Once every protective measure was in place, the Perron family and the investigators gathered inside the safe zone in the living room.
Officer Brad Hamilton stood near the edge of the boundary, repeatedly glancing at Father Anderson.
More specifically, he was staring at the Winchester Model 1897 resting across the priest’s lap.
The old pump-action shotgun had once earned the nickname trench sweeper because of its devastating effectiveness at close range.
Brad nudged Drew with his elbow.
“What was it you said earlier?”
Drew looked at him blankly.
“What did I say?”
Brad gestured toward Anderson and grinned.
“You told me guns couldn’t kill ghosts.
But look at what the priest is carrying.”
Drew followed his gaze and scratched the side of his head.
“This isn’t anything like the exorcisms I imagined.
Priests are supposed to use Bibles, holy water, and crucifixes.”
“He brought those too,” Brad whispered.
“Along with enough ammunition to invade a small country.”
Drew glanced toward Ed and Lorraine, who were standing close together near the Perron family.
“Mr.
Warren,” he asked quietly, “who exactly is Father Anderson?
Is he really a priest?”
Ed and Lorraine exchanged a knowing look.
Memories of an older case surfaced in both their minds.
“I’m not sure anyone completely understands Father Anderson,” Ed admitted.
“But yes, he is an ordained Catholic priest.”
“How did you meet him?”
“We were fortunate enough to have him find us during another investigation,” Ed said.
Drew noticed the seriousness in his voice.
“Was it that dangerous?”
Lorraine nodded.
“It was one of the worst cases we had ever encountered.
If Father Anderson hadn’t arrived when he did, Ed and I might not have survived.”
Brad and Drew looked toward the priest again.
Anderson seemed unaware of their conversation.
He sat silently beside the Perrons, watching the fading light beyond the windows.
They had arrived during the afternoon.
After the introductions, investigation, and lengthy preparations, the sun was now sinking behind the trees.
Golden light spread across the yard for the final time that day.
“Thirty minutes at most,” Anderson murmured.
Night was approaching.
The farmhouse remained unnaturally quiet, but the resentment filling its rooms was growing steadily stronger.
The spirits inside the property clearly disliked his presence.
The holy water, blessed cord, crucifixes, and consecrated ammunition must have felt like burning needles pressed against their souls.
Something touched Anderson’s back.
He turned and found a little girl standing beside him.
It was April Perron, the youngest of Roger and Carolyn’s five daughters.
She stared at him with innocent curiosity.
“Are you going to hurt my friend?”
Anderson immediately understood.
April was the child connected to Rory Walker, the missing boy whose spirit still wandered through the farmhouse.
He had appeared behind her in one of Ed’s photographs.
“April,” Roger called quickly.
“Don’t bother Father Anderson.”
Anderson raised one hand, signaling him to stop.
“It’s all right.”
He placed the shotgun beside his chair, gently lifted April, and seated her on his knee.
“Do you believe Rory is truly your friend?” he asked.
Some spirits weren’t deliberately cruel.
Their appearances and attempts to communicate might frighten the living, but fear alone didn’t make them evil.
Death damaged the mind in ways Anderson didn’t fully understand.
Most ghosts retained only fragments of memory, emotion, and instinct.
A spirit capable of preserving its complete personality and intelligence was extremely rare.
April considered his question seriously before nodding.
“Yes.”
“Has Rory ever tried to hurt you?”
She shook her head.
“He plays with me.”
Anderson looked briefly toward the Perron family.
Everyone was listening.
April tugged lightly on his sleeve.
“You still haven’t answered me.
Are you going to hurt him?”
Anderson remembered the shadowy boy standing behind her in the photograph.
Rory had died because of Bathsheba’s curse.
He was another victim, not the true source of the evil infesting the property.
“No,” Anderson answered.
“I won’t hurt your friend.”
April’s tense expression relaxed.
“I’m going to say a special prayer for him.
It will help Rory leave this house and go somewhere peaceful, where he won’t have to hide or feel afraid anymore.”
The explanation was simpler than the complete truth, but it was enough for a child.
The Catholic Church had prayers for the dead and rites of commendation intended to entrust departed souls to God’s mercy.
With enough spiritual power behind them, Anderson believed such prayers could also release a wandering spirit from whatever bound it to the world.
April blinked.
“So he won’t be lonely?”
“He won’t be alone.”
Satisfied with his answer, she smiled.
Anderson gently brushed a strand of blonde hair away from her face before lowering her to the floor.
“Your mother is waiting for you.
Stay close to her tonight.”
April nodded and ran back to her family.
Carolyn pulled the girl into her arms.
Her expression contained affection and mild disapproval, though relief was stronger than either.
Watching them together softened Anderson’s gaze.
Then the final sunlight vanished.
Darkness settled over the farmhouse.
The temperature dropped almost immediately.
Shadows stretched across the walls, and the black resentment visible through Anderson’s spiritual perception thickened like smoke.
The spirits were approaching the peak of their nightly strength.
Yet the holy water and crucifixes surrounding the property were also forcing them into an increasingly uncomfortable position.
They couldn’t tolerate the blessed objects forever.
Bathsheba least of all.
Anderson rose.
The movement immediately drew everyone’s attention.
Ed stepped forward.
“Father, do you need my help?”
Anderson lifted the Winchester and left the protected boundary.
“No.
Stay here with the family.”
Ed glanced toward Roger, Carolyn, and their daughters.
Then he nodded.
He understood his limitations.
If Father Anderson encountered something he couldn’t handle, Ed’s presence was unlikely to improve the situation.
Anderson turned toward Brad, who had also risen.
“Officer Hamilton, do you know how to use a Winchester Model 1897?”
Brad’s eyes immediately brightened.
“Yes, Father.”
Brad caught it with both hands, surprised by its weight.
The weapon was loaded with Anderson’s custom rock-salt shells.
Without Anderson personally channeling magic through them, the rounds wouldn’t possess their full supernatural power.
His system’s enhancements seemed to function properly only when he wielded the affected item himself.
In another person’s hands, the shells were merely specially prepared ammunition containing blessed salt.
They still had value.
A direct hit could burn a spirit, disrupt its manifestation, and delay its movement for several seconds.
That brief interruption might give Anderson enough time to return to the living room.
He had spent years trying to understand why his enchantments weakened when others used his equipment.
The only reasonable explanation was that the system’s power recognized him alone.
It was his advantage, not something he could freely transfer to another person.
Anderson looked directly at Brad.
“If anything appears inside this room, trust your instincts and fire.”
Brad checked the shotgun’s action.
“Where should I aim?”
“At the threat.”
“And if I can’t see it?”
“Fire toward whatever feels wrong.”
Brad tightened his grip.
“Understood.”
“One shot will be enough to warn me.
Don’t leave the safe zone, and don’t chase anything into another room.”
Brad nodded seriously.
Anderson gave him an approving look.
At least the officer followed instructions.
Holding his own Winchester, Father Anderson turned away from the group and walked toward the narrow hallway beside the central staircase.
Every person in the living room watched him leave.
According to the Perrons’ account, many of the most disturbing incidents had originated beneath the house.
Historical records also connected the basement to Mrs.
Walker’s death.
That made it the most likely location for a spiritual anchor.
Somewhere below, an object, corpse, or concentrated residue of hatred could be acting as the medium that allowed Bathsheba to control the property.
The hallway ended near the rear entrance.
Beside it stood a small wooden door leading downward.
Anderson stopped in front of it.
Even before touching the handle, he could feel the cold pressure leaking through the cracks.
He pushed the door open.
Creeeeak.
A wave of freezing, rotten air rushed into the hallway.
The smell resembled wet soil, decaying wood, and something dead that had been sealed underground for years.
Dark steps descended into the basement.
Only the first few were visible in the faint light from the hallway.
Everything beyond them disappeared into complete darkness.
Anderson rubbed the side of his nose.
“Subtle.”
He removed a blessed crucifix from his coat and hung it from the inside of the basement door.
The silver cross immediately began to sway.
There was no wind.
Anderson watched it for a moment before chambering a rock-salt shell.
Chak-chak.
The sound of the pump echoed down the stairwell.
Something moved far below.
Father Alexander Anderson smiled faintly.
Then, carrying the Winchester Model 1897, he calmly descended into the basement.
End of Chapter 10
[Chapter Rewards]