CHAPTER EIGHT
The silence in the wake of Lily's nursery rhyme was more terrifying than any scream. It was a silence that swallowed sound, a vacuum where only the echo of those dark, sing-song words could exist.
One small tap on the window pane
Wash the floor with the crimson rain
The string is pulled and the neck is tight
Say goodnight to the fading light.
Elara stood frozen, her hand still clamped over her mouth, the image of the blood-scrawled message seared onto her vision. She turned from her laptop, her movements jerky, and found my eyes. The unspoken truth hung between us, a shroud of absolute horror.
"David," she whispered, her voice cracking. She stumbled toward me, grabbing my arms, her nails digging into my skin. "The news… the message… the pastor… Lily… she…"
"I know," I said, my own voice a hollow rasp. I pulled her into a tight embrace, more to stop her from seeing the grim confirmation in my eyes than to offer comfort. How could I tell her that the monster wasn't just in our daughter, but was her own grandfather, and that my violence was the fertilizer for his growth? The truth would shatter what was left of her.
We stood like that for a long time, clinging to each other in the dim living room as the innocent, terrifying melody continued to drift down from Lily's room. The song would stop, and for a heart-stopping moment, we'd hope it was over. Then it would begin again, a little louder, a little more confident.
"We can't live like this," Elara finally gasped, pulling away. Her face was slick with tears. "He told us… the pastor… he said it was an Archon. That it needed a higher power. We have to try again. We have to get someone else. Real exorcists."
I wanted to argue, to tell her it was futile, that the problem was in our blood, not our house. But the desperate hope in her eyes was the last flicker of the woman I loved. I had to fan it, even if it was a lie.
"Okay," I nodded, the word tasting like ash. "We'll call someone else."
We found a group online—The Order of St. Clement, a trio of "spiritual responders" who claimed to specialize in "entrenched parasitic entities." They were not part of the official church, which made them willing to come immediately. They arrived at dusk: Brother Marcus, a large, bearded man with a kind face; Sister Agnes, stern and sharp-eyed, carrying a heavy, iron-bound Bible; and a younger acolyte named Leo, who held a censer that smoked with pungent myrrh.
I told them everything, editing out Lily's direct involvement, framing it as the entity using her as a puppet. They listened, their expressions growing graver by the minute.
"The child is the focus," Brother Marcus boomed, his voice filling the hallway. "We must cleanse the space around her to sever the connection."
They began their ritual in the living room. Sister Agnes chanted in Latin, her voice a low, guttural counterpoint to Brother Marcus's prayers. Leo swung the censer, the thick smoke curling towards the ceiling like seeking tendrils. They anointed the doors and windows with oil, drawing crosses on the frames.
They had just begun to sprinkle holy water when a small, clear voice cut through the chanting.
"Stop it."
Lily stood at the foot of the stairs, her red balloon nowhere in be seen. Her face was pale, her expression one of mild annoyance.
Brother Marcus offered a paternal smile. "It's alright, little one. We're just making the house feel better. This won't hurt."
"I said stop," Lily repeated, her voice flat. "Go back to your houses."
Sister Agnes glanced at us, a look of pity in her eyes. "The entity speaks through her. Pay no mind to the vessel." She raised her voice, directing it at Lily. "I command you to be silent!"
A flicker of a smile touched Lily's lips. It was not a child's smile.
Elara moved then, a surge of maternal instinct overriding her terror. "Lily, that's enough! Back to your room!" She rushed forward, grabbed Lily's arm, and half-dragged, half-carried her up the stairs. I heard the bedroom door slam shut and the key turn in the lock.
Elara returned, breathing heavily, her face a mask of resolve and despair. "Continue," she ordered the exorcists.
They did. The chanting grew louder, more forceful. Brother Marcus held his crucifix high.
From behind the locked door, Lily began to sing again.
"One small tap on the window pane…"
Her voice was sweet, melodic.
Brother Marcus suddenly choked. His prayers turned into a wet gurgle. He clutched his throat, his face turning a deep, violent purple. The crucifix fell from his hand as he dropped to his knees, his eyes bulging, staring at nothing. The sound of his trachea collapsing was a soft, sickening crunch.
"…Wash the floor with the crimson rain…"
Sister Agnes screamed, stumbling backward. Leo stared in horror, the censer shaking in his hand.
A thin crack appeared in the living room window pane. Then another. Then a spiderweb of fractures spread across the glass. With a sharp pop, the window shattered inward, but the shards didn't fall. They hung in the air for a moment before flying across the room, embedding themselves in Sister Agnes's chest and face. She didn't even have time to scream again before she crumpled, a fountain of red pooling around her, literally washing the floor.
"…The string is pulled and the neck is tight…"
Leo, the acolyte, turned to run. He took two steps toward the door when his head was violently wrenched backward with an audible snap. His body fell forward, but his head stayed twisted, facing the ceiling, his eyes wide with surprise. He was the string-pulled toy, his neck impossibly tight.
The singing stopped.
The silence was absolute, broken only by the drip of blood from the windowsill.
Elara let out a strangled sob. "That's it. That's it, David! We're leaving! Now!" She scrambled for the hallway closet, yanking out a duffel bag and starting to throw random items into it. "Get your things! We have to get out of here!"
"Elara, wait," I said, grabbing her arm. "Running won't work. This thing… it's not attached to the house. It's attached to us."
"I don't care!" she shrieked, wrenching free. "I will not die in this house! I will not end up like them!" She pointed a trembling finger at the three corpses. "Are you staying? With her? With that?"
"She's our daughter!"
"That is not my daughter!" she screamed, the words tearing out of her. She shoved past me, flung the front door open, and ran out into the pouring rain.
"Elara!" I shouted, running after her. But she was already a disappearing figure in the storm, her bag clutched to her chest. She didn't look back.
I stood in the doorway, the rain soaking me, watching her go. The weight of my inaction was a physical anchor. I had to clean this up. I had to get rid of the bodies. And I knew, with a chilling certainty, what I had to do next. The Quiet Man was winning because I had stopped feeding him. To protect Lily from fully becoming him, I had to become the monster again. I had to kill.
Elara ran blindly, the cold rain stinging her skin. She slipped on the wet pavement, scraping her knees, but scrambled up, driven by pure adrenaline. She rounded a corner and collided hard with a solid figure.
"Whoa there! Elara?"
Elara looked up, rain and tears blurring her vision. It was her sister, Miranda. She was tall, with a sharp, no-nonsense haircut and a practical trench coat. Her car was parked nearby, luggage visible in the back seat.
"Miranda!" Elara gasped, clutching her sister's coat. "You… you came early."
"Wrapped the case faster than I thought. What the hell is going on? You look like you've seen a ghost." Miranda's voice was firm, grounding.
"The house… it's haunted… Lily… she's… possessed!" The words tumbled out between sobs. "I think she killed them… three people… they're dead, Miranda!"
Miranda's eyes narrowed, but not with fear. With a fierce, protective skepticism. "Okay, okay. Slow down. Possessed? That's a new one. Let's go back. Let me see what's happening."
"No! We can't go back!"
"Elara, look at you. You're hysterical. I'm not leaving you out here in the rain, and I'm sure as hell not leaving my niece in a house you claim is dangerous. Now, come on." Miranda's tone brooked no argument. She put a firm arm around Elara and steered her back toward the house.
When Miranda entered, her presence immediately changed the atmosphere. She didn't gasp at the bodies. She surveyed the scene with a cold, analytical eye, her lips pressed into a thin line. I was in the process of dragging Brother Marcus's corpse toward the kitchen.
"David," she said, her voice like chipped ice. "Care to explain?"
Before I could answer, a small voice came from the stairs. Lily was out of her room, standing there, watching us. For the first time, I saw a flicker of something other than cold malice or vacant innocence on her face. She looked… wary.
"Aunt Miranda," she said softly.
Miranda looked at her, then at the dead exorcists, then back at Lily. "Go to your room, Lily. Now."
It wasn't a request. It was an order. And to my astonishment, Lily, after a moment's hesitation, turned and walked back upstairs without a word. The Quiet Man, it seemed, had met a will he couldn't immediately override. It felt like the the quiet man somehow repelled at Miranda's presence.
Miranda turned to me. "Clean this mess up. Now. I'll take care of Elara."
While Miranda settled a shell-shocked Elara in the living room (after quickly and efficiently moving a body aside with a grimace to make space), I finished the grim task of disposing of the three exorcists. It was rote, mechanical.
Later that night, the need was a fire in my blood. I had to kill. I slipped out, my knife a familiar comfort. I found my first victim in a deserted parking lot—a homeless man muttering to himself. I sneaked up to him and raised my knife. The kill was swift, a release of the building pressure. As the life left his eyes, I felt a familiar cold satisfaction, but also a new sensation: a distant, echoing amplification.
Back at the house, Lily was in the kitchen, boring a hole in a paper with oven of her pens (the link). She raised her head, demanding Elara make her hot chocolate. Elara, terrified, was stammering, "I… I… the stove…"
"It's there, Lily. Make it yourself," Elara finally whispered, retreating into the living room.
Lily's face darkened. She stared at the kettle, and it began to rattle, then glow red-hot. The water inside boiled violently without any fire.
Miranda walked in, saw the scene and the paper in Lily's hand, and smirked as she immediately understood what was going on. Without hesitation, she smacked the back of Lily's head—a sharp, stinging blow. "We do not use that tone with your mother. And we do not play with appliances. Go sit down."
Lily stared at her, white-eyed fury flashing across her features for a second. But Miranda stood her ground, arms crossed, a mountain of unimpressed practicality. The moment passed. The kettle stopped rattling. Lily, scowling, slunk away.
I continued my work that night, a second kill, a third. Each death was a sacrifice on the altar of the Quiet Man, each one a chain I hoped would keep Lily tethered to a sliver of her humanity. With every life I took, I felt his presence recede slightly, the link calming. Lily stopped her singing. She became quiet, almost docile.
Miranda, seeing Elara's paralyzing fear, announced she was going out to get proper food and real sedatives. "This family needs to get a grip," she muttered, grabbing her keys and leaving.
The moment the door closed, the dynamic shifted. The house felt heavier. Elara refused to look at Lily, who was now sitting innocently on the sofa.
Meanwhile, I was already moving to my next kill, driven by the Archon's whispers. But as I stalked my new target—a man leaning into an ATM—a chilling sense of deja vu hit me.
The air grew cold, and a figure moved faster, with an uncanny, practiced grace.
A second knife, surgical and clean, plunged into the ATM user's back just before I could strike. I froze, my mask facing the cloaked killer. It was the woman from the Henderson estate—the Clean Killer. She looked up, her eyes glinting in the streetlamp's halo. She gave me a cold, hard look—not of malice, but of competition.
She beat me to the punch again. The Archon would not be fed.
I knew, with cold certainty, that the Quiet Man wasn't my only problem. My murders were being poached. I was now entangled in a deadly, spiritual, and utterly human geometry of rival killers.
I returned home, defeated, to find Elara huddled on the couch, alone and trembling. Miranda was gone. Lily was upstairs, silent. I had failed the Archon. I was out of ideas.
I looked up at Lily's window, then at the empty street where Miranda had driven. Miranda saw the link. The Clean Killer is poaching my supply. I had to kill faster. I had to be smarter. I had to get rid of my rival.
But a deeper thought settled in my mind as I looked at the shattered family I had created. The Quiet Man demanded violence, but Miranda demanded answers. And only one of them would leave this house alive.