Retired Army Colonel Brenda Hollins Races To Save Her Bruised Daughter From Abuse and Supernatural Captivity, Only To Uncover A $5 Million Blood Covenant That Reverses Everything She Believed
Two weeks. Two weeks had passed since the chapel, since the shattering of the vessel, since the cold confession. Two weeks of heavy, suffocating silence in my home.
The legal battle with Judge Pryor was a tangled mess. Evelyn Moreau had vanished after giving me the ledger, her job done. Without her testimony, and with Gideon Crossland completely off the grid, the evidence was circumstantial. Pryor, a man used to pulling strings in the Lowcountry, was deadlocked, unable to enforce his warrants, but also untouchable in his position. It was a stalemate, a frustrating draw.
The local authorities, when I’d cautiously tried to hint at supernatural influence, had looked at me with polite concern, suggesting stress leave for a decorated veteran. I knew better than to push it. Some battles couldn’t be fought with conventional weapons.
Maya remained docile, almost unnervingly so. She continued her soft apologies, her quiet tasks around the house. But the whisperings in the hallway, though less frequent, still happened. I caught her eyes lingering on the shadows, a faint, almost imperceptible shift in her expression, a flicker of that dark fervor returning.
The supernatural chill never truly left the house. It clung to the corners, settled in the floorboards, a constant, nagging presence. I slept little, my senses always alert, always listening. Every creak of the house, every rustle of leaves outside, sent a jolt through me.
I was back to constant vigilance, a soldier on endless patrol, but this time the enemy was not a visible threat. It was an insidious, pervasive influence, clinging to my own daughter, poisoning my sanctuary.
The thought of an exorcist had crossed my mind, but Evelyn’s warning echoed in my ears: “The entity responds to intent.” And Maya’s intent, even subdued, was still there, a conduit. A forced exorcism might only anger it, leading to a disaster I couldn’t comprehend.
So I watched. I cooked meals. I pretended normalcy. I waited for the next move, the next ripple in the false peace. I had traded the battlefield for a domestic front, but the war was far from over. My life had become an unending vigil, a silent, internal struggle against a darkness I couldn’t defeat, only manage.
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of bruised purple and orange. Rain began to fall, a soft, persistent drizzle that blurred the outlines of the ancient live oaks outside. I sat on my porch swing, the damp air clinging to my skin, the silence oppressive.
The phone rang.
It was a sharp, insistent sound in the quiet house, cutting through the drumming rain. A midnight call.
I knew, with a sinking certainty, exactly who it would be.
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