Detective Ben Parker stared at his computer screen like it had personally insulted him. The search results blinked back innocently—millions of entries, all because he’d typed two simple words into the database: Faith and missing. It was maddening. Like trying to find one specific grain of sand on a beach during a hurricane.

  “Of course,” Ben muttered under his breath, leaning back in his chair so far it creaked ominously. “Why make anything easy? That would ruin the whole cosmic joke.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the weight of too many late nights pressing down on him. Between Kyle Daniels’ blood-soaked motel room, symbols scratched onto walls like some kind of demented art, and now this wild goose chase after someone named Faith, Ben was starting to feel like he’d stepped into an episode of The Twilight Zone. Except instead of Rod Serling showing up to explain everything in five minutes, Ben was stuck sifting through endless files while fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry insects.

  “All right, genius,” he said aloud, addressing no one but himself. “Let’s narrow this down before your brain melts out your ears.”

  First, he filtered by location—anything within a fifty-mile radius of the motel where Kyle Daniels had vanished. The list shrank from millions to thousands. Progress, sure, but not exactly a victory lap. He sighed, scrolling through names until something caught his eye—a report filed nine months ago about a missing person. A man named Ethan Lawrence. His wife? Faith Lawrence.

  "Bingo,” Ben whispered, tapping the screen triumphantly. For a moment, he let himself imagine cracking open the case wide enough to see daylight. Then reality slapped him upside the head again as he opened the file.

  The report was infuriatingly sparse. Faith Lawrence hadn’t been much help during the initial interview. According to the responding officer, she’d been nearly catatonic, sitting on her couch like a statue, tears streaming silently down her face while she clutched a tissue like it was the last lifeline to sanity. No leads. No suspects. Just… emptiness.

  Ben frowned, reading between the lines. Something about the description didn’t sit right. People who lose loved ones are supposed to scream, cry, beg for answers—not sit there like hollowed-out shells. Unless, of course, they already knew what happened. Or worse—they were part of it.

  The Lawrence home, a modern condo with a rooftop patio, looked almost normal. Too normal. Like whoever lived there had frozen time the moment Ethan disappeared. Ben continued to read the file. There had been a small suitcase on the bed, half-packed, sitting open in the master bedroom. Clothes spilling out haphazardly, like someone had started packing in a hurry and then just… stopped. On top of the pile sat a thick wad of cash, rubber-banded together neatly. Odd choice for someone planning a vacation—or running away. Even odder was Ethan’s wallet on the dresser next to his car keys, and outside, Ethan’s car was still in the driveway.

  There were no personal photos on display, no knick-knacks cluttering the shelves. Just empty spaces where memories should have been. The coffee maker had been unplugged, and the fridge had been emptied. The house looked like it was ready to be sold, but according to the report, Ethan Lawrence had only disappeared 24 hours before.

  Nothing screamed “crime scene.” No blood stains. No signs of struggle. It was only a missing person’s report, but Ben was suspicious. The attending officer hadn’t been able to get any answers out of Faith about what their plans had been, if they had fought again, or even if Ethan had a history of disappearing. She only sat there and cried.

  The officer’s notes had included a description of the scene and some sparse facts about Mrs. Lawrence’s demeanor but nothing else. Evidently, they had chalked it up as a husband leaving his wife. With no signs of violence, there was nothing else they could do but promise to keep in touch.

  Faith had written her telephone number on the officer’s notepad and ushered everyone out with the same sadly quiet tone.

  He printed the file anyway.

  Ben spread the evidence across his desktop like a macabre jigsaw puzzle. Kyle Daniels’ motel room. Rosie Martinez’s cryptic message. Now, Ethan Lawrence’s disappearance—and his wife, Faith, who sounded less like a grieving widow, or an abandoned wife, and more like a ghost.

  “She’s connected,” Ben murmured, staring at the word for ‘Faith’ scrawled on the grocery receipt. “But how?”

  Rosie had written it. Ethan’s wife was named it. And those Cherokee symbols on the wall? They mentioned it too. Whatever was happening here, Faith wasn’t just a coincidence. She was the thread tying everything together.

  But threads could unravel. And if Ben pulled hard enough, maybe he’d find the knot at the center of this mess.

  Ben sat back in his chair, staring at the name Faith Lawrence scrawled across the top of the file folder as if it might suddenly rearrange itself into something less mysterious. His mind churned through the details—the half-packed suitcase, the wad of untouched cash, Ethan’s wallet still sitting on the dresser as if waiting for its owner to return. Something wasn’t right here. No forced entry. No struggle. Just… absence. Like Ethan had been plucked out of existence by some invisible hand.

  And then there was Kyle Daniels’ motel room. Same pattern: wallet on the dresser with bags of untouched food. His few clothes were strewn across the floor of the tiny closet. Blood everywhere, but no body. Kyle had vanished too.

  Rosie Martinez, covered in Kyle’s blood, and cryptic symbols scratched into the walls. It all connected somehow—Faith Lawrence, Rosie’s message, the Cherokee symbols—but how? And what did any of that have to do with people vanishing without a trace?

  He rubbed his temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache creep in. Whatever this was, it wasn’t normal. Not missing persons. Not murder. Something else entirely. Something that didn’t play by the rules.

  The sound of heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway outside the precinct office, pulling him from his thoughts. A moment later, Lou Alvarez appeared in the doorway, looking like he’d just stepped out of a boxing ring—even though he hadn’t thrown a punch. His massive frame filled the space, but his usual swagger was gone. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw working like he was chewing on something sour.

  “You look like hell,” Ben said, leaning forward. “How’d it go with Rosie? Did she confess to being an alien or just admit she’s part of a blood cult?"

  Lou shot him a look but didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he let out a long sigh, trudging to his desk and sitting in the chair. "You’re gonna love this, Professor Tidy. Turns out our girl Rosie might be channeling some kind of… I dunno, pissed-off spirit or something."

  Ben looked up, eyebrows raised. "A spirit? Like Casper the Friendly Ghost?"

  "Not exactly." Lou shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling ridiculous even saying the words. "More like… uh, whatever the opposite of friendly is. Malevolent? Evil? Take your pick."

  Ben tilted his head, studying Lou with that annoyingly calm expression of his. "Ohhhhkay, so you think she’s possessed. By what—a demon? A ghost? Some vengeful ex-boyfriend who decided that haunting her was easier than dodging shoes?"

  "Laugh all you want, brainy bastard," Lou muttered, leaning forward now. "But I’m telling you, something ain’t right with her. Her eyes turned green, man. They kinda glowed…green. And her voice—it wasn’t hers. No accent, no nothing. Just… cold. Like listening to nails on a chalkboard wrapped in barbed wire."

  Ben blinked, clearly caught off guard by the intensity in Lou’s voice. "Wait, wait. Green eyes? Seriously?"

  "Yeah, seriously," Lou snapped, throwing up his hands. "And before you ask, no, I didn’t eat any funny mushrooms before heading to the hospital. She climbed onto the damn table and pissed on her St. Lazarus medal, alright? That’s not normal behavior, even for someone locked up in a psych ward.”

  “What did the doctor say?” Ben asked, searching through his desk for a pen.

  “She said it was a dissociation. Like multiple personalities,” Lou grumbled, “That doctor is keeping her under lock and key, like some science experiment,” he paused.

  “I bet she wants to write papers about her, maybe a book or something - ‘The Strange Case of Rosie Martinez’ - said a lot of crap about how fragile she was.”

  “That can’t be right. Cases of dissociative identity disorder are usually debunked. The experts have all said it’s not possible,” Ben thought out loud as he paused in his search for something to write with.

  “Yeah? Well, this one thinks she’s got a genuine mystery to solve, and she says ‘no more interruptions,’” Lou looked at Ben helplessly.

  “So they are serious about helping Rosie?” Ben asked, relieved that the doctor wasn’t just making a crack diagnosis. Now, he needed to figure out how badly his partner’s grip on reality had been shaken.

  Ben frowned, leaning back in his chair. "Alright, fine. Let’s say—for argument’s sake—that you’re right. That she’s possessed. What does that mean? Are we dealing with ghosts? Demons? Or this really is some weird cult thing?"

  "That’s the problem," Lou said, his voice tight as he ran a hand through his hair. His fingers lingered at the back of his neck, gripping like he could squeeze out the right words if he just pressed hard enough. "I don’t know how to explain this without sounding like I’ve lost my damn mind. Growing up, my abuela—she used to tell me stories about Santería, you know? Spirits called Orishas. They’re supposed to be good. Helpful. Guides, not... whatever this thing is." He stopped, his jaw tightening as he fought against the images burned into his memory—the way Rosie had looked when they found her, covered in blood, her face smeared with it like war paint. Blood that wasn’t hers.

  Lou swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep going. "This thing inside her—it’s not helping anyone. Unless ‘help’ means tearing someone apart. Literally." His voice cracked on the last word, and he clenched his fists to steady himself. "Kyle’s gone, Ben. Vanished. All we’ve got left are those goddamn motel room photos, and Rosie sitting there like some broken doll, covered in his blood. I think she did something to him—I know she did—but it wasn’t her, you understand? It was like watching someone else wear her skin. Like she was trapped in there, screaming, while something else took the wheel."

  Ben winced visibly at the mention of Kyle, his shoulders tensing. "Jesus, Lou. You really think this is supernatural? Not a mental illness or drugs or—"

  "No!" Lou barked, slamming his fist down on the desk so hard the coffee cups jumped and clattered. The sound echoed in the office, but it didn’t come close to matching the storm brewing inside him. "It’s none of that crap. Drugs don’t make your eyes glow green, Ben. Trauma doesn’t twist your body into shapes no human should ever move in. And mental illness sure as hell doesn’t let you tear a human being apart with your bare hands. You read the reports! She scalped him, man! That was Kyle’s hair in the drain!” His voice rose with each sentence until he was practically shouting, his frustration boiling over.

  He leaned forward, bracing both hands on the desk as he locked eyes with Ben. "You weren’t there," he growled, his tone dropping low, almost dangerous. "You didn’t see her. This wasn’t some scared kid lashing out or some junkie high on bad meth. This was calculated. Cold. Whatever’s inside her—it knew exactly what it was doing. It made her do things she’d never do. Things no one would do unless something evil was pulling the strings. They had to get the biggest orderlies they could find to get her down off that table. That thin little woman was too strong, and they were scared shitless.”

  Lou straightened up, his massive frame towering over the desk, but his expression softened slightly, betraying the conflict raging beneath the surface. "Look, I don’t want to believe it either, alright? Hell, I’m still trying to convince myself I didn’t imagine the whole damn thing. But I saw it, Ben. I felt it. That thing inside her—it’s real. And it’s capable of killing someone. Maybe it already has. We don’t even know where Kyle is, but judging by the state of that motel room—and Rosie—we’re not dealing with anything normal here."

  His voice faltered for a moment, and he turned away, rubbing a hand over his face like he could scrub away the memory of Rosie being dragged away while that low guttural chuckle filled the room.

  “San Lázaro can’t help you. No one can.”

  "And the worst part?" he muttered, quieter now, almost to himself. "She’s still in there somewhere. Trapped. Watching herself do these things and she’s not able to stop it. If we don’t figure this out—if we can’t find a way to help her—" He stopped, shaking his head again. "Hell if I know what happens next. But it won’t end well. For her, or for anyone else who gets in its way."

  There was a long pause as Ben processed this, his expression shifting from skepticism to concern. Finally, he spoke, his voice softer now. "Are you okay, Lou? I mean, you’re different.”

  "I wish it was just a ghost," Lou continued softly. Then louder: "Look, I’m not losing my mind here. I saw what I saw. And yeah, maybe I sound like a lunatic, but I need your help figuring this out. You’re the one who believes in science and logic and all that crap. So tell me—what the hell do we do next?"

  Lou sank back into his chair, gripping the edge of the desk like it was the only thing holding him to the Earth. His knuckles were white, and his jaw clenched as if he were trying to physically hold back the storm brewing inside him. The image of Rosie—her glowing green eyes, her mouth grinning that too-wide smile—was burned into his mind, unshakable no matter how hard he tried to push it away.

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  But before he could say anything else, Ben leaned forward, his expression shifting from skepticism to something darker, more urgent. "Hold that thought, Lou," he said, his voice low and steady. "Because I think we’ve got bigger problems than just Rosie."

  Lou frowned, his frustration momentarily giving way to curiosity. "What are you talking about?"

  Ben grabbed the file folder in front of him and slid it across the desk toward Lou, who slapped it still with a meaty palm. The name Faith Lawrence was scrawled across the top in bold black letters. "This is who Rosie was writing about. Faith Lawrence. Remember those symbols on the motel wall? They mentioned her, too."

  "You found her?" Lou stared at the file, his brow furrowing as he flipped it open. Inside were grainy photos of a modest suburban home, a missing persons report for Ethan Lawrence, and notes from an inconclusive interview with Faith herself. "What’s this got to do with Kyle?" Lou asked, though his tone suggested he already suspected the answer wouldn’t be simple.

  "That’s the thing," Ben said, sitting back in his chair but keeping his gaze locked on Lou. "Ethan Lawrence disappeared nine months ago. No forced entry. No signs of struggle. Just... gone. Same MO as Kyle’s motel room. Missing man but no body. And get this—his wife Faith reported him missing, but according to the responding officer, she was practically catatonic during the interview. Wouldn’t—or couldn’t—say much beyond crying silently.”

  Lou looked at his partner skeptically, “I dunno Ben, people go missing all the time. This doesn’t say anything about blood or symbols scratched into a wall or even drug use. This is just a man leaving his wife, and she’s sad about it.”

  “Keep reading,” Ben pointed to the file. “It says that the officer asked if they had been fighting ‘again.’” He didn’t wait for Lou to find the reference. “And look at this,” Ben reached into the file that Lou held stiffly and pulled out Faith’s driver’s license photo. “Brown eyes.”

  Lou, getting the idea, flipped through the notes until he found a description of Mrs. Lawrence. He tapped on the word, ‘green’ in the officer’s handwriting, “green eyes.”

  "I just found this," Ben admitted, rubbing his hands on his thighs, “But I feel like it's connected. If you're right, that's not just a typo.”

  "And Rosie keeps mentioning Faith. Writing her name down like it’s some kind of clue or warning." Lou slammed the file shut, frustration bubbling over again. "Jesus Christ, Parker. What the hell is going on here? Are we really dealing with some kind of cult? A serial killer who leaves no trace? Or—" He hesitated, glancing at Ben warily. "Or is this about something supernatural, like I thought?”

  Ben didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stood and began pacing the office, his footsteps echoing against the worn tile floor. "I don’t know what to call it," he said finally, stopping by the window to stare out at the dimly lit parking lot below. "But one thing’s clear: whatever’s happening with Rosie isn’t isolated. It’s connected to Faith Lawrence. To her husband. To Kyle. Maybe even to other cases we haven’t found yet."

  Lou exhaled sharply. "Alright, fine. Say you’re right. Say all these things are connected. Where does that leave us? We can’t exactly arrest a ghost or exorcise a suspect."

  "No," Ben agreed, turning back to face him. "But we can start with Faith. If she knows something—or if she’s somehow tied to whatever’s doing this—we need to find her. Talk to her. See if she’ll give us answers."

  "And if she won’t?" Lou asked, his thick black brow furrowing.

  "Then we dig deeper," Ben said firmly. "Because whoever—or whatever—is behind this isn’t done yet. If we don’t figure it out soon..." He trailed off, letting the implication hang heavy in the air between them.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke. The hum of the fluorescent lights filled the silence as they both processed the enormity of what they were facing. Finally, Lou broke the quiet with a humorless chuckle. "You know, I always figured I’d retire before I ended up chasing boogeymen. Guess I should’ve bought a Ouija board instead of a fishing rod."

  Ben smirked faintly, though there was no real humor in it. "Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. But just in case..." He reached for his phone in his pocket, ”We better be sure."

  Lou leaned back in his chair, the weight of everything pressing down on him like a lead blanket. The image of Rosie and her glowing green eyes was still fresh in his mind, but now it was tangled up with the mystery of Faith Lawrence. Two cases, two missing men, and one name tying them together. It didn’t make sense, not yet, but he could feel the threads pulling tighter.

  "Alright," Lou said finally, breaking the heavy silence between them. His voice was low, and deliberate, like he was trying to convince himself as much as Ben. "Let’s say we’re dealing with something bigger than either of us understands. Something... unnatural." He paused, shaking his head at the absurdity of the words even as they left his lips. "If this is real—if there’s some kind of spirit or entity involved—then maybe Santería has answers. Orishas, rituals, whatever. Maybe someone out there knows how to stop it."

  Ben lowered his phone. "You’re suggesting we bring religion into this? Call up a priest or a shaman or something?"

  "Not exactly," Lou muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But I grew up hearing about this stuff, alright? My abuela used to talk about spirits all the time. If anyone can help us figure out what’s going on, it’s someone who practices… someone who deals with this kind of thing for real—not just stories."

  "And you think you can find someone willing to talk?" Ben asked skeptically. "People don’t usually open up to cops about spiritual matters, especially not when demons are involved."

  "I’ll make it work," Lou shot back, his tone firm despite the unease simmering beneath the surface. "I’ve got old connections. I’ll start asking around and see if anyone knows a babalao or someone who can explain what the hell we’re dealing with. But that’s gonna take time."

  Ben nodded slowly, piecing it together. "Which means I need to focus on Faith. She’s the link between Rosie and Ethan. If she knows something—or if she’s somehow tied to whatever’s doing this—we need to know."

  Lou frowned, glancing at the file folder still sitting on the desk between them. "You sure about that? Going after Faith alone? We don’t even know what we’re walking into here."

  "I’m not going in blind," Ben replied, grabbing the photo of Faith’s driver’s license from the folder. Her face stared back at him—calm, unassuming, almost ordinary. "I’ve got her number, and I’ll find her. I’ll go check it out and see if she’s home. Maybe she’ll talk. Maybe she won’t. Either way, we’re running out of options."

  "You really think she’s mixed up in this?" Lou asked, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

  "I don’t know," Ben admitted, standing and slipping the photo into his pocket. "But if she’s connected to Rosie or to Kyle—then yeah, I think she’s involved. Whether she knows it or not."

  Lou let out a long breath, nodding reluctantly. "Fine. You go after Faith. I’ll dig into the pissed off spirit angle. See if I can track down someone who knows more about these kinds of things. But Ben—" He stopped, his expression hardening. "Be careful. Whatever this is, it’s dangerous. And if Faith’s part of it... well, let’s just say I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her."

  "Don’t worry," Ben said with a faint smirk, though there was no humor in it. "I’ll keep my distance."

  Lou chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "Smart move, Professor Tidy. Just promise me one thing."

  "What’s that?"

  "If you end up fighting a demon, call me and I’ll bring the holy water."

  Ben smirked again, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair. "Deal. But only if you promise not to laugh when I start chanting Latin."

  As Ben headed for the door, Lou called after him, "Hey, Parker!"

  "Yeah?"

  "Watch your back. There’s more out there than Disneyland."

  Ben gave him a quick nod before disappearing into the hallway, leaving Lou alone in the dimly lit office. For a moment, he sat there, staring at the file folder and the jagged symbols scrawled across the motel wall photos. Then he stood, grabbed his phone, and dialed a number he hadn’t used in years. Whoever—or whatever—they were dealing with, they were running out of time. And if they didn’t figure it out soon, they might not get another chance.

  The phone rang three times before it was answered. A warm, almost cheerful voice came through the line, catching Ben slightly off guard.

  "Hello?" Faith Lawrence sounded like someone who was happily cleaning up after her twelve dwarf friends.

  "Ms. Faith Lawrence? This is Detective Ben Parker." He paused, letting the name sink in. "I’m investigating the disappearance of your husband, Ethan."

  There was a brief silence on the other end, but it wasn’t tense or heavy—it felt more like she was simply processing the information. When she spoke again, her tone was calm, even curious. "Oh, Ethan? That’s sweet of you to follow up, Detective. But honestly, I thought that case was closed by now."

  Ben frowned, taken aback by her casual response. "Closed? No, ma’am, it’s still open. We’re actively pursuing leads. That’s why I’d like to meet with you—to discuss any new details you might have."

  Faith chuckled softly, though there was no real humor behind it. "New details? From me? I haven’t seen or heard from Ethan in months. What could I possibly tell you?"

  "I understand," Ben said carefully, choosing his words deliberately. "But sometimes people remember things later, or circumstances change. It would really help if we could talk in person."

  Another pause, shorter this time. Then: "Well, alright. If you think it’ll make a difference. But I’ve moved since then—I’m in Georgia now."

  "That’s fine," Ben replied quickly, leaning forward in his seat. "Would it be okay if I came to visit you? Where are you staying?"

  Faith hesitated for a moment, then gave him an address in a town called Blackwood Hollow. Her tone remained light, almost dismissive. "Sure, Detective. Come on up. Just don’t expect any earth-shattering revelations. Like I said, I haven’t thought about Ethan in ages. Call me again when you get to town.”

  Ben thanked her and hung up, staring at the phone for a moment. Something about her nonchalance unsettled him. She didn’t sound heartbroken or angry—just… detached. As if Ethan’s disappearance barely registered anymore.

  Faith lowered the phone from her ear and slipped it back into the pocket of her jeans. The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across Ava’s side-yard garden. Birds chirped lazily in the distance, their cheerful song blending seamlessly with the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze.

  She stood motionless for a moment, tilting her head as if replaying the conversation in her mind. Then, with a small shrug, she turned her attention back to the task at hand—raking the soil around Ava’s mysterious blue roses. Their scent was intoxicating, sweet, and refreshing, filling the air with a fragrance that seemed to soothe her nerves. Working in the garden had become a kind of therapy for her, a way to quiet the nightmares that used to plague her sleep. And besides, Ava was nice enough, if a little peculiar. Helping her with the garden felt like a fair trade for the peace it brought her.

  Ava stood nearby, watching Faith intently. Her green eyes glinted unnaturally in the sunlight, though Faith didn’t notice—or if she did, she dismissed it as nothing new. To her, Ava was just a quirky old lady with a knack for growing strange, beautiful flowers.

  She noticed the feeling of being watched, though; it always crept up on her as she was finishing her work for the day. “Someone wants to come see me,” Faith said aloud to acknowledge Ava’s presence, her voice carrying a note of curiosity rather than concern. “About my ex-husband.”

  Ava tilted her head slightly, like a curious animal sizing up its prey. Her gaze never wavered, drilling into Faith with an intensity that went unnoticed. “And what did you tell him?” Ava asked, her voice smooth and low, carrying an undercurrent of menace that Faith couldn’t quite place.

  “I told him he could come,” Faith replied matter-of-factly, continuing to rake the soil, even though a small voice inside her warned that she hadn’t mentioned it was a man. “It’s not like I have anything to hide. Besides, maybe it’ll be interesting to hear what they’ve found out—or haven’t found out—about Ethan.” Had she spoken about her husband’s disappearance to Ava before now? She couldn’t remember.

  Ava stepped closer, her movements fluid and deliberate, each step seeming to whisper over the ground of the quiet yard. She stopped mere inches from Faith, close enough that Faith could feel the chill radiating off her skin despite the heat of the sun. Faith hated Ava’s perfume. It was something rotten, mixed with old flowers and another scent that made her nose wrinkle. But she tried to keep her nose still as Ava reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from Faith’s face with fingers that were ice-cold against her cheek.

  “You shouldn’t have invited him,” Ava whispered, her breath ghosting across Faith’s ear. “People who ask questions tend to find answers they wish they hadn’t.”

  Faith flinched slightly at the unexpected touch, taking a step back instinctively. But Ava followed, closing the distance again without missing a beat. Her grin widened now, revealing teeth that gleamed unnaturally white in the sunlight. “Still,” she added, her voice dropping to a near-silent purr, “perhaps this will make things more interesting.”

  Faith laughed nervously, shaking her head as she resumed raking. “You’re such a drama queen, Ava. I don’t think he’ll stay around long or bother you at all. Don’t worry. Honestly, it’s probably nothing. Just some bored detective looking for closure on a cold case.”

  Ava’s smile faded into something colder, sharper—a satisfied smirk that sent a shiver down Faith’s spine, though she couldn’t explain why.

  Later, Faith finished raking the soil around the flowers, her movements steady and deliberate, as if she were tending to something sacred. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across Ava’s yard that seemed darker than they had any right to be. Shadows that didn’t quite move with the wind but instead stretched toward Faith like skeletal fingers reaching for prey.

  Ava stood nearby, watching her with those unnatural green eyes—eyes that didn’t reflect light so much as swallow it whole. Her presence loomed over the garden like a storm cloud waiting to burst, heavy and suffocating. She didn’t speak; she didn’t need to. Her hold on Faith was growing stronger by the day, tightening its grip like ivy choking the life out of an old oak tree.

  A week ago, Faith might have flinched at Ava’s touch—a cold, dead thing that made your skin crawl even through layers of clothing. A week ago, Faith might have run screaming from this place, her instincts screaming louder than her rational mind could ignore. But now? Now she stayed. And not just stayed—she worked. Worked tirelessly, slaving away at a garden that never got any neater, no matter how hard she tried.

  The flowers never bloomed. Not really. Oh, Faith thought they did, because Ava willed her to see petals where there were only thorns, beauty where there was rot. The weeds came back faster every morning, sprouting overnight like some unholy mockery of nature. The shrubs Faith pruned grew wilder, twisting into grotesque shapes that looked almost human when the light hit them wrong. Once, Faith had spent an entire Saturday on a ladder, ripping away at the ivy that had swallowed most of the first floor of her house. By dawn, it had regrown thicker and more tangled than before, curling around the windows like grasping hands eager to pull victims inside.

  But Faith didn’t notice. Faith couldn’t notice. Because all she saw was what Ava wanted her to see: a magical paradise, buzzing with bees and chirping with birds. To Faith, this was a comforting haven, a neat little garden where everything made sense and nothing hurt anymore. It was becoming her sanctuary—and that was exactly what Ava intended.

  The blue roses were the worst. Their scent was sweet, almost too sweet, clinging to Faith’s clothes and hair like perfume laced with poison. They drew her in, hooking her deeper each time she stepped into the garden. She smiled here. She laughed here. She felt happy here—happier than she had been since Ethan vanished without a trace. And Ava watched it all unfold with a cruel satisfaction twisting her lips into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

  Soon, Ava would tell Faith to quit the bakery. She’d whisper the idea into Faith’s ear while she slept, planting it deep in her subconscious until Faith believed it was her own thought. “Why waste your days baking bread for ungrateful strangers,” Ava would murmur, “when you can stay here with me? When you can tend to the garden?” Faith wouldn’t argue. She’d agree eagerly, thrilled at the chance to spend more time in her newfound paradise.

  And soon after that, Ava would be in full control. She could feel it—the threads binding Faith to her will growing tighter, stronger, impossible to break. Faith was hers now, body and soul, though she hadn’t yet realized it. Every clipped stalk, every spade of earth, every laugh, every smile—it all belonged to Ava.

  Ava shifted slightly, brushing a dead leaf from her hair. This outdoor nonsense was making her itchy. She hated the dirt under her nails, the sweat trickling down her neck, the way the sunlight exposed flaws in her carefully constructed illusion. But it was necessary—for now. Faith needed to believe in the magic of the garden. She needed to feel safe and loved before Ava took the final step. Only then would she truly break.

  For now, Ava contented herself with watching Faith work, her gaze sharp and predatory. The air around them seemed to hum faintly, vibrating with an energy that wasn’t natural. Somewhere in the distance, a bird screeched—a sound too harsh, too raw to belong to anything living. Faith paused in setting her tools on the porch, tilting her head as if listening to something only she could hear. Then she smiled softly and went back to stacking the tools neatly.

  Ava smiled too, but hers was different. It was the kind of smile that stirred the acid in your gut, the kind that promised pain and suffering wrapped in silk ribbons. She reached out, trailing one icy finger along the stem of a blue rose, leaving behind a trail of frost that melted instantly in the humid Georgia heat.

  “Oh, Faith,” Ava whispered, her voice barely audible above the rustle of leaves. “You’ll make such a lovely corpse.”

  Faith didn’t hear her. She was humming to herself, lost in her perfect little world. Lost in the lie Ava had spun for her.

  And somewhere deep within the earth beneath their feet, something stirred. Something ancient and hungry. Something that had been waiting for Ava to call it forth.