Chapter 6: FATHER MANCINI
The Hartford Public Library smelled like dust and old paper.
I'd been here for two days, buried in microfilm archives, searching through yellowed newspapers from 1945. My eyes burned. My back ached from hunching over the viewing machine. The librarian had started giving me concerned looks.
But I'd found it.
Hartford Courant, July 18, 1945. LOCAL BOY DROWNS IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT AT MUNICIPAL POOL.
Daniel Miller, age 10, drowned yesterday afternoon during swimming hours at Hartford Municipal Pool. Witnesses reported that Daniel was playing with a group of older boys before the incident. "It happened so fast," said lifeguard Robert Hennessy. "One minute he was there, the next he was under."
Three boys—Thomas Grady (14), William Marsh (15), and Peter Danforth (14)—were questioned by police but released after witnesses confirmed the drowning appeared accidental.
I read the article three times. Then I searched for follow-up coverage.
There wasn't any. No investigation. No charges. Three teenage boys held a child underwater until he died, and the world moved on like nothing had happened.
"But the names are here. The truth exists."
I made photocopies. Then I searched for the three killers.
Thomas Grady became a city councilman. Died in 1958 of a heart attack. William Marsh moved to California in 1951—no death record in Connecticut. Peter Danforth drowned himself in Lake Compounce in 1962.
Guilt. One of them, at least, had felt guilt.
But none of them had ever faced justice. None of them had ever admitted what they'd done.
I folded the photocopies and put them in my jacket pocket.
Time to show Danny the truth.
[St. Michael's Church — February 5, 1968, 7:30 PM]
The church basement was cold and quiet.
I filled glass vials with holy water from the font, hands steady, mind running through the plan. Show Danny the article. Explain what happened to his killers. Help him understand that his victims weren't the boys who'd murdered him.
Then maybe—hopefully—he could move on.
"That's more holy water than a janitor needs."
I froze.
Father Mancini stood in the doorway. He wasn't smiling.
"Father—"
"Don't." He stepped into the basement, the door swinging shut behind him. "Don't lie to me, Paul. Not tonight."
"This is bad."
I set down the vial and straightened. No point running. No point making excuses that wouldn't hold.
"How much do you know?"
Mancini's expression softened slightly. "I know you've been at the municipal pool. I know three people have drowned there in the last two months. And I know what preparing for a haunting looks like." He moved closer, studying my face. "I've been doing this work for forty years, son. Did you really think I wouldn't notice?"
"Forty years."
I'd assumed Mancini was just a parish priest. Sharp-eyed, yes. Suspicious, definitely. But not... this.
"What work?" I asked carefully.
"The same work you're doing. Or trying to do." He sat on a dusty crate, joints popping audibly. "I used to consult for the Diocese on unusual matters. Hauntings. Possessions. Things the seminary doesn't prepare you for." A dry smile. "They stopped calling me when I got too old to be useful. But the knowing doesn't go away."
"You were an exorcist?"
"No. Never had the gift for it. But I assisted at several. And I've seen enough to recognize when someone's walking into darkness."
The weight of his words settled over me. This was an opportunity. A dangerous one—but an opportunity nonetheless.
"He wants to help. Let him."
"I was possessed once," I said. The cover story, adapted for new circumstances. "When I was younger. A demon. It was cast out, but something... stayed. I can sense things now. Spirits. Presences. Things that shouldn't be there."
Mancini's eyes narrowed. "Like Lorraine Warren."
The name hit me like a physical blow.
"You know the Warrens?"
"Of them. Ed gave a lecture at Yale some years back. Lorraine's gifts are well-documented in certain circles." He studied me with renewed interest. "And you have something similar?"
"I think so. I'm still learning what I can do."
"And the pool?"
"A boy was murdered there in 1945. Drowned by older kids. The ghost doesn't know his killers are dead or gone. He thinks the people swimming there now are them."
Mancini was quiet for a long moment. Then he stood, walked to a shelf, and retrieved something wrapped in cloth. He set it on the table between us.
"Holy water isn't enough for a vengeful spirit." He unwrapped the cloth, revealing a small silver crucifix on a chain. "This was blessed by Cardinal Spellman himself. If things go wrong—hold it up and pray like your soul depends on it. Because it will."
I took the crucifix. It was warm in my hands. Warmer than it should have been.
"Why are you helping me?"
"Because you're trying to help that boy." Mancini met my eyes directly. "And because whatever's in you—whatever gift or curse the possession left behind—it's not evil. I can see that much. The question is whether you'll use it for good."
"I'm trying."
"Then let an old priest help." He reached for his coat. "I haven't done fieldwork in years. My knees will hate me. But I'd rather be there than let you face this alone."
I handed him a vial of holy water.
"Just in case."
[Hartford Municipal Pool — February 5, 1968, 10:17 PM]
The parking lot was empty. The building was dark. Mancini walked beside me, moving slower than I would have liked but not complaining.
I unlocked the service entrance and we stepped inside.
The smell was worse than before. That wrong smell, the one beneath the chlorine. Mancini noticed it too—his nose wrinkled and his hand went to the crucifix around his neck.
"Something's definitely here," he muttered.
We walked to the pool's edge together. The water was black and still.
"Danny." I spoke clearly, voice steady. "Danny Miller. I came back. I brought proof."
Nothing. The water didn't move.
"I know what happened to you. I know who did it." I pulled the photocopied article from my pocket. "Thomas Grady. William Marsh. Peter Danforth. They held you under. They killed you. And the police let them go."
A ripple crossed the pool's surface.
"Thomas Grady died in 1958. Heart attack. William Marsh moved to California—he's gone, Danny. Out of reach. And Peter Danforth?" I paused. "He drowned himself in 1962. Walked into a lake and never came out. Guilt, probably. He knew what he did to you. It ate him alive."
The water began to churn.
Danny rose from the center of the pool. Not attacking this time. Just watching. His rotted face was twisted with something other than rage—grief, maybe. Or disbelief.
"They're dead?"
"Most of them. Gone, at least. The boys who killed you—they're not here. The people drowning in this pool are innocent, Danny. They never hurt you. They never even knew you existed."
The ghost drifted closer. Mancini stepped back, hand tight on his crucifix, but I held my ground.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sorry no one came for you sooner. I'm sorry they got away with it. But you can't keep hurting innocent people. That's not justice. That's just more pain."
Danny's form flickered. The rot began to fade, revealing the boy beneath—dark hair, skinny arms, the face of a child who'd never gotten the chance to grow up.
"I just wanted someone to know," he whispered. "I just wanted it to matter."
"It matters." I held up the article. "I know now. And I'll make sure others know too. Danny Miller wasn't an accident. Danny Miller was murdered. And the world should remember that."
The ghost smiled. Small and sad and very young.
"Thank you."
Light began to gather around him—not golden this time, but blue. The color of pool water on a summer day. The color of the sky Danny should have grown up to see.
He dissolved into it, and the light rose toward the ceiling and vanished.
[CASE CLOSED: DANNY MILLER]
[RESOLUTION GRADE: A-RANK]
[REWARDS: +500 EXP, +200 FP, +150 EP]
[FAITH RESONANCE +3 (COMPASSIONATE RESOLUTION)]
[SYSTEM LEVEL: 2 → 3]
I stood at the edge of the empty pool, staring at water that was just water now. The wrong smell was gone. The cold was gone.
"Well." Mancini's voice was hoarse. "That's not something you see every day."
I turned to look at him. The old priest's face was pale, but his eyes were bright with something I hadn't expected.
Hope. Maybe. Or recognition.
"The Warrens," he said slowly. "I think you should meet them."
The name echoed in my mind. Ed and Lorraine Warren. The center of everything in this universe. The people I'd been planning to find eventually.
"Do you know them?"
"I know how to reach them." Mancini put a hand on my shoulder. "You have a gift, Paul. A real one. And those two—they could teach you to use it. Properly."
I looked back at the pool. Danny was gone. The water was calm. Another soul at peace, another case closed.
But there were forty-six more pins on my map. Forty-six more problems waiting to be solved.
And now, maybe, a path to the people who could help me solve them.
"Set up a meeting," I said.
Mancini nodded.
We walked out of the pool together, into the cold February night. The stars were bright overhead. The city hummed with the sounds of ordinary life. And somewhere out there, Ed and Lorraine Warren were doing the same work I'd just done—hunting ghosts, helping spirits, fighting the darkness one case at a time.
I was going to find them.
But first, I needed to get better. Stronger. Ready.
The system hummed quietly in my mind.
[CANONICAL EVENT TRACKER UPDATED]
[WARREN CONTACT: IMMINENT]
MORE POWER STONES And REVIEWS== MORE CHAPTERS
To supporting Me in Pateron .
with exclusive access to more chapters (based on tiers more chapters for each tiers) on my Patreon, you get more chapters if you ask for more (in few days), plus new fanfic every week! Your support starting at just $6/month helps me keep crafting the stories you love across epic universes like [ In The Witcher With Avatar Powers,In The Vikings With Deja Vu System,Stranger Things Demogorgon Tamer ...].
By joining, you're not just getting more chapters—you're helping me bring new worlds, twists, and adventures to life. Every pledge makes a huge difference!
👉 Join now at patreon.com/TheFinex5 and start reading today!