Chapter 29: THE GATHERING STORM
The map covered my entire apartment wall.
Red pins marked cases from the past six months—a scatter pattern that had seemed random at first but now resolved into something terrifyingly deliberate. Four cases in Rhode Island. Three in Massachusetts. Two in Connecticut, both within fifty miles of the Rhode Island border. All of them minor hauntings, residual energies, the spiritual equivalent of tremors before an earthquake.
And at the center of the pattern, unmarked but impossible to ignore: Harrisville.
[CANONICAL EVENT TRACKER: UPDATE]
[PERRON FAMILY HAUNTING — HARRISVILLE, RI]
[ENTITY: BATHSHEBA SHERMAN — TIER 4]
[ESTIMATED ARRIVAL: 8-14 MONTHS]
[STATUS: APPROACHING]
I stared at the notification until my eyes burned.
Bathsheba Sherman. I knew that name. Knew it from a movie that wouldn't be made for decades in this world, from research I'd done in another life about a case that had defined the Warrens' legacy. A witch from the 1800s who'd allegedly sacrificed her own child to Satan. A curse that had followed the land through generations of owners. A farmhouse where families had fled in terror, where children had been tormented, where Lorraine Warren had nearly died during a séance that went catastrophically wrong.
And now it was coming. Not a movie. Not a story. Real terror approaching a real family who didn't deserve what was about to happen to them.
The Perrons weren't in the farmhouse yet. According to my research—careful research, conducted through public records and historical archives—they were still looking for homes. A family of seven, searching for space outside the city. They'd find the old Arnold Estate in a few months. They'd fall in love with its charm and character. They'd have no idea what slept in the cellar.
I had maybe eight months. Maybe less.
The research took weeks.
I dug through every archive I could access—Hartford Public Library, Yale's special collections (thanks to Ed's academic connections), even the Church records Father Gordon had opened to me. Bathsheba Sherman appeared in fragments: birth records, marriage documents, a death certificate that listed "natural causes" but whose date coincided with whispered accusations of witchcraft.
The farmhouse had a history that read like a horror anthology. Suicides. Unexplained deaths. Family after family fleeing within years of moving in. The pattern went back centuries, each generation adding new tragedies to the land's bloody ledger.
I compiled everything into files that I kept hidden in my apartment. The Warrens couldn't know how much I knew. Couldn't know that I was preparing for a case that hadn't happened yet, that wouldn't happen for months. But I could point them in the right direction.
"Something's building in Rhode Island."
We were in Ed's study—me, Ed, Lorraine—reviewing the week's case assignments. September had brought a surge of activity, more cases than we could handle. Drew was recovering from an injury sustained in Providence. Two new assistants were being trained but weren't ready for fieldwork.
"Building how?" Ed asked.
"The pattern." I spread my map across his desk, the one I'd sanitized to remove any hint of foreknowledge. "Look at the clustering. Four minor hauntings in six months, all within a twenty-mile radius of Harrisville. That's not random."
Lorraine leaned over the map, her psychic senses reaching out to touch the paper as if it could tell her secrets. Her face went pale.
"He's right," she said quietly. "That region has old pain. I can feel it from here—something deep in the soil. Blood and anger and years of suffering."
"What kind of entity could cause that?" Ed asked.
"Something that's been there a long time. Something that's claimed the land itself." Lorraine looked at me. "How did you notice this pattern?"
"I track every case we hear about, not just the ones we take." True enough. "When I plotted them geographically, Harrisville stood out. It's like... like a spiritual sinkhole. Everything drains toward it."
Ed studied the map for a long moment. "We should investigate. Not a full case—just reconnaissance. See what's there."
"Agreed." I kept my voice casual despite the hammering of my heart. "I can do preliminary research. Historical records, local interviews. If there's something serious, we'll know before any family gets hurt."
"Good." Ed rolled up the map, handed it back to me. "Keep me informed. And Paul—"
"Yes?"
"Be careful. If something's strong enough to affect a whole region, it's not going to appreciate being investigated."
I took the map. Took the warning. And I didn't tell him that I already knew exactly what was waiting in Harrisville—because telling him would require explaining things I could never explain.
The nightmares intensified.
Not the nun this time—or not only the nun. Now I dreamed of a farmhouse I'd never visited, of a cellar I'd never seen, of children screaming in voices I'd never heard. Bathsheba appeared in these dreams as a shadow with too many limbs, a presence that pressed against the walls of reality like something trying to break through.
She was waking up.
Somewhere in Rhode Island, the curse was stirring. Sensing, perhaps, that prey was approaching. Preparing to welcome new victims to its centuries-old collection.
I lay awake at 3 AM, staring at my ceiling, and tried to calculate how much I could change.
In the movie—in the case files I'd read in another life—the Perrons had suffered for years before the Warrens got involved. Children traumatized. A mother possessed. A family pushed to the breaking point before finally reaching out for help.
What if I could shorten that timeline? What if I could have the Warrens involved from the beginning, before Bathsheba had time to dig her claws in deep?
But that required explaining how I knew. And I couldn't explain how I knew without revealing everything—the transmigration, the system, the foreknowledge that made me useful but also made me suspect.
"Wrong soul. Wrong body. Wrong world."
Malthus's words echoed in my memory. The demons knew something was off about me. Seraph had been sent to study me. Whatever "masters" had assigned that mission were still out there, still watching, still planning.
If I revealed my foreknowledge to the Warrens, would they trust me? Or would they see me as something to be investigated, contained, potentially exorcised?
I couldn't risk it. Not yet. Not with Bathsheba approaching and Valak still hunting me and an entire demonic hierarchy apparently interested in cataloguing my existence.
So I prepared in secret. Studied the case files I could access without raising suspicion. Trained my abilities until the system registered improvements I didn't share with anyone.
[TELEKINESIS LV.2 ACHIEVED]
[RANGE: 15M — FORCE: 50KG — COST: 15 PS/MIN]
[SPIRIT SIGHT LV.4 ACHIEVED]
[CAN NOW PERCEIVE TIER 4 ENTITIES WITHOUT STRAIN]
Eight months. Maybe less. And then the Perrons would move into hell, and I'd have to be ready to help them survive it.
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