer.
The printed words blurred.
Then rewrote themselves.
Wet black letters formed where ink had never been.
YOU COUNSEL THE BROKEN.
WHO HEARS YOU BREAK?
Her chest tightened.
She flipped the page.
More writing appeared.
YOU PREACH FAITH.
BUT YOUR HEART LIVES IN FEAR.
The candle flickered wildly.
She slammed the Bible shut.
The closet breathed.
A soft voice whispered from inside.
"Read, Evelyn."
Her name scraped through the air.
The door creaked open.
Inside hung clothing that didn't belong to her — a pastor's robe crusted dark at the cuffs, a woman's sweater stiff with old tears, children's pajamas sewn shut at the mouths of the collars.
The smell hit her.
Iron.
Rot.
Cold prayer.
Her Bible opened itself.
More words formed:
THE HOUSE STUDIES YOUR SOUL
THE WAY YOU STUDY OTHERS.
Her hands shook so badly the candle spilled wax like blood.
The whisper returned:
"Confess."
She realized something horrible.
The Bible wasn't possessed.
It was being rewritten.
By the house.