Chapter 41: THE FARMHOUSE
Carolyn Perron's hands shook as she led us inside.
"Roger's in the back with the girls," she said, her voice carrying the exhausted determination of someone who'd been fighting too long without reinforcement. "They're scared of strangers, but they're more scared of... of whatever's in this house."
The foyer was exactly what I'd expected—old wood floors, peeling wallpaper, the kind of architectural bones that should have been charming but instead felt oppressive. A grandfather clock stood against one wall, its hands frozen at 3:07.
"That clock," Ed said, noticing my gaze. "Does it always show that time?"
Carolyn laughed—a sound with no humor in it. "It resets every night. Every night at 3:07 AM, every clock in the house stops. Sometimes they start again in the morning. Sometimes they don't."
3:07. The witching hour inverted. Bathsheba's signature.
Roger Perron appeared from a doorway at the end of the hall—a big man, work-roughened hands, the kind of skeptic's face that had probably dismissed the supernatural until it started happening in his own home. Five girls clustered behind him, ranging from a teenager who was clearly trying to look brave to a tiny five-year-old who peered around her father's legs with wide, frightened eyes.
"You're the Warrens?" Roger's voice was gruff, suspicious. "The ghost hunters?"
"Paranormal investigators," Ed corrected gently. "We're here to help your family."
"Help." Roger's laugh was as humorless as his wife's. "I spent twenty years not believing in this nonsense. Twenty years. And now I've got something in my house that pulls my daughter out of bed at night, that scratches messages into the walls, that—" He stopped, jaw tight. "I just want my family safe. Can you do that?"
"We're going to try," Lorraine said. She moved toward Carolyn, took her hands. "You've been very brave, Mrs. Perron. All of you have. But we're here now. You're not alone anymore."
Carolyn's composure cracked. Tears spilled down her cheeks, silent and steady.
"The girls," she whispered. "They won't sleep. April—my youngest—she says there's a lady in the walls who wants to be her mommy. Christine wakes up with bruises she can't explain. Andrea won't talk about what she's seen, but I know she's seen things. I know—"
"Shh." Lorraine pulled her into an embrace. "We're going to find out what's happening. We're going to stop it."
Ed caught my eye, tilted his head toward the daughters. I understood: his job was the parents, mine was the children.
I approached slowly, non-threateningly, the way you'd approach frightened animals. The teenage girl—Andrea, I remembered from the files—stepped forward protectively.
"Who are you?" Her voice was sharp, suspicious. Too old for her years.
"I'm Paul. I work with the Warrens." I crouched slightly, bringing myself to eye level with the smaller children. "I know you're all scared. That's okay. Being scared of scary things is smart."
"Are you here to make the lady go away?" This from Nancy, maybe ten years old, her face pale but curious.
"That's the plan."
"How?" Christine demanded. "Nothing works. Mom tried salt, holy water, prayers—nothing makes it stop."
"We have different tools. Special training. And we don't give up until the job is done."
Movement at the back of the group. The youngest—April—pushed past her sisters and stood directly in front of me, studying my face with an intensity that seemed wrong for a five-year-old.
"The lady watches us," she whispered. "She's in the walls. She's everywhere. But she's scared of something. She's been scared for weeks."
My wards. The preparations I'd made in secret. Bathsheba had noticed them.
"What's she scared of?" I asked carefully.
April tilted her head, considering. "The light. The prayers. And you."
"Me?"
"She's scared of you." April reached out, touched my hand. Her fingers were cold, but her grip was certain. "You're going to make her go away, aren't you? You promised."
I hadn't promised. Not yet. But looking into this child's eyes—this child who'd lived with horror since before she could properly understand it—I made the promise now.
"I promise," I said. "I'm going to make her go away."
April smiled. It was the first genuine smile I'd seen since we arrived.
The tour of the house took an hour.
Every room had its story. The living room where furniture moved on its own. The kitchen where pots flew from shelves. The bedrooms where children woke to find figures standing at their feet. And everywhere, the cold spots—patches of air that seemed to suck warmth from everything around them.
Ed documented everything, his camera clicking constantly, his voice recorder picking up ambient sounds that might contain messages from beyond. Lorraine moved more slowly, touching walls, pausing at doorways, her psychic senses reaching into the house's corrupted history.
I kept my own survey running—Spirit Sight active, Sense Presence mapping the dwelling's supernatural geography.
[ENTITY MAPPING: COMPLETE]
[PRIMARY PRESENCE: BASEMENT — TIER 4]
[SECONDARY PRESENCES: 8 — DISTRIBUTED THROUGHOUT]
[EXTERNAL PRESENCE: TREE — CONNECTED TO PRIMARY]
Eight secondary spirits, bound to Bathsheba's will, used as extensions of her malevolence. The tree was her anchor, the basement her throne. Everything else was just staging ground.
"The basement," Ed said finally, standing before a door that seemed darker than it should be. "We need to check the basement."
"No." Carolyn's voice was sharp with fear. "We don't go down there. Ever. Not since—" She stopped, swallowed hard. "Not since Roger saw her."
"Saw who?"
"The woman. He went down to check the furnace in February. When he came back up, he was white as a sheet. Wouldn't tell me what he saw. He nailed boards across the door the next day."
I looked at the door. Fresh lumber formed an X across its surface, holding it closed. But I could feel what lay behind—the pulsing wrongness of Bathsheba's power, radiating like heat from a furnace.
"We'll address the basement," Ed said carefully. "But not today. First, we need to understand what we're dealing with. Research the history, identify the entity, develop a strategy."
Carolyn nodded, relief evident in her posture. Roger stood beside her, one arm around her shoulders, his skepticism slowly losing ground to hope.
"The girls need to be involved as little as possible," I said. "Whatever happens, they stay out of the dangerous areas. The basement, certainly. And the tree outside."
"The tree?" Roger frowned. "What's wrong with the tree?"
"Nothing you can see. But that tree is connected to what's happening in this house. Keep the children away from it."
The family dog, Sadie, had been barking at the tree line since we arrived. She still wouldn't enter the house. Smart animal.
Ed touched my shoulder. "Let's set up our equipment. We'll monitor overnight, gather evidence. Tomorrow, we start the real investigation."
I nodded and went to help unload the car.
But as I walked past April on my way out, she caught my sleeve.
"The lady's awake now," she whispered. "She knows you're here. She's very, very angry."
I crouched to her level. "Good. Angry people make mistakes."
"She's not a person anymore."
"I know." I squeezed her hand gently. "But I've faced angry things before. I'm still here."
April studied my face one last time, then released my sleeve and rejoined her sisters.
I walked outside to get the equipment, feeling Bathsheba's attention following me like a weight between my shoulder blades.
She was watching. Learning. Preparing.
So was I.
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