The crew leapt from their chairs in unison, drawn toward the spirit box like moths to a flame.

“Camera's still rolling. We got that,” Ronan confirmed, hoisting the heavy camera onto his shoulder, his pulse pounding in his ears.

Elle snatched up the spirit box, her fingers tightening around its edges. She leaned in, voice steady despite the creeping unease. “If there’s anyone… or anything here, now’s the time to make yourself known.”

For a moment, nothing. Just static crackling through the speaker, a suffocating silence stretching between them.

Ronan handed Marigold the infrared camera. “Take this.”

She adjusted her grip, struggling under its weight as he made his way to the SLS camera. “I’ll take this one.”

Marigold moved toward the living room, the dim glow of the screen casting eerie shadows along her face. Mal muttered a quiet prayer under his breath, the familiar cadence of Latin filling the room.

Then—

BOOM!

A deafening bang erupted from upstairs, rattling the ceiling. The floor trembled beneath them. Something was moving.

The team rushed to the staircase, feet pounding against the old wood.

“The fuck was that?” Ronan’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and unsteady. He gripped the EMF detector, the device was flickering red.

“It’s spiking—hard!” he hissed, his hands trembling. “Something is right here.”

The REM-Pod in the hallway blared to life, its beeping shrill and frantic.

Elle’s breath hitched. “We need confirmation! Can you do that again?”

A beat of silence—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

A rhythmic three knocks. Measured. Mocking.

“Three knocks!” Marigold gasped, gripping the infrared tightly.

Mal crossed himself, his movements swift and precise. A cold wave crashed over them, and the temperature plummeted. Their breath curled in the air, visible puffs of fear. The chill sank beneath their clothes, sending shivers racing down their spines.

Ronan swung the SLS camera up the stairs, scanning desperately. The EMF detector remained in the red, unwavering.

The screen glitched.

A horrific, high-pitched frequency shrieked through the device, distorting the image.

Suddenly—

A figure appeared.

It wasn’t human. Not even close.

Its limbs twitched unnaturally, bent at grotesque angles. The outline flickered in and out as if reality itself was rejecting it. Then, with a sickening lurch, it crawled along the ceiling, its movements jerky, fragmented, unnatural.

Ronan’s stomach turned to ice. His grip tightened around the camera, fingers going numb. His body screamed to move, to run.

His voice barely scraped out: “Guys… this is not a fucking ghost.”

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The figure vanished.

Ronan stumbled back, his breath heaving, his heart hammering against his ribs. The silence was deafening.

Until—

The spirit box crackled.

A sharp, rasping woman’s voice hissed through the static: “Leave.”

A high-pitched shriek followed: “We are watching.”

Then, a guttural growl—deep, inhuman, vibrating through the walls.

“We mean you no harm,” Marigold spoke carefully, though her voice wavered. “We want to know your story. Who are you?”

Ronan turned to her, his face pale, eyes rimmed with unshed tears.

“Mari,” he whispered, voice thin. “What I saw on the SLS…”

She held his gaze, something unspoken passing between them.

“… It’s not human,” he finished, the words barely audible. The dread in his voice was suffocating.

Out of nowhere—

Mal gasped, clutching his chest. His body jerked forward, eyes wide in agony. He let out a strangled groan, his fingers clawing at his shirt.

“Mal?” Elle grabbed his arm. “What’s wrong?”

Mal’s hands shook violently as he ripped open his shirt—

Three deep gouges were carved into his flesh. Fresh blood seeped from the wounds, running in thick, jagged lines down his torso.

His rosary snapped, beads scattering across the floor like falling stars.

And the house watched.

“Oh my God,” Marigold murmured, covering her mouth with trembling fingers. She lowered the camera to the floor as she sank to her knees, vulnerability radiating from her shaking frame.

Her hair lifted. Weightless. Suspended.

A second later, it jerked backwards violently as if yanked by an invisible hand.

“OH MY GOD!” she screamed. “RONAN!”

Ronan lunged toward her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, his own breath ragged with fear. The SLS camera weighed heavy in his grip, nearly pulling him down. He let it down slowly—but as soon as it touched the floor, the figure appeared again.

Ronan’s chest heaved. His voice was raw with frustration. “What do you want?!”

Mal’s voice cut through the chaos, deep and commanding despite the blood seeping down his chest.

“Speak your name, demon! So that I may banish you back to the depths of hell!”

The REM-Pod flipped over on its own, the impact echoing through the house.

“Fuck this! We gotta get outta here!” Ronan shouted, whipping around to Elle.

Elle, jaw clenched, voice steady despite the madness unfolding around them: “NO. We need to get to the bottom of this.”

Ronan gaped at her. “Are you fucking kidding me?! We have more than enough proof to warrant an exorcism!”

Elle’s eyes burned with defiance. “I said no!”

SLAM!

A door upstairs. The sound was deafening, reverberating through the walls.

Everyone inhaled sharply, chests rising and falling in panic.

The lights flickered violently, casting erratic shadows that twisted and lurched like living things.

The EVP recorder crackled, no longer silent—

Whispers. Low, unintelligible. But they were speaking. A language that didn't exist. Primeval and grotesque.

Mal, weak but standing firm, pressed his rosary to his chest and began reciting Latin prayers aloud. The whispers grew louder, merging, layering over one another, voices overlapping in a frantic, incomprehensible chant.

“EEEAAAAGGGGHH!”

A bloodcurdling screech erupted from the spirit box, a noise so inhuman, so ear-splittingly raw, it ripped through the air like tearing flesh.

Elle’s breath hitched. She stared into the flickering void of the room, her voice coming in a measured but forceful whisper.

“Who are you?”

The fireplace exploded, sending embers across the floor. Heat blasted outward, searing the air.

Then, the spirit box spoke.

A voice that was not human.

“Vruhlithis…”

Everything stopped.

The lights went dead.

No more flickering. No whispers. No sound beyond the calm, crackling fire.

But the silence was wrong and smothering.

Marigold trembled violently, gripping Ronan’s sleeve. Her voice was barely a whisper: “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Mal’s face was pale, but his eyes burned with conviction. “We need to banish it.”

Elle lifted a hand, her voice sharp, unwavering. “I said no! Everybody shut up.”

The clock on the wall stopped ticking.

A long, groaning creak split the silence.

A door slowly swung open, its hinges shrieking into the stillness.

It led to the basement.

The crew turned, drawn toward it like prey facing the mouth of a predator.

The static of the spirit box hummed through the air, ringing in the darkness.

Then—

That same, low, guttural voice from before.

“Stay…”