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
The journal felt heavy in my hands, a silent accusation. Maya’s attempts to grab it from me had only confirmed my suspicion.
“Gideon didn’t put this here, Maya,” I said, my voice low and steady. “This is your handwriting. Every single one of these chants, these symbols.”
I flipped open a page, pointing to a particularly elaborate sigil.
“Tell me what this is.”
Maya’s face crumpled. Her eyes welled up, and she began to sob, her shoulders shaking violently. It was a familiar performance, one I’d seen many times when she wanted to avoid a difficult conversation.
“He made me, Mom!” she wailed, burying her face in her hands. “Gideon… he’s a monster. He forced me to write them. He said if I didn’t, he’d hurt Marcus, he’d hurt *you*.”
The words tumbled out, desperate and choked with tears.
“He had me… he had me performing these horrible rituals at the Boudreaux house. He said it was the only way to keep us safe.”
I watched her, my military training kicking in. Observe. Analyze. Discern truth from deception.
Her tears streamed down her face, but her eyes, when she risked a glance at me, were quick, assessing. A cold calculation beneath the fabricated distress.
“Why would Gideon force you to write these?” I asked, pushing back. “What power would that give him?”
She just shook her head, unable to articulate a coherent answer, dissolving into another fit of sobs.
Then, a chill permeated the cabin, a damp, heavy cold that wasn’t from the outside marsh.
The floorboards beneath my feet began to hum. It was a low, rhythmic thrumming, like a deep heartbeat.
My eyes swept the small room. The shadows in the corners, usually static, seemed to deepen, shifting slightly. They elongated, stretching unnaturally, pulsing with the same rhythm as the floorboards.
A gust of wind, though the windows were closed, rattled the panes.
Maya let out a fresh shriek, pointing a trembling finger at the floor.
“It’s him! He’s here!” she cried, her voice laced with a raw terror that sounded far too real.
The shadows writhed, and the rhythmic thrum intensified, vibrating through the very foundation of the safehouse. This wasn’t just a trick of the light. This was a direct, palpable manifestation.
Gideon hadn’t just put the journal there. And Maya wasn’t just a victim. The entity was clearly tied to her, responding to her in some way.
“We can’t stay here,” I murmured, clutching the journal tighter. This safehouse was compromised.
The pulsing shadows were growing bolder, reaching out like tendrils of smoke.
“Get your things,” I commanded, my voice sharp. “Now.”
We had to move. And fast.
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