3:17 AM
Sable woke up screaming.
Violently. Gasping like she'd been held underwater, clawing at her throat, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets.
The door slammed open.
Zale stood there, Arrogance drawn, scanning for threats in the darkness.
Found none. Just Sable. Hyperventilating. Shaking. Tears streaming down her face.
He holstered the weapon. "Nightmare?"
She couldn't speak yet. Just nodded. Her hands were still at her throat, feeling for the bruising that had finally faded. But the phantom sensation remained—small hands squeezing.
Zale sat on the edge of the bed. Not close enough to crowd her. Close enough to be present.
"What happened."
Between gasps, she explained.
"There was a town. Old. Foggy. I could smell the ocean—salt and rot and something dead." Her voice shook. "Buildings I'd never seen but somehow recognized. Empty streets. And at the center, there was this well."
She wrapped her arms around herself.
"I was inside it. The walls were stone. Slick. Covered in algae. I could feel it under my fingernails when I tried to climb." Her breathing hitched. "The water was rising. Inch by inch. Cold. So cold it burned. I screamed until my voice gave out. Clawed until my fingers bled. But the walls wouldn't let me up. And the water kept rising."
Tears ran down her face.
"Seven days. I was down there for seven days. Alone. In the dark. Drowning so slowly I felt every second of it." She looked at Zale. "That was her, wasn't it? That was Samara's death. I felt her die."
"Yes," Zale said. "She's reaching out. Trying to make you understand. Feel sorry for her."
"Will it help? If I can somehow help her?"
"No. She kills everyone anyway."
Sable laughed. Bitter. Broken. "Of course she does."
Zale stood. "Get dressed. I'll make coffee."
"I can't—" Sable's voice cracked. "I don't to be alone right now. Please."
Zale paused in the doorway. Looked back.
"Then come to the kitchen."
***
They sat across from each other at the island. 3:47 AM. Coffee going cold, untouched.
Sable hadn't stopped shaking.
"I keep feeling it," she said quietly. "The water. In my lungs. The cold. The walls." She pressed her palm flat against the counter, grounding herself. "I know it wasn't real, but—"
"It was real," Zale interrupted. "Not physically. But the fear was. The drowning was. Samara showed you her death. That's as real as it gets."
Sable looked at him. Eyes red-rimmed. Exhausted beyond measure.
"How do you do this?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. "How do you face things like her and not..." She gestured at herself—shaking hands, tear-stained face, the barely-contained terror. "How are you not terrified?"
Zale was quiet for a moment.
Then he smiled.
Not the polite business smile. Something genuine. Almost childish.
"Because it's fun."
Sable stared at him. "What?"
"Hunting things that hunt humans. Fighting monsters that shouldn't exist. Solving problems no one else can solve." He leaned back, completely relaxed. "It's the most interesting thing I've ever done. Why would I be terrified of the only thing that makes me feel alive?"
"You're insane."
"Probably." He picked up his coffee. Actually drank it. "But I'm also very good at what I do. And Samara? She's dangerous. Unknown variables. That makes her interesting."
"She's going to try to kill us."
"Yes."
"And that excites you."
"Yes."
Sable was quiet for a long moment. Then, quietly: "I'm glad you're insane. Because I don't think anyone sane could do what you do."
"Probably not."
Despite everything—the fear, the countdown, the drowning nightmares—Sable felt something shift. Not comfort. But something close. Like standing next to someone who didn't fear the dark meant the dark was less absolute.
"Will you stay?" she asked. "Just... until dawn?"
Zale nodded. "I'll stay."
They sat in silence.
Outside, Haddonfield slept. Unaware that in a penthouse apartment, a girl counted down her final hours while a hunter who laughed at danger prepared for the most interesting hunt of his week.
The sky slowly lightened.
Dawn came.
And with it, the work began.
***
7:43 AM
The Charger's engine hummed as they merged onto the highway.
Sable stared at the digital watch Zale had given her before they left. Basic sports watch. Black rubber strap. The alarm was set for 7:00 PM tomorrow—exactly when the curse would complete.
The display showed the countdown: 28:17:43
"Your phone stays at the building," Zale had said when he'd handed her the watch. "She can travel through connected devices. This is safer."
Sable had left her cracked, water-damaged phone on the kitchen counter without argument. The watch's countdown function was simple—she'd set an alarm for the curse's deadline, and now it displayed exactly how much time remained.
Twenty-eight hours. Seventeen minutes. Forty-three seconds.
They drove in silence for twenty minutes before Sable spoke.
"You have this kind of money."
Zale glanced at her. "What?"
"The contractors you called. The equipment. Premium expedited everything." She gestured at the luxury car's interior. "This building we're going to—you bought it outright. Cash. I heard you on the phone."
"Your point?"
"Why charge clients at all? If you're this loaded, why make me sign a five-hundred-million-dollar contract?"
Zale was quiet for a moment. Then: "Would you risk your life for free?"
Sable blinked. "I... guess not."
"Neither do I. Money makes it transactional. Professional. Keeps expectations clear." He switched lanes smoothly. "You're paying because that's how value works. I'm expensive because I don't fail."
"And if you do fail?"
"Then the debt voids. You'd be dead anyway."
Sable looked out the window. "That's still not comforting."
"Wasn't meant to be."
But there was something in his tone—not quite warmth, but not cold either. Like he appreciated that she could still think clearly despite everything.
They drove on.
The watch ticked down.
28:03:17
Ahead, the highway stretched toward empty fields and abandoned industrial zones.
Toward the place Zale had chosen for their stand.
Toward whatever came next.
***
9:23 AM
The warehouse appeared through morning mist.
Industrial. Three stories. Windows shattered. Rusted steel beams visible through holes in the roof. Forty miles from Haddonfield. Surrounded by overgrown fields and nothing else.
Perfect isolation.
Three trucks were already there when they arrived. Contractors unloading the last of their equipment.
Zale parked and grabbed duffel bags from the trunk.
"Let's see how they did."
Inside, the space was cavernous and empty.
Completely empty.
No furniture. No debris. No broken machinery. Just bare concrete floor stretching sixty feet in every direction, support beams rising to a ceiling stained with decades of rust and rain damage.
"You had them clear everything," Sable said.
"Anything in here becomes a weapon. Chairs. Pipes. Glass." Zale walked the perimeter, inspecting. "Samara's telekinetic. She'll use whatever's available. This way, she only has herself."
Industrial coolers sat stacked against one wall. Five of them. Large.
Sable approached cautiously, curious what required that much refrigeration in an abandoned warehouse.
"What's in those?"
Zale walked over, opened one. Dark red liquid in sealed gallon jugs.
Sable's stomach turned. "Is that—"
"Blood. Pig's blood." He checked the seal on one jug. "Fresh."
"Where'd you get this much?"
"Slaughterhouse. Twenty pigs
processed this morning." He closed the cooler. "Paid premium for immediate collection. Blood's freshest this way."
"That's... a lot of pigs."
"Magic has costs." He looked at her. "Better pigs than people."
Sable couldn't argue with that logic.
The outer circle dominated the floor—sixty feet in diameter, drawn in reddish-brown mixture. Salt mixed with pig's blood. The contractors had followed specifications exactly. Unbroken line. Precise measurements.
The inner circle sat dead center. Eight feet across. Same blood-salt mixture, but thicker. Denser.
An old television sat in the center of the outer ring. CRT model. Bulky. Screen dark and lifeless.
No power cord. No cable connection. Just dead electronics waiting.
"Why unplugged?" Sable asked.
"Because she doesn't need power." Zale tapped the dark screen. "Samara has technopathy. She'll manifest through the screen when the time comes. Power source is irrelevant."
By noon, final checks were complete.
The foreman approached, wiping his hands on his jeans. Older man. Weathered face. The kind who'd seen enough not to ask too many questions.
"That's everything on your list. Salt circles laid exact. Blood mixed in like you specified. TV positioned center. Building's cleared—nothing left but concrete and beams." He gestured to his crew loading into trucks. "We're packed up and ready to move out."
Zale pulled out his phone. Typed briefly. "Payment sent. Check your account."
The foreman's phone buzzed. He checked it.
Eyes widened slightly at the number.
"That's... generous. Very generous. Appreciate the bonus, Mr. Akula."
"You did good work. Fast and discreet."
The foreman nodded slowly. Looked around the warehouse one more time. At the blood-salt circles. At the unplugged television sitting alone in the center. At Zale and Sable standing there like they were preparing for something he didn't want to understand.
Made a decision.
"You sure you don't want us to stay? Sun's gonna set in a few hours. This place is pretty isolated."
"We're fine."
"Yes sir." The foreman backed toward the door. "Good luck with... whatever this is."
"We won't need it."
The foreman nodded again. Didn't look convinced. But he'd been paid very well not to ask questions.
He left.
The truck engines started. One by one, they pulled away down the access road.
Dust settled.
Silence.
Just Zale and Sable now.
And the empty warehouse.
And the waiting.
***
"Now the real work," Zale said.
He approached the inner circle. Pulled out a knife—the same one he'd used for the Codex. Sharp. Practical.
Cut his palm without hesitation. Deep enough to bleed freely.
Let the blood drip onto the inner circle's salt line. Dark red on reddish-brown. Soaking into the mixture.
Then began speaking. Latin. Clear. Deliberate.
"Per salem et sanguinem, ignis custodit."
By salt and blood, fire guards.
"Hostis ardebit."
The enemy will burn.
"Protectio durabit."
The protection will endure.
The salt glowed. Not white—red. Deep crimson that pulsed once, twice, then settled into steady luminescence.
Then flame erupted.
Not normal fire. Too controlled. Too aware. A cylinder of fire surrounding the inner circle, waist-high, burning without fuel or smoke. Just clean flame that radiated heat but didn't spread beyond the boundary.
Barrier Ward, Zale thought, watching the flames stabilize. Standard Beta-class protection—designed for spirits, minor demons, incorporeal threats. Not strong enough for Onryō-class. Not without enhancement.
Blood was the currency of life. Always had been in occult practice. The more life poured into a working, the stronger it became. Twenty pigs' worth of freshly spilled blood mixed into the salt matrix elevated the ward's effectiveness significantly.
Not enough to stop Samara permanently. But enough to slow her. To make her work for it.
And the ward didn't just block physical intrusion. Supernatural attacks—telekinesis, possession, mental assault—would hit the barrier like a wall. Even her death-stare, the technique that stopped hearts with a glance, wouldn't penetrate the flame.
As long as Sable stayed inside, she was untouchable.
For a while.
Zale stepped through the flames.
They parted. Recognized him. Let him pass. Closed behind him.
"This is your position," he said from inside the fire ring. "Stay here. No matter what you see. What you hear. What she promises or threatens."
"Will it hold?" Sable's voice was tight.
"Long enough." He stepped back out. The flames parted again. Smooth. Obedient. "Test it."
Sable approached slowly. Extended her hand toward the fire.
Heat. Intense. But not burning. More like warning. Like the flames were aware of her and choosing not to harm.
She pulled back.
"It knows friend from foe," Zale explained. "You can pass through freely. Samara can't. Physical attacks, supernatural abilities, mental intrusion—everything she throws at this barrier gets stopped."
"And if she breaks through anyway?"
"Then I do what I do best."
Sable looked at him. At the calm certainty in his posture. At the smile that never quite left his face.
"You really do love this, don't you?"
"More than anything."
She checked her watch.
19:43:12
Less than twenty hours.
"Get some rest," Zale said, sitting cross-legged on the concrete outside the inner circle. Perfectly relaxed. Like he was meditating, not preparing for battle. "It's going to be a long wait."
Sable didn't think rest was possible.
***
6:12 PM - NEXT DAY
The sun set.
Orange light through broken windows faded to gray, then darkness.
Zale had rigged LED work lights at intervals throughout the warehouse. Harsh white light casting stark shadows across the empty space.
The barriers glowed faintly. Inner flame-circle. Outer blood-salt line.
Waiting.
Sable sat inside her protective ring, digital camera ready. Zale had given her a small recorder—told her to film everything. If he died, send the footage to the number he'd provided.
She didn't ask who would finish the job.
Just checked her watch.
00:48:00
Less than an hour.
Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Zale stood between the TV and her circle. Arrogance drawn. The weapon gleamed under work lights—black metal, gold etchings, eager. The Codex rested at his feet, leather-bound and patient.
He'd barely moved in the last hour.
Just stood there. Watching the dark television screen.
Waiting for it to wake up.
00:30:00
Thirty minutes.
The temperature dropped.
Not gradually. Suddenly. Like someone had opened a freezer door directly into the warehouse.
Sable's breath fogged. She wrapped her arms around herself, but the cold came from inside. From the curse. From something that had been dead for forty-seven years and refused to stay that way.
The smell followed.
Stagnant water. Rot. Mildew and decay. Like a pond sealed away from sunlight for decades.
"She's close," Zale said quietly.
The work lights flickered.
Once. Twice. Then steadied.
00:10:00
Ten minutes.
Frost spread across the concrete. Delicate patterns. Beautiful. Wrong.
Sable started the camera. Aimed it at the television. Her hands shook so badly the frame wobbled.
"Stay in the circle," Zale said. Not looking at her. Eyes locked on the TV. "No matter what happens."
"I will."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
00:03:00
Three minutes.
The cold was unbearable now. Sable's teeth chattered despite the flame barrier's heat.
The smell overwhelmed everything. Death and rot and dark water.
The television's dark screen reflected nothing. Not the work lights. Not the warehouse. Just absolute darkness.
00:01:00
One minute.
Sable could barely breathe. Heart hammering. Vision blurring at the edges.
The work lights flickered again. Longer this time. Dimmed almost to nothing before surging back.
00:00:30
Thirty seconds.
00:00:10
Ten.
The work lights flickered faster. Unstable. The warehouse seemed to pulse with each flicker.
00:00:05
Five.
00:00:03
Three.
00:00:02
Two.
00:00:01
One.
00:00:00
The watch alarm beeped. Soft. Polite. Announcing the end.
For one perfect, crystalline moment: silence.
Then the television flickered.
No power source. No cable. Just dead screen in empty warehouse.
But it flickered anyway.
Static appeared. Analog. VHS distortion from decades past. White noise that shouldn't exist on a device with no electricity.
The image resolved.
Slowly.
Painfully.
A well.
Stone walls. Ancient. Worn smooth by centuries of water and desperate hands.
Dark water at the bottom.
And something beneath the surface.
Looking up.
The camera perspective—Sable realized with sick horror it was a camera perspective, like someone had filmed this, like this was footage from somewhere real—zoomed in.
Closer.
Closer.
Down into the well. Into the darkness. Into the water.
And she saw her.
Long black hair floating in dark water. White dress billowing around a small frame. Child-sized body suspended in liquid darkness.
Looking up at the circle of light above.
At the surface.
At escape.
At out.
The image began to rise.
The perspective climbing. Ascending. Moving toward the surface with slow, inevitable purpose that felt less like movement and more like gravity reversing.
Toward the screen.
Toward their world.
And from the well—from inside the television—from somewhere that shouldn't exist but did anyway—
A hand pressed against the inside of the screen.
Small. Gray. Fingernails broken and bloody from clawing at stone.
The glass warped.
Bulged outward like membrane stretched too thin.
Began to tear.
Water leaked from the screen. Impossible. Defying physics. Dark water pouring from glass, pooling on concrete, spreading outward in slow ripples.
The screen stretched further.
Like skin pulled to breaking point.
And something crawled through.
[END CHAPTER 12]