The group stood frozen, staring at the open door. The air felt thick, pressing down on them like a crypt’s embrace.

“That couldn’t be a more obvious trap,” Ronan muttered, his voice tight. “We’re leaving.” His tone was calm, but the tension in his body betrayed him.

“Like hell you are,” Elle snapped, stepping forward.

“I’m leaving!” Ronan’s voice sharpened, his chest rising as he loomed toward Elle, jabbing a finger into his chest.

“I’m coming with you,” Marigold said softly, her arms wrapped around herself as if trying to ward off the unbearable cold that had settled into the house. Overhead, the light from the ceiling seemed to make the shadows sharper, and the cold felt even more cruel.

Mal stood apart from them, his gaze fixed—not on the basement door, but the attic. His expression was unreadable.

“You can’t just walk away!” Elle shouted, storming after them into the kitchen as they began hastily stuffing their gear into their bags.

“This is your job! Our job! You can’t just refuse.”

Ronan spun, eyes blazing. “Look at Mal’s chest, Eleanor!” He pointed, voice cracking with frustration. “The man has the mark of the beast, he’s probably cursed or some shit. Thanks to you!”

No one had ever seen him this shaken. His hands trembled as he shoved a camera into his pack.

“Now we’re leaving. If you wanna stay, be my guest.”

“You’re cowards!” Elle spat. “You’re going to run away, leaving the Holts to deal with this?”

“The Holts can move,” Ronan shot back, his glare sharp enough to cut glass. “I only get one life. I’d like to keep it.”

“They are depending on us, you fucking asshole!” Elle’s voice wavered with fury.

“Oh, for the love of God!” Ronan threw up his hands. “Don’t act like you give a shred of a shit about the Holts! You’re not in this for them! You’re not some noble warrior of justice, Elle. You do this for you—either because you like it, or because you’re punishing yourself. Either way, I’m done being part of your redemption arc.”

Elle’s lips curled into a sneer. “Sounds like someone’s projecting.”

Ronan lunged forward.

“Ronan, don’t!” Marigold gasped, grabbing his arm, but he tore free.

His face stopped inches from Elle’s, his voice a low, threatening whisper. “Try to stop me.”

He turned toward the door, but Mal stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

“Mal… I like you, man, but if you don’t move—”

Mal tilted his head, unconcerned. “What?” His voice was smooth. “You gonna fight an old man?” He glanced down at his bleeding chest. “A demon already tried.” His gaze flicked back up, sharp with challenge. “I’d like to see what you can do.”

Ronan clenched his jaw.

Mal didn’t flinch.

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“Now, Marigold,” Mal called, still facing Ronan, “Would you mind treating my wounds? I am in tremendous pain.”

Marigold hesitated, her body still tense from the argument. But after a breath, she nodded. “Take a seat.”

Ronan glared at Elle, still seething.

“Oh, would you two please just sit down?” Mal exhaled, lowering himself into a chair. “Let’s talk about this like adults. The demon’s not going anywhere.”

The house shuddered.

Everyone stiffened. A cold rush of air slithered through the room like something unseen had exhaled.

Mal just smirked. “See?”

Marigold forced herself to focus, tending to Mal’s wounds with shaky hands. Ronan hesitated, his pulse still pounding in his ears, then exhaled sharply and dropped into a chair. After a long pause, Elle sat too—but she never looked away from him.

Mal took a breath, his expression darkening as he settled into his seat.

“Listen, kid. I’ve dealt with these things my entire career. I remember my first exorcism,” he said, shaking his head. A smile tugged at his lips, but there was no joy behind it. “I thought it was going to be an adventure.”

His eyes grew distant.

“I threw up a lung at the things I saw.”

“It was a teenage girl. Emily."

Mal's voice softened, his gaze distant. "She was beautiful, bright—devoutly Catholic. Lived in West Germany. I was young, fresh in my priesthood, and sitting in on an exorcism felt like an adventure. The life of a priest rarely offers excitement, and I’d sworn off everything else, so I was elated..."

His expression darkened. "Only, it wasn’t an adventure. The first thing I saw when I stepped into that room was her smile. No—its smile."

He swallowed, his voice lowering. "Her skin was pale—sickly green. Lacerations and bruises covered her body. Her eyes—yellow, glossy, predatory. Hungry."

The group shifted uncomfortably.

“This isn’t helping,” Ronan muttered, but Mal continued, as though he hadn’t heard him.

“Twelve priests were already there when I arrived. Twelve. And yet, even starved and tied to a bed, they couldn’t hold her. She broke free—more than once—in the three days I was there. Her body would twist, and contort into impossible shapes. She crawled the walls, the ceiling. She—" He hesitated, pressing his fingers together. "She violated us. Verbally. Physically."

The air in the room grew unbearably heavy.

Mal let out a trembling breath. "Now, you hear the jokes about priests and children—but let me tell you something. That thing was a sick, twisted monster. It forced that poor girl—barely seventeen—to do the things it made her do."

A tear slid down his cheek, his voice thick with grief. "And after three days… she was dead."

Silence.

Marigold paused in her stitching, her fingers trembling against Mal’s skin. The room felt colder.

Mal wiped his face roughly. "I’ve seen a lot, Ronan. But nothing—nothing—compares to the feeling of forsaking a soul. We couldn’t save her. And when the weight of that settled?" He let out a humourless chuckle. "I took to the bottle."

His fingers tightened around the arms of his chair, the pain of the fresh wounds mixing with the ones he carried inside. "They relieved me of my duties soon after. So, I married. Had kids. Tried to live a normal life. And yet... of all the things I’ve seen? Emily is the one I dream about. Every night. Because we failed her."

Ronan swallowed hard. The weight of the confession settled over him.

Mal looked up, locking eyes with him. "Do not forsake these people, Ronan. You’re a good man. And you will do the right thing."

A tense beat passed between them. And then, Ronan nodded.

"Alright," he said, pushing up from his chair. "Let’s just get this done as fast as possible."

He glanced at Marigold. She had that same hollow look he felt, but she, too, had been moved by Mal’s story.

“I’ll grab the headphones from the van,” Elle cut in, already heading for the door. "We’ll do the Estes Method in the basement. We need to find out why this thing is here and what it wants. Its name—Vru… something? Never heard of it. Never read about it. We need its origins. Might give us an edge."

She stepped out onto the porch.

Ronan watched her go, then leaned toward Mal and Marigold. His voice was barely above a whisper. "I don’t trust her."

The others nodded in silent agreement.

“I’ll make sure she stays in line,” Mal assured, glancing toward Marigold as she finished tending his wounds. “Thank you, dear.”

“It’s not much, but it’s what I could do with what we have,” she said softly.

“It’ll do. Thank you.” Mal smiled, patting her hand in appreciation.

Elle strode back into the room, urgency in her posture. “Let’s head downstairs,” she said, wasting no time. “Let’s get this over with.”