The crew exchanged wary glances before rising to their feet. One by one, they fell into formation—Elle leading, Mal murmuring quiet prayers with his rosary clutched tightly, Ronan bringing up the rear with his camera mounted on his shoulder. Sandwiched between them, Marigold radiated nervous energy, though she carried herself with quiet resolve.

  A deep growl reverberated through the darkness below as they stepped onto the basement stairs.

  The wood beneath them groaned under their weight. The shadows at the bottom swallowed their flashlight beams whole.

  Ronan kept his camera steady, eyes fixed on the night vision screen. “I hope the mic caught that growl,” he muttered. The screen flickered, revealing distorted figures shifting in the murk.

  The basement was mostly barren—just scattered debris and an overwhelming, pungent cold that clawed at their skin. The air was thick with something foul, rotting, almost oily in texture.

  Elle scanned the room, eyes sharp. “Alright, who’s going under?”

  Ronan scoffed. “Why don’t you?” His glare cut through the tension like a blade.

  Before Elle could fire back, Marigold stepped forward. “I’ll do it.”

  The room fell silent.

  “It wants to talk through me… I can feel it.” Her voice wavered, but her eyes held determination.

  “You sure?” Ronan’s voice softened. “You don’t have to.”

  Marigold inhaled deeply, then nodded. “I have to.”

  They lowered her onto the icy cement floor. She shivered, her thin sundress useless against the frigid surface. With slow, steady movements, she slipped on the blindfold and noise-canceling headphones, plugging them into the spirit box.

  Elle crouched beside her. “Just tell us what you hear. It will speak through you.”

  Marigold gave a small nod. “I got it.”

  The spirit box crackled to life, white noise humming through the headphones. The others exchanged uneasy glances.

  Ronan took a breath. “Mari, can you hear us?”

  Silence.

  Mal exhaled. “Alright, let’s begin.”

  Elle leaned forward, notebook in hand. “Hello, we are Eleanor, Marigold, Ronan, and Malcolm. We want to hear your story. Please, tell us your name.”

  Marigold’s breath hitched. “I just heard a low growl.”

  Elle straightened. “Who are you?”

  A pause.

  “Watcher.”

  Mal’s grip on his rosary tightened. “What do you want?”

  “You.”

  Ronan tensed. “How many of you are there?”

  “Me.”

  Elle’s voice sharpened. “Who are you? What is your name? Vru—something?”

  The spirit box hissed with static. Then—

  Another growl. Louder. Closer.

  Marigold shuddered. “It doesn’t want to tell us.”

  Mal shook his head grimly. “He is telling us. In his language. He’s mocking us.”

  Elle leaned in, her voice firm. “Tell us your name in English. Please.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “Clever… Vruhlithis? Clever priest. It said clever priest.”

  Ronan swallowed hard. The name felt unnatural on his tongue. “Vruhlithis… how long have you been here?”

  A pause.

  “Before…”

  “Before?” Ronan frowned.

  “Before you.”

  Marigold nodded slightly, her head tilting unnaturally.

  “Before us,” Ronan echoed, uneasy.

  Mal’s grip on his rosary tightened. “Why do you hurt people?”

  A beat of static.

  “No… I don’t.”

  The group tensed. The air in the basement grew heavy.

  Then, finally—

  “You hurt.”

  Marigold twitched violently, her entire demeanor shifting into something alien and grotesque. Her head snapped toward Elle—blindfolded, yet staring straight at her.

  “It was me,” she rasped. Her voice—jagged, layered, wrong.

  A suffocating silence settled over the room.

  Marigold turned to Mal next, her body jerking with unnatural spasms.

  “You stink…” she twitched. “Whiskey…” Another convulsion. “…And blood.”

  Then her lips curled into a snicker.

  Her head slowly snapped toward Ronan.

  “Nice camera.” A pause. Her voice dropped to a guttural growl. “Stop recording.”

  The static warped, spiking with ear-splitting distortion.

  “You kill!.”

  The words hung in the air, cold and undeniable. Ronan’s breath hitched. The others exchanged frantic, horrified glances.

  Marigold’s chest rose and fell erratically. Her hands shook. Ronan lunged forward to pull her out—

  But before he could—

  She ripped off the headphones and blindfold.

  Her eyes were clenched shut, her breathing shallow. She looked terrified.

  “Marigold?” Ronan was beside her in an instant, his voice gentle but urgent. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  She shook her head, unable to speak.

  “Why’d you take it off?” Elle snapped.

  Ronan shot her a glare. “Shut the hell up.”

  Marigold swallowed hard. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “It said something.”

  Ronan’s chest tightened. “What did it say?”

  Marigold’s hands curled into fists, her body trembling. Tears welled in her eyes as she forced out the words:

  “Nice feet.”

  She shot up and bolted up the stairs.

  The others were close behind, following her into the living room—

  Where they found her frantically packing her things.

  Elle grabbed her arm. “NO! You’re not going anywhere!”

  Marigold turned and struck her.

  Elle hit the ground hard, blood streaming from her nose.

  “You little bitch!” Elle spat.

  “Stay the fuck away from me!” Marigold’s voice was shaking, unhinged.

  She stormed to the front door, yanking the handle.

  Locked.

  Her breathing hitched. She twisted it again. Nothing.

  She slammed her shoulder into the wood, kicking, shoving, pulling—

  Nothing.

  Frustrated, she grabbed the spirit box off the table and snapped it on.

  “Open the door. NOW!” she screamed.

  The spirit box hissed with static.

  A monstrous, inhuman growl:

  “I SAID STAY!”

  The house erupted into chaos.

  The walls shook violently, the very foundation groaning under an unseen force. Unearthly noises flooded the air—moans, snarling, pig-like snorts, guttural growls, and screeches, all at once. They twisted together, forming a symphony of horror, an ear-ripping cacophony that rattled their bones and clawed at their sanity.

  The air thickened—a suffocating weight pressing down on their chests, making it hard to breathe. Their bodies felt trapped, as if invisible hands were pressing against their skin.

  Silence.

  The shift was so abrupt that it felt unnatural. The house fell still, like the moment before a predator strikes.

  Then… the smell seeped in.

  A stench so pungent, foul, and unnatural, it coated their throats like rancid oil. It was thick, cloying, and warm, crawling up their nostrils with an unbearable stench of rot and corruption. It smelled of sweat, decay, and something disturbingly organic—something unnatural, salty, and sour, like a festering wound left too long in the heat.

  Like flesh. Like filth. Like sin.

  Marigold shuddered; something felt… off.

  She looked down. Her shoes were placed haphazardly beside her feet.

  Something was on her feet.

  Her breath hitched. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

  The realization crawled up her spine like ice.

  She let out a blood-curdling scream.