Mrs. Holt wouldn’t stop crying. She clung to Elle’s hands with her cold, trembling fingers, her grip tight with desperation. Words poured from her in a breathless, hiccuping rush, gratitude and terror tangled together. Tears streaked down her flushed cheeks, her baby blue eyes raw and frantic. Her red hair, frizzled from stress, stuck to her damp skin, strands threatening to crawl up Elle’s nose as she leaned in too close.

Elle took a deliberate step back, peeling Maddie’s fingers off with careful detachment. Distance. She needed distance from this woman’s suffocating hysteria.

Elle was tall and slender, with sharp, defined features that made her appear perpetually unimpressed. Her dark brown hair was cut short, and tucked behind her ears, and her piercing green eyes had a calculating quality as if she were always measuring the worth of what she saw. Dressed in a black leather jacket and ripped jeans, she looked more like a disaffected rock star than a demonologist.

The driveway was cool beneath her boots, the air dry, the last remnants of daylight stretching long shadows across the pavement. Behind her, the rest of the Night Crew finished unloading their equipment from the van, working with practised efficiency. The sky was dimming, bruised with the deepening hues of dusk.

“My husband and I can’t thank you enough!” Maddie choked out.

Elle kept her expression measured. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. It’s certainly nothing we can’t handle.”

Maddie’s gratitude didn’t touch her. It never did. They all acted like this. Clutching, pleading, convinced their haunting was unique. Special. But it never was. Nine times out of ten, it was old pipes, faulty wiring, or their own paranoia feeding into the creaks and groans of a settling house. Elle had seen it a hundred times before. And yet, here was another one, unravelling like she had personally descended into hell and returned just to save her.

Elle suppressed the sigh building in her chest. Thankfully, Ronan was around to play damage control.

Ronan was younger than the rest of the crew, mid-twenties at most, with shaggy black hair perpetually falling into his warm brown eyes. He had an easy charm about him, a grin that could diffuse most tensions. Dressed in a dark hoodie and jeans, he exuded a casual confidence that made him seem impervious to fear.

“You have nothing to be thankful for, Mrs. H.” He grinned, easy and confident. “Providing peace of mind? Making homes feel safe again? That’s why we do this.”

Maddie sniffled, confused by his upbeat energy, yet drawn to it all the same.

Ronan took the opportunity to flash his signature charm. “But hey, if you really wanna thank us, check out our website. We upload all our investigations there. You’ll love it.”

Her face paled. The shine in her eyes dulled, her momentary reprieve swallowed by something distant, hopeless.

“I have to say, I admire your courage,” she murmured. Her gaze flickered toward the house as though afraid it was listening. “But if I’m being honest... I don’t think this will be something you’ll want on your website.”

Elle felt the shift instantly. Not another hysteric. Something about the way Maddie said it made the air feel heavier.

“This isn’t just another paranormal adventure.” Maddie’s voice wavered. “This one… only gets worse.”

And just like that, she broke again, sobbing into her hands.

Elle glared at Ronan, who grimaced as if he’d been caught kicking a puppy.

Elle exhaled slowly before placing a hand on Maddie’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she said, offering a tissue. “We’re professionals. Ronan—” she cut him a pointed look, “—is our newest member. He believes our website offers us a bigger outreach so we can help more people. Unfortunately, he is not practised in the art of consolation.”

Ronan held up his hands. “Hey—”

“But I have been a demonologist for seven years now.” Elle met Maddie’s gaze directly, her voice steady, commanding. “And we will get to the bottom of this.”

Maddie swallowed hard, a flicker of hope surfacing. She nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered, staring down at her shoes.

Elle rolled her eyes and turned away.

The front door opened, and Daniel Holt stepped outside. He was a tall man with a broad frame, his salt-and-pepper hair neatly trimmed. His posture was composed, his movements steady, but there was something tight about his jaw, something wary in his sharp blue eyes.

“Hey, Mads,” he said. “Can you help me zip up the luggage? You know I still don’t have a handle on that trick you do.”

“Oh, sure, sweetie.” Maddie’s voice softened, and she followed him inside.

Ronan raised an eyebrow. “Luggage?”

Elle barely glanced at him. “They insisted they couldn’t stay in the house another night. Not until the ‘evil’ was gone. Or something like that.”

Ronan huffed a quiet laugh, shifting his weight as he took another look at the house. “Jesus. You really think this place is that bad?”

Elle watched the last bit of daylight fade behind the trees, the house looming in its absence.

“It’s only ten minutes out of town,” she said as if that meant anything. “I’m sure we’ve dealt with worse.”

Ronan and Elle saw the Holts off as they drove away, Ronan waving with an absent-minded smile.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Stop that. You look like an amateur,” Elle muttered, arms crossed.

Ronan shot her an offended look. “Sorry.”

“Come on. Let’s see what the others are up to.” She turned on her heel and stepped inside.

The house swallowed them in silence. The air was thick and cold, like stepping into a crypt. Ronan shuddered. In the dim living room, Father Mal was dressed in a black clerical shirt, worn leather jacket, and heavy boots. Kneeling, his head bowed, lips moving in hushed Latin prayers. Mid-sixties, around six feet tall. He was broad-shouldered but slightly hunched from years of stress and age. One could see he was once strong but had softened with time. His hair was salt and pepper, with a lot more salt, short but unkempt, usually combed back with little care.

“Mal! Come on, we need to set up in the kitchen,” Elle called, only for Mal to lift a hand, silencing her. She exhaled sharply, arms folding tighter.

Mal finished his prayer, made the sign of the cross, and slowly opened his weary dark brown, knowing eyes. He stood with a groan, tucking his glasses into his pocket.

“Welcome, Your Highness,” Elle quipped. “Care to do your job?”

Mal smirked through his rough stubble, stretching his back as he spoke with whiskey on his breath. “When you reach my age, you kneel while you still can.”

“And was there a good reason? You couldn’t have done that prayer later?”

Mal’s face darkened. “We’re not alone.” He tucked away his rosary.

Before Elle could press him further, the sound of violent retching echoed from the kitchen.

“Marigold?” Ronan’s voice broke with concern as he rushed forward, the others close behind.

Marigold was bent over the sink, trembling as she wiped her mouth, her golden hair clinging to her damp forehead. She was in her late twenties. Standing at roughly five and a half feet tall, her build was lithe and flexible. She moved with effortless grace. Her eyes were soft and hazel, shifting between green and brown. She had fair skin, with warm undertones and freckles dusted her nose and cheekbones.

Ronan was at her side instantly, holding her hair, and rubbing her back in slow circles. “You okay?”

She swallowed hard, still pale. “Yeah... but this place is bad, guys.”

Mal crossed himself. Elle frowned. Ronan’s jaw tightened.

“There’s something here,” Marigold murmured. “It doesn’t like us. It doesn’t want us here. And it’s making me feel sick.”

The tension was creeping in. They hadn’t even set up yet, and already, it felt like something was watching. Waiting.

The Night Crew moved methodically through the house, each member taking their role without the need for instruction. This wasn’t their first case.

Elle adjusted her earpiece as she unzipped a heavy-duty black case, revealing a REM-Pod, its small antenna already humming with electromagnetic sensitivity. She placed it in the centre of the living room, where Mal had prayed earlier. It would detect fluctuations in the electromagnetic field—if something unseen moved near it, it would light up and emit a high-pitched tone.

Across the room, Ronan set up the tripod-mounted camera, its infrared mode switched on. "Static cam in the living room is live," he reported, checking the feed on his tablet. "Setting up another one in the hallway." He lifted the second camera, adjusting the angle to cover the length of the dark corridor leading to the bedrooms.

Marigold was kneeling near the base of the stairs, rolling out a motion sensor strip. “These are super sensitive,” she muttered. “Even a shift in air pressure will set them off.” She pressed the adhesive edges into the carpet, then stepped back, testing the tripwire effect—no one could pass without triggering the embedded laser grid.

Father Mal set a small, black spirit box on the coffee table. He adjusted the frequency sweep rate, letting the device scan through AM and FM radio stations rapidly. It produced a steady, unsettling white noise. He ran his hand over a rosary in his pocket, murmuring a prayer under his breath before stepping away.

"EMF's spiking a little in the hallway," Ronan noted, holding up the EMF detector, its lights flickering between green and yellow. "Could just be electrical interference, but it’s worth monitoring."

Elle walked past him, holding an SLS camera, a device that used infrared light to map human-like figures in the environment. Through the screen, the empty hallway appeared in grainy black and white. Nothing. Then, for a second—a distorted, flickering outline. It was gone as soon as it appeared.

"Did you see that?" she muttered, angling the camera again.

"See what?" Ronan asked, stepping closer.

Elle hesitated, scanning again. The hallway was empty. She shook her head. "Never mind. Let’s finish setting up."

Ronan placed an audio recorder on the kitchen counter, setting it to EVP mode. Any unexplained voices would be picked up in the background frequencies. He double-checked the settings, making sure it would run continuously throughout the night.

After a final pass, Elle clicked on her walkie-talkie. "Equipment check. Static cams are live, motion sensors set, REM-Pod active, EVP recording, and EMF readings are being logged. Spirit box will go active later."

Mal exhaled. “Then we wait.”

The house seemed to exhale with them, the silence now heavy with expectation.

The team sat around the wooden dining table, dim yellow light casting long shadows along the walls. Their takeout containers were half-empty.

Mal nursed a whiskey, the amber liquid swirling as he took a slow sip. Not enough to be drunk. Just enough to feel it. He exhaled deeply, warm and at ease despite the tension hanging over them.

Ronan, ever the fool, tried to lighten the mood. “So, Marigold, does puking on site mean it’s a guaranteed haunting? Or do we actually have to spend the night here? You can always share my bed.”

Marigold smirked, shaking her head. “No thanks, funnily enough, I'm not in a very romantic mood tonight, Ronan.”

Elle barely looked up from the pile of notes and journals spread in front of her. She adjusted her glasses, flipping a page in her leather-bound notebook. When she finally spoke, her voice was smooth and deliberate, the tone of someone who knew exactly what she was talking about.

“This case is different.” She leaned forward, her green eyes gleaming in the dim light. “The Holt house doesn’t have your usual ‘unsettled spirit’ nonsense. The signs point to something much worse. I've really only ever experienced something like this once before.”

She tapped a page. “Knocking in threes. It’s not just random noise—it's a mockery of the Holy Trinity. Classic demonic behavior. They mimic. They degrade. They invert.”

She flipped to another section. “The whispering? The voices denying the existence of Heaven? That’s called spiritual erosion. It’s designed to break a person down over time. Doubt is a demon's greatest tool.”

Ronan shifted uncomfortably. “Sounds dramatic. I don't think doubt can be considered an aspect of haunting.”

Elle didn’t blink. “Doubt leads to fear. Fear leads to despair. Despair is an invitation.”

"An invitation to what?" Ronan inquired.

Elle ignored Ronan, pushing a photo toward them—deep scratch marks along a wooden floor, jagged and uneven. “Then there’s this. Three deep scratches. Not human. Not random. A beast-like entity.”

Mal drained his glass, nodding solemnly. “Demonic signatures. No question.”

Marigold tapped her fingers anxiously against the table. “It feeds on despair and doubt... so what? What’s the endgame?”

Elle inhaled sharply. “Possession. Corruption. It’s not always about taking over a person’s body. Sometimes, the goal is simpler.” She closed the notebook. “Make us break our faith. Make us lose hope. And once we do, we belong to it.”

A heavy silence settled over the table.

And then—

The spirit box crackled to life.

A burst of static filled the room. The white noise hummed, stretching unbearably long. Every breath in the room held still.

A faint, muffled voice crackled through.

“Hello?”