The Akula Building - Floor 13
November 18th - 3:12 PM
"Tell me," Zale said.
Sable nodded. Her phone. The screen flickered—moisture trapped under cracked glass, 2 DAYS glowing through the distortion.
"Day Four," she said, voice hoarse. "I thought I could bind her."
Her hands shook slightly holding the phone. Dark circles under her eyes—three days without real sleep. She kept touching her throat. Unconscious habit. Checking if the bruising had spread.
***
DAY FOUR
Sable's apartment floor was covered in salt.
Morton's. Nothing fancy. But the archived post said salt was salt—intent mattered more than brand.
Black candles at north, south, east, west. Target clearance section, but they were black and they burned.
Sigils drawn in charcoal on her walls. Copied exactly from the screenshots. Protection symbols. Containment marks. Binding configurations that looked ancient and felt wrong to draw.
She'd spent four hours preparing. Every step precise. Every measurement exact.
Latin phrases memorized phonetically from the forum post. She'd practiced them fifty times, recording herself, playing it back, correcting pronunciation.
"I can do this."
She lit the candles. One by one. Clockwise starting north.
Stood in the center of the salt circle.
Took a breath.
Spoke the words.
"Terminus ab hostis." End to the enemy. "Claustra animae." Prison of the soul. "Vinculum aeternum." Eternal binding.
Her pronunciation was probably garbage. But she meant it. That had to count.
The air grew heavy. Cold.
The candles flickered despite no breeze.
"Per salem et ignem, te ligo." By salt and fire, I bind you. "Per verba et voluntatem, te contineo." By word and will, I contain you.
The temperature dropped. Her breath fogged.
Something was listening.
"Nomen tuum cognosco. Samara Morgan, te nomino. Et te ligo in hoc circulo—" I know your name. Samara Morgan, I name you. And I bind you in this circle—
The ceiling started dripping.
One drop. Two. Three.
Directly onto the salt circle.
"No—"
More water. Faster. Targeted.
The salt lines dissolved. Black streaks spreading. The circle breaking.
"No no please—"
The candles went out. All four. Simultaneously.
Perfect darkness.
Sable fumbled for her phone. Turned on the flashlight with shaking hands.
The sigils on her walls were smeared. Dripping. The charcoal liquefied, running down in black tears.
Drip.
She spun toward the sound.
Not the ceiling.
Her closet.
Drip.
Drip.
The closet door rattled.
Once. Hard enough to crack the frame.
Twice.
The handle turned. Slowly. Testing.
Sable grabbed her jacket. Her bag. Ran.
The door rattled again behind her. Violent. Desperate.
Then stopped.
Silence.
Worse than the noise.
She didn't look back.
***
She came back at dawn with Riley.
"You see it, right?" Sable said, voice too high. "The water. Tell me you see it."
"I see a wet door," Riley said, backing toward the exit. "And I think you need to call someone. A professional. Not me."
"This isn't stress—"
"It's mold. Or carbon monoxide. Or a fucking gas leak making you hallucinate." Riley's voice was too loud. Defensive. "It's not ghosts, Sable. Ghosts aren't real."
"Riley—"
"I can't help you with this. I'm sorry."
She left.
Sable sat on her wet floor.
Alone.
The closet door was soaked. Saturated. Water pooling underneath, spreading in a dark stain.
And covering it—dozens of handprints. Overlapping. Frantic. Child-sized. Pressed from the inside.
She looked at her phone.
3 DAYS
Laughed until she cried.
She looked at the ruined sigils.
The smell was everywhere now. In her clothes. Her hair. Her skin.
No amount of showering made it go away.
***
PRESENT
"The ritual failed," Sable said. "Spectacularly."
Zale was studying the photos on her phone.
His expression was unreadable.
"You used a binding ritual designed for minor entities," he said. "Class-3, maybe Class-4. Samara is Onryō-class. That's like trying to cage a tiger with a hamster wheel."
"I know that now."
"But you tried anyway."
"What else was I supposed to do?"
Zale looked at her. Something shifted in his expression. Recognition.
"Continue," he said.
***
DAY FIVE
Sable sat at her laptop. Cursor hovering over Send.
The email was ready.
Subject: you need to see this
Body: found this. genuinely the creepiest thing I've ever seen
Attachment: CURSED_COPY_FINAL.mp4
Someone she'd never met. Probably never would.
One stranger. One death. She lives.
"It's just one person," she whispered.
Her finger moved to the trackpad.
One person who'll go through everything you went through.
"One person versus me."
One person who'll die screaming because you chose yourself.
She thought about Samara climbing. Getting closer. Coming for her.
Then thought about someone else—a real person, with a real life—opening this email. Watching. Starting their own countdown.
Becoming the next her.
"If I click this, I become part of the chain."
But you'll live.
"I become what she is. Spreading suffering. Forever."
She looked at the name in the recipient field.
Thought about who she wanted to be.
Sable deleted the email.
Emptied the trash.
Closed the laptop.
"I'm not doing it."
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She pulled it out.
2 DAYS
The numbers were brighter now. Glowing even in the dim apartment.
And beneath them, barely visible:
Soon
"So I die. Fine."
She laughed. Bitter. Exhausted.
"At least I die as myself."
She opened her browser.
New search: professional supernatural elimination
Most results were garbage. Psychics. Ghost hunters with YouTube channels. Mediums who couldn't eliminate anything.
Then she found it.
Akula Supernatural Solutions
Haddonfield, Illinois.
The website was professional. Clean. No dramatic claims. Just case summaries written like incident reports.
And a photo.
A man holding Michael Myers' mask. Holding it like a trophy.
Below the photo: Some legends can die. I've proven it.
"Either you're real or you're the best con artist who ever lived."
She looked at her phone.
2 DAYS
Forty-eight hours until something crawled from darkness and killed her.
"Fuck it."
She booked a flight.
Maxed out her credit card for same-day.
If he was fake, she'd die in Illinois.
If he was real—
She'd find out in two days.
***
PRESENT
"—and that's how I ended up here," Sable finished.
She sat back. Exhausted. Her mouth was dry. She tried to swallow. Couldn't.
Zale was quiet for a long moment.
Just looking at her. Past the aesthetic. Past the desperation.
At the choice she'd made.
Then he stood. Pulled out a tablet. Tapped through screens.
"Samara Morgan. Onryō-class entity. Viral propagation mechanism. Apocalyptic-level threat if left unchecked."
He turned the tablet toward her.
Estimated Cost: $500,000,000
Minimum. Subject to increase based on manifestation complexity and archival difficulty.
The number didn't process at first.
Then it did.
Sable's stomach dropped.
"I don't have—"
"I know." Zale set the tablet down. "Comfortable upbringing. Stable family. No trust fund. You might scrape together fifteen thousand if you liquidated everything."
He sat on the desk edge.
"Which means you came knowing you couldn't pay."
She met his eyes. "I'll work for you."
"Doing what?"
"Research. Client intake. I know the online communities where this stuff shows up. I can identify real cases versus hoaxes. I can—"
"If you were good at spotting real threats," Zale interrupted, "you wouldn't be cursed."
Sable flushed. "I can learn."
"What else?"
"I can handle clients. Talk to people who've seen things. I'm good at making people feel heard."
"So is anyone with basic empathy."
"I understand occult theory—"
"You tried to bind an Onryō with Target candles and forum Latin." His tone wasn't cruel. Just factual. "What you understand is aesthetics, not function."
Silence.
Sable's hands clenched. "Then why are you even listening?"
"Because you chose death over murder," Zale said. "That suggests spine. And because you understand the ecosystems where most incidents first surface. The forums. The communities."
He leaned forward slightly.
"You're not an occultist. You're not a researcher. But you might be useful anyway."
He pulled up a contract template.
"Terms. You work for Akula Supernatural Solutions. Research. Client relations. Administrative tasks. Room and board included."
He met her eyes.
"No salary. Your debt is five hundred million. It reduces per case based on your contribution value. Minor case assistance—ten thousand credit. Major case contribution—fifty to five hundred thousand depending on complexity and your role."
"That could take—" Her breath caught. She forced the words out. "—years."
"Years. Possibly decades. Depends entirely on how useful you prove." He leaned back. "Most people never clear it. The ones who do become indispensable."
He paused.
"I don't need repayment. I need someone who won't break. The debt keeps you motivated. The work keeps you alive. Simple arrangement."
Sable stared at the screen.
"Samara counts as your first case," Zale continued. "If I succeed, your debt becomes four hundred ninety-nine million, five hundred thousand. You work until it clears."
"It's indentured servitude," she said quietly.
"It's survival with purpose," Zale corrected. "You chose not to murder strangers. This is the cost of that choice."
He scrolled to a clause near the bottom.
"One more thing. If you die before the debt clears, the contract voids. No collection from your estate."
"How Generous," Sable said flatly.
"Practically speaking, if Samara kills you, I'm not wasting time pursuing your parents for five hundred million they don't have." He looked at her. "I'm pragmatic, not cruel."
"Just indentured servitude. Very benevolent."
Zale's lips twitched. "You have two days to live and you're negotiating contract terms with sarcasm. You'll fit in fine here."
He slid the tablet forward.
"Or you can leave. Try finding someone else with forty-eight hours remaining."
Silence.
Sable looked down at the contract.
The paper was thick. Expensive. The kind meant to last.
Decades of work. Bound to this building. This man. To a life that wouldn't let her pretend the world was normal ever again.
Her fingers tightened.
But the alternative
Cold water filled her thoughts—lungs burning, fingers clawing at stone, a scream swallowed before it reached the surface.
Two days.
That was the alternative.
She swallowed, throat raw.
And honestly?
Learning from someone who'd killed Michael Myers? Working real supernatural cases? Actually understanding this world instead of being a tourist in it? Plus living in what was basically a five-star hotel. No rent. No bills.
She'd imagined worse fates.
Much worse.
Her fingers tightened on the edge of the paper.
"One condition," she said.
Zale raised an eyebrow.
"When you kill her—I watch. I want to see how it's actually done."
For the first time since she'd arrived, Zale smiled.
Actually smiled.
Not the polite business expression.
The other one.
The one that made her understand why he hunted things that hunted humans.
"Deal," he said.
He rotated the tablet. "Sign here. Full legal name."
Sable picked up the stylus. Hesitated.
For just a moment, she thought about using a fake name. Like signing would make it more real. More binding.
Then she almost laughed. She was cursed by a ghost. A fake name wouldn't save her.
When she picked up the stylus, her hand trembled. She steadied it with her other hand.
Wrote: Sable Ward
Pressed submit.
The contract finalized with a soft chime.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She didn't need to look, but she did anyway.
1 DAY, 23 HOURS, 47 MINUTES
Sable frowned.
It had never shown minutes before.The countdown was getting specific.
Like something was paying closer attention.
"Welcome to Akula Supernatural Solutions," Zale said, standing. "Your shift starts now. Penthouse level. Top floor. You'll stay there tonight."
Sable blinked. "With you?"
"I have two guest rooms. You'll take the one farthest from my bedroom if that makes you more comfortable." He opened a desk drawer. Pulled out a compact Glock 19. Set it on the desk between them. "Loaded. Fifteen rounds. Safety's here. If you feel threatened at any point tonight, shoot me."
She stared at the gun.
"I'm serious," Zale said. "You're two days from death and sleeping under the same roof as a man you just met. I'd be armed too."
He pushed the gun toward her.
"Besides, if something manifests tonight, I'd prefer to hear you scream rather than find your body in the morning. Penthouse means I'm close. Different floor means you're on your own."
Sable picked up the gun. Checked the chamber. Safety. Mag. Competent movements.
"You know how to use that," Zale observed.
"My dad took me to the range when I was sixteen. Thought it'd make me less 'weird.'" She looked up. "Didn't work."
"Good." Zale gestured to the door. "Elevator to penthouse requires a key. I'll give you one. We start work at dawn. Get whatever rest you can."
"You think I can sleep?"
"No. But try anyway. You'll want to be sharp tomorrow."
***
1 DAY, 23 HOURS… glowed on her phone as she left.
At the bottom of a sealed well, something noticed.
The marked girl had stopped running.
Two days.
She would come.
***
After Sable left, Zale sat alone in his office.
Samara Morgan.
He knew her story. Transmigration had its perks—pop culture knowledge from his old world. The Ring had been everywhere back then.
Girl with psychic powers. Thrown down a well. Seven days of suffering. Became a curse.
He'd watched the movie twice.
Except this wasn't a movie.
And he'd never tested whether the Codex could consume something that wasn't quite a ghost—more like weaponized trauma made manifest.
He pulled out Arrogance.
The weapon hummed. Eager.
"Problem," Zale said to it. "Samara isn't physical. Not really. She's a curse with a form. If your bullets can't touch her..."
Arrogance pulsed. Warm. Almost offended.
Like a predator insulted by the suggestion it couldn't kill prey.
"You think you can hurt her anyway?"
The weapon pulsed again. Confident. Hungry.
Zale smiled. "Arrogant bastard. That's why I like you."
He set the gun down. Looked at the Codex.
"If she can't be shot, you'll have to do the work."
The Codex opened unbidden. Pages flipped to blank paper.
HUNGRY
Just that one word. Written in script that seemed to pulse.
"Yeah," Zale said. "You ever-hungry bastard."
He closed both artifacts.
Leaned back in his chair.
Living alone with a gun that wanted to kill and a book that wanted to eat souls. Hunting monsters to pass the time because sitting still meant thinking, and thinking meant boredom.
"Maybe having someone else around won't be terrible," he muttered.
Then he thought about Samara.
Not just dangerous.
Interesting.
Michael Myers , Buffalo bill and Stilson had been simple.
Samara wasn't.
Samara Morgan was something that might actually kill him.
The thought didn't frighten him.
It excited him.
He smiled wider. The expression was genuine. Hungry. The kind of smile that explained why he hunted instead of hiding.
"Two days," Zale said quietly, smile spreading wider. "Let's see if curses bleed."
[END CHAPTER 11]
A/N:- Alright, real talk—how'd these last two chapters hit for you?.
Tried something new—showing the story from Sable's POV instead of just Zale's.Wanted the horror to hit harder by putting you in the curse instead of just hearing about it . Did it work, or should I stick to Zale's perspective?
Anyway, would love to hear your thoughts. And thanks for reading this far. Means a lot.