Thud.
Thud.
Each of Father Anderson’s footsteps echoed through the basement stairwell with unnatural force.
The cold, silent space amplified every sound until the wooden steps seemed to groan beneath his weight.
For an ordinary person, descending into that darkness would have been enough to trigger panic, but Anderson remained completely calm.
He shifted the small field bag hanging from his shoulder to the front of his chest, placing everything within easy reach.
Unlike the fortunate protagonists in fantasy novels, he didn’t possess a magical storage space, so this compact bag was the closest thing he had to one.
Inside were the tools he considered essential: a Bible capable of amplifying his magic while he recited Scripture, fifty enchanted rock-salt shells, three bottles of holy water, and three consecrated crucifixes designed for direct attacks against hostile spirits.
“Now I understand why every horror movie has a basement,” Anderson muttered.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and found a pull chain hanging from the ceiling.
When he tugged it, a weak bulb flickered to life, revealing a cramped room filled with everything required for a perfect haunted-house setting.
Cracked wooden furniture had been stacked against the walls, while a narrow bed sat beneath layers of cobwebs.
Dust-covered clothes hung from ropes stretched across the ceiling, and old boxes, rusted tools, and broken household items cluttered the floor.
None of it would have seemed frightening under normal circumstances.
Combined with the freezing air, the rotten smell, and the knowledge that something dead was watching, however, every shadow became a possible threat.
Anderson walked to the middle of the basement.
Through his spiritual perception, resentment filled the room like dense black fog, clinging to the walls, seeping through the floorboards, and curling around the abandoned furniture.
Yet nothing appeared.
“Not coming out?”
He rubbed one eye before channeling magic through his vision.
The dark mist immediately became clearer, rolling through the basement in thick, restless waves.
Ghosts and hostile spirits couldn’t move through the human world as freely as living people.
Most were trapped within specific territories connected to their deaths, remains, or emotional attachments, making them little more than prisoners inside invisible boundaries.
A sufficiently powerful curse could allow an entity to attach itself to a living person and follow them elsewhere.
That explained why leaving the farmhouse hadn’t completely protected the Perrons—Bathsheba’s influence had already attached itself to the family.
“Fine,” Anderson said, tightening his grip on the Winchester.
“If you won’t come out willingly, I’ll force you.”
Keeping the shotgun in his right hand, he reached into the field bag with his left and removed a glass bottle filled with holy water.
To demons and malicious spirits, consecrated water was more than an irritant.
It was poison.
Anderson flicked the cork free with his thumb.
“I gave you a chance.”
He swung the bottle forward, scattering holy water across the floor.
The reaction was immediate as the black resentment twisted violently away from the droplets.
Wherever the water landed, the dark mist hissed and dissolved like snow thrown into a furnace.
“Come out.”
Anderson splashed more holy water toward the left side of the basement, forcing the spiritual fog to retreat again.
“Come out!”
The remaining resentment pulled away and gathered in the darker corners beyond the bulb’s weak light.
Anderson still had enough holy water to cover the entire room.
If the entity continued hiding, it would soon have nowhere left to retreat.
“Show yourself!”
The final splash struck the floor to his right.
At that exact moment, Anderson felt the temperature behind him drop.
He spun around, raising the Winchester with him.
The barrel immediately aligned with the disturbance.
A heavyset woman now sat on a broken piece of furniture near the wall.
She wore an old-fashioned dark dress, and her clothing was torn and stained.
Both hands were wrapped tightly around a blood-covered knife while her back remained turned toward Anderson.
“She made me do it,” a broken voice emerged from her hunched figure.
It sounded neither fully human nor animal.
“She forced me.”
Anderson kept the shotgun trained on her but didn’t fire.
This spirit lacked Bathsheba’s overwhelming hatred.
Fear dominated the aura surrounding her, mixed with grief and guilt.
He recognized her immediately.
Mrs.
Walker—the woman who had died in the basement after losing her son, Rory.
“Where is she?” Anderson asked.
Mrs.
Walker’s shoulders began trembling as her form became translucent, flickering beneath the dim light.
The mere mention of Bathsheba terrified her so deeply that she could barely maintain her manifestation.
“No,” she whispered, tightening her grip around the knife.
“I don’t want to.”
“Where is Bathsheba?”
“No!”
The spirit shook harder, and her voice deepened into a feral growl.
“I don’t want to!”
The black resentment surrounding her suddenly surged, and Mrs.
Walker’s body vanished.
Anderson released a quiet sigh.
Bathsheba was forcing the dead woman to attack.
The glass bottle in his left hand shattered.
At the same moment, Anderson pivoted sharply to the right and threw a powerful left hook.
Mrs.
Walker reappeared beside him with the bloody knife raised.
Anderson’s fist struck her directly in the face, and the holy water coating his knuckles exploded against the manifestation in a burst of white vapor.
“RAAAGH!”
The blow sent the spirit backward.
Her face distorted, leaking thick black fluid as the spiritual form collapsed beneath the impact.
With a violent burst, Mrs.
Walker’s manifestation scattered into smoke and disappeared.
“You should’ve stayed down.”
Anderson ignored the glass fragments embedded in his palm.
He reached into the field bag, pulled out a second bottle of holy water, and hurled it toward the densest concentration of resentment.
While the bottle was still spinning through the air, Anderson raised the Winchester with one hand and pulled the trigger.
BOOM!
The rock-salt shell struck the bottle, causing glass and holy water to explode across the basement in a wide spray of consecrated droplets.
Upstairs, the blast shook the farmhouse and startled everyone gathered inside the protected living room.
Below them, the basement erupted into chaos.
“RAAGH!
RAAAAGH!”
Several unnatural howls overlapped, sounding like wild animals trapped beneath the floor.
Wood creaked violently, invisible ropes pulled tight somewhere in the darkness, and the temperature plunged so sharply that Anderson’s breath became visible.
The remaining resentment recoiled from the holy water, only to begin gathering again.
Black mist poured from the walls, ceiling, and floor, spiraling toward a single point several feet above the ground.
Anderson worked the pump.
Chak-chak.
A fresh rock-salt shell entered the chamber.
He aimed at the center of the forming darkness and pulled the trigger.
BOOM!
A figure appeared an instant before the shot reached its target.
A woman floated several feet above the basement floor.
She wore a filthy white nightgown stained with age and decay, while long, tangled hair concealed most of her face.
A broken rope remained wrapped around her neck.
The consecrated salt struck her directly.
Bathsheba Sherman had finally revealed herself.
End of Chapter 11
[Community Goals Ongoing]