Chapter 38: THE WARNING SIGNS
The system woke me at 3:47 AM on February 15th.
[CANONICAL EVENT TRACKER: CRITICAL UPDATE]
[PERRON HAUNTING — ENTERING ACCELERATED PHASE]
[ENTITY ACTIVITY: ELEVATED]
[RECOMMENDATION: IMMEDIATE INTERVENTION]
I sat up in bed, heart pounding, the notification burning in my peripheral vision like an alarm I couldn't silence. Outside my apartment window, Hartford slept peacefully, unaware that somewhere in Rhode Island, a family's nightmare was intensifying.
The second letter from Carolyn Perron had arrived two weeks ago. Ed had read it to me over the phone: more activity, the children more frightened, something that sounded like footsteps in the cellar at all hours. He'd moved the case up his priority list but still talked about visiting "next month, maybe."
Next month might be too late.
I checked the clock. Four hours until I could reasonably call the Warren house. Four hours to plan what I was about to do.
Ed answered on the third ring, his voice gruff with morning coffee.
"Paul. You're up early."
"I need some personal time. A few days, maybe a week."
Silence on the line. Ed knew me well enough to recognize when I was hiding something.
"Personal time," he repeated. "Now? With the Perron case pending?"
"It's important."
"More important than a family in crisis?"
I closed my eyes. Lied to a man I loved like a father.
"Family business. Something I need to handle alone."
Another silence. Then: "Alright. Take the time you need. But Paul—"
"Yes?"
"Whatever you're doing, be careful. Lorraine's been having dreams about you. Dark ones. She won't tell me what she sees, but she's worried."
"Tell her I'll be fine."
"Tell her yourself when you get back."
He hung up. I stood in my apartment, phone in hand, and felt the weight of the deception pressing on my chest.
Then I grabbed my keys and headed for Rhode Island.
The drive to Harrisville took three hours.
I avoided the main roads, took the scenic route through Connecticut and into Rhode Island, giving myself time to think. The car's heater barely worked—a constant battle against the February cold—but the discomfort kept me focused.
The Perron farmhouse wasn't hard to find. Old Arnold Estate, the locals called it, though the family who'd sold it to the Perrons probably hadn't mentioned its history. Three stories of weathered wood and dark windows, set back from the road behind a barrier of ancient oaks.
I didn't approach directly. Parked my car a quarter mile away and walked the property perimeter on foot, keeping to the tree line, staying invisible to anyone who might be watching from the house.
[ENTITY DETECTION: TIER 4 — DORMANT]
[LOCATION: BASEMENT LEVEL]
[ADDITIONAL PRESENCES: 8+ RESIDUAL]
Bathsheba was down there. Waiting. Gathering strength from the land that had been hers for centuries.
The house radiated wrongness like heat from a fire. My Spirit Sight activated automatically, showing me the dark threads of spiritual energy that wound through the property like veins in diseased flesh. Every tree, every stone, every inch of soil was saturated with the curse she'd laid before her death.
And somewhere inside that house, a family of seven was trying to live normally, unaware of what slept beneath their feet.
I couldn't enter. Not yet. Not without revealing my foreknowledge, without triggering questions I couldn't answer. But I could prepare the ground.
The wards went in carefully.
Small stones, blessed and carved with protective symbols, buried at the property's corners. Holy water poured at key points along the perimeter. Prayers whispered into the winter air, layering faith over the corrupted earth.
Each ward was subtle—invisible to normal perception, barely detectable even to my enhanced senses. They wouldn't stop Bathsheba. Nothing this simple could stop a Tier 4 entity with centuries of accumulated power. But they would weaken her influence at the edges, make it harder for her to affect anything outside the house's immediate vicinity.
And when the time came for the real fight, every small advantage would matter.
[WARDS PLACED: 5]
[ESTIMATED EFFECT: 15% REDUCTION IN ENTITY INFLUENCE (PERIMETER)]
[COST: 500 FP]
The work took four hours. By the time I finished, my hands were numb from cold and my soul felt stretched thin from channeling so much faith into the frozen ground.
I sat in my car afterward, heater running, eating a gas station sandwich that tasted like cardboard and regret. Watched the farmhouse through bare winter trees.
A woman appeared in an upstairs window—dark hair, tired face, a child in her arms. Carolyn Perron, I assumed. Mother of five. Wife to Roger. The woman who would be possessed by Bathsheba Sherman if I couldn't prevent it.
She didn't see me watching. Didn't know that someone was already fighting for her family's survival.
I finished my sandwich and drove to the local church.
St. Mary's Catholic Church was small and old and exactly what I needed.
The priest, Father Gorman, was younger than I expected—mid-forties, with the weathered face of someone who'd spent years doing hard work before taking his vows. He listened to my carefully edited story with the patience of a man who'd heard stranger things.
"The Perron family," he said when I finished. "Yes, I've heard... rumors. Strange lights at night. Sounds that carry across the fields." He folded his hands on his desk. "You work with the Warrens?"
"I'm their lead investigator. We'll be coming officially soon, but I wanted to make contact beforehand. When things get bad—and they will get bad—we may need local support."
"What kind of support?"
"A place to bring the family if we need to evacuate. Access to your church for blessing materials. And..." I met his eyes directly. "Your prayers. Whatever is in that house has been there for centuries. It won't leave quietly."
Father Gorman studied me for a long moment. Whatever he saw in my face seemed to satisfy him.
"You believe in what you're fighting," he said. Not a question.
"I've seen too much not to believe."
"Then you'll have my support. And my prayers." He stood, offered his hand. "God be with you, Mr. Franco."
"And with you, Father."
I sat alone in St. Mary's sanctuary for an hour after Gorman left.
The church was empty, silent except for the creak of old wood and the whisper of wind through gaps in the windows. Candlelight flickered at the altar, casting dancing shadows across the stations of the cross.
I prayed.
Not the practiced prayers of exorcism rites or blessing ceremonies. Something simpler. Older. The desperate plea of someone facing something larger than themselves.
Help me save this family.
Help me be strong enough.
Help me not fail them the way I've failed before.
The Morrison basement rose in my memory—the moment I'd realized I couldn't stop the demon alone, that my pride and inexperience had nearly cost lives. I'd learned from that failure. Grown stronger. But the fear never quite went away.
[FAITH RESONANCE: 115 (+5)]
[PRAYER DETECTED: GENUINE]
[SPIRITUAL FORTITUDE: ENHANCED]
The system's notification felt almost like a blessing.
I left the church as darkness fell, drove back to my car near the Perron property, and sat watching the farmhouse lights flicker on one by one. A normal family, eating dinner, watching television, putting children to bed.
Unaware of the horror that waited in their basement.
Soon, I promised them silently. We're coming soon.
Then I drove back to Hartford, arriving after midnight, and slept for the first time in two days.
The call from Ed came three weeks later.
"I'm moving up the Perron visit," he said. "Something about their third letter... Lorraine had a bad feeling."
I didn't smile, but I exhaled slowly.
"When do we leave?"
"This weekend. Pack for at least three days. And Paul—"
"Yes?"
"Whatever you were doing in Rhode Island, I hope it was worth it."
He hung up before I could respond.
He knew. Of course he knew. Ed Warren hadn't survived decades in this work by being oblivious.
But he trusted me. Despite my secrets, despite my lies, despite everything—he trusted me.
I pulled out my bag and started packing.
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