Every small, forgotten town has at least a couple of motels where the walls are thin and the owner knows better than to ask questions. Truckers with eyes dulled by endless miles stop there. Women hold their suitcases too close to their bodies. And sometimes, a few guests come for reasons no one should speak aloud.

The owner of this motel had long since stopped being surprised by strange lodgers. But these two unsettled him—a middle-aged blond man with a jaw always clenched tight and a Black woman whose tattoos writhed like snakes whenever the lamplight trembled. For the first few days, they had another with them—a hulking bald man with eyes like cloudy glass. Then he vanished. No one asked where.

From Room Eight came muffled voices that rose and broke into screams.

"You swamp whore!" the blond man bellowed. "Can't you do a single damn thing right? Or do I need to remind you how it feels to lose a finger?"

The woman flinched, her hand sweeping through a chalk-drawn pentagram, smudging the delicate lines. Candles burned at the edges of the room—fat, trembling flames licking at the air. A metal bowl sat before her, blackened with soot. The shadows on the walls seemed to lean in, listening.

"Don't," she groaned, clutching the stub of her missing pinky. "I'll find her. I swear I'll find her. Just… give me time."

He stepped closer, his breath heavy, hot, mechanical—like steam hissing through a cracked engine.

"It's been two days, Tuthwat," he said between gritted teeth. "Thomas followed your trail. Now he's gone. You gonna tell me what that means? That you screwed it up again?"

The slap came fast and vicious. She didn't scream—just blinked against the blood running down her face, smearing it with her palm.

"Because of you, we're blowing the damn job." His words shook now, as if he was arguing with his own sanity. "If we don't deliver that woman's hide on time…" He gave a short, broken laugh. "Then they'll take ours instead. Piece by piece."

Her whisper barely reached him.

"The mold will eat you alive before they do… You don't understand, my power—it's thinning. If I don't feed the spirits soon, we're both dead."

He sneered, though fear crept around his eyes.

"Or maybe you just like dragging this out, huh? Feeding those freaks of yours while I go hunting for meat."

Tuthwat glanced at the ruined pentagram. The wax hissed and spat. The air smelled of iron, sweat—something rotten beneath it all.

"The guy from the gas station…" she murmured. "His blood helped me see the path. But the spirits need a breath, not just death. A soul gasping between worlds. Without that, they'll turn on me—they already whisper in my sleep. They're hungry."

He took a step back as if a cold hand had brushed his spine.

"You're sick," he said softly. But his voice faltered. The fear in his eyes wasn't just for their boss—it was for her.

"Thomas isn't coming back, is he?" he finally asked.

"If the wendigo didn't take him," she said, voice gone hollow, "then the spirits did. Your threats don't scare me, Miles. But them… oh, them I fear. They're starving."

Miles turned to the mini-fridge like a drowning man reaching for air. The door clanged, breaking the tension for a second. Two beers sat inside. He cracked one open, drank hard, then handed her the other.

"Drink," he rasped. "While you still can."

She took a sip. Her lips trembled.

"I need blood," she said quietly, staring into the candlelight. "Clean blood. With fear in it. Otherwise, I can't open the way. And when it stays closed…" Her eyes flickered up to his. "They'll come. For me. Or for you."

Miles turned toward the window. Outside, the world was darkness—a static kind of silence. But for a heartbeat, he swore something moved beyond the glass. Something tall. Watching. Smiling.

The candle at their feet flared violently. The air thickened, hot and sour.

Tuthwat began to sing—not words, not really. A rasping chant that sounded older than language, older than sin itself. The walls trembled under the weight of it.

"Tuthwat…" Miles whispered, but the name didn't fit her now. Her face changed as the shadows twisted. Her eyes gleamed feral; smoke coiled from her lips like a living thing.

Downstairs, the motel owner turned off the TV, frowning. He thought he'd heard something—soft scraping, maybe, like nails against wood. Then silence again.

He sighed, poured himself another cup of coffee, and muttered his usual prayer:

"None of my business."

Then he turned the TV louder—just enough to drown out the sound of something moving upstairs.

The candle flames trembled—not from any draft; the windows were shut tight, the air hung thick and syrupy. Shadows stretched along the walls, pulled thin like something unseen was walking between the scraps of light and darkness. Droplets of wax slid down to the floor, gleaming like fat running off a piece of living flesh.

"They're displeased," the woman breathed. Her voice scraped like rusted metal. "They smell the lie between us. We didn't give what was promised."

A candle went out. Then a second. What followed was not silence but a smothering hush, a thickness to the air, and underneath it—a scratching, faint and dry, as though something were clawing its way out from inside the walls.

Miles stumbled back, heart hammering.

"Then shut them up!" he shouted, twisting toward her. "Do something, you goddamn witch!"

"I tried!" she screamed, desperation cracking her words. Her face twisted; her eyes caught the light wrong—there was movement inside them, as though something were swimming behind her pupils. "They need a soul, Miles. Fresh. Still breathing! Without it they'll—"

A low, feline chuckle slithered out of the dark corner. Something cold and damp brushed past Miles's ear, like a wet breath.

The woman squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing her cry, and her voice broke into a trembling whisper, words in a language that had no business being spoken by human tongues. The air thrummed with a deep vibration—like a single, enormous string plucked beneath the world.

Then, silence.

For a heartbeat, the kind of silence that feels like the air itself has died.

And then—on the wallpaper, mold began to bloom. Fast. Hungry. Spreading in black veins that glistened, dripping moisture, alive and deliberate.

Miles lunged forward, grabbed her by the hair.

"Stop it! You started this—now you end it!"

She cried out but didn't fight him; her breath came in ragged bursts between sobs and ancient syllables. The smell thickened—wet earth, rot, and something older.

"They won't leave unless I give them something!" she gasped. "If I stop now—they'll drain us both!"

Fear merged with fury inside him, turning his stomach sour. He hit her. Once. Then again. Not to silence her words, but the sound rising from her throat—that sound was wrong, layered, echoing from the corners of the room. Every blow landed with a heavy resonance, as though the walls themselves were answering him.

The candles died one by one until the last light winked out.

Darkness swallowed everything.

Then—

A reflection flickered in the wardrobe mirror. A man's shape. Tall. Motionless. Bald.

The big one. Thomas.

Miles spun around—nothing. But the glass had fogged from the inside. And on the cloudy surface, a hand pressed outward. Slowly dragged down. The print blurred, slipped lower, like someone drowning on the far side of the mirror.

The woman, choking on blood and breath, rasped,

"He's here. Thomas found us. Just… not alive."

Miles was gasping, still clutching her hair.

"Wh-what the hell are you talking about…"

The candles flared back to life—not bright, just sputtering flashes, like reluctant heartbeats. The shadows twitched, recoiled into corners. The deep, bowel-shaking hum faded. The air remembered how to breathe again.

The witch laughed. Softly. But her laugh had weight to it—thick, gritty, as if passing through a throat full of dust and ashes.

Miles stared at her, still gripping her collar, his mind unraveling. Then, slowly, he let go. His breath hitched as he staggered back. Fear twisted with revulsion—at her, at himself, at everything left in this room.

He dropped onto the sagging couch by the wall, cracked open a can of beer. The pop sliced through the stillness like a gunshot. He drank deep, hands shaking, then let out a hoarse, broken laugh.

"Christ," he whispered. "You miserable bitch. You and all this goddamn shit." He rubbed his hands over his face. "What is this—some kind of freak show? I'm living a nightmare written by a drunk."

His laughter trembled, broke apart, and finally died.

The woman knelt by the ruined pentagram, biting her lip until blood pooled along her chin. She licked it away—slowly, greedily—like someone savoring victory.

She saw it then: the crack forming in Miles, the slow ruin behind his eyes.

And it pleased her.

It was a quiet, festering pleasure—the kind that doesn't heal, only infects.

Her voice came soft this time—almost weary.

"Are you afraid?"

Miles didn't lift his head at first. When he did, there was a dry, mean smile on his lips.

"Fear's for folks who still think there's a way out. Me? I'm past that. Just me, you, and your goddamn pets."

"They're not pets," she said, flat and humorless. "They're older than you. Older than your fear. And they know exactly what they want."

He dragged a trembling hand down his face, leaving streaks of grime and half‑dried blood.

"And what's that, huh? What do your sweet little monsters want this time?"

She crawled closer—slow, silent, the way an animal approaches fire. Her fingers touched his knee, cold and damp like something pulled from river mud.

"They need a soul not yet anchored in this world," she murmured. "Something standing on the threshold—pure, fragile… between."

Miles jerked as if she'd shocked him.

"You mean… a child?"

Her head tilted, feline, curious. Her lips curved but her eyes didn't move.

"A young one. Twelve, maybe. Younger, better. Two, if the fates are kind—a brother and sister, or two friends. Little lambs." She smiled faintly. "The fresher the fear, the sweeter it tastes."

Each word dropped into the air heavy as stone sinking into still water.

Miles stared at her, feeling his stomach twist on itself. He looked away, teeth clenched so hard he thought they might splinter.

"You talk about it like you're reading a damn menu," he whispered. "They want the meat, you want their blessing, and me—I just get to be the bastard who kills kids. Beautiful plan."

The witch's laugh was rough, wet, and full of smoke.

"No one stays clean, Miles. Not even those who think they're only following orders."

There was conviction in her tone now, almost faith—something that made the words heavier, more dangerous. She pushed herself to her feet, swaying slightly, and walked to the center of the pentagram. Bare footprints marked the floor behind her—dark stains that looked like dried blood, only thicker, blacker, as if they came from somewhere inside.

"Let the spirits choose," she said. "They'll decide who it will be."

She began to whisper again, the syllables thick and strange. With every word, the air pulled tighter, heavier. Candle flames stretched upward into thin blue needles. The smell returned—swamp water, decay… and something else. Something heartbreakingly small and human. The faint sweetness of long‑forgotten toys soaked by the rain.

Miles listened, and a deep, animal terror woke inside him—not of the ritual or the shadows, but of himself. The growing ease with which he was starting to accept it all. The darkness. The blood. Even the talk of children. It no longer felt impossible. It felt inevitable.

He said it barely above a breath:

"God… take it back. Let me go back to just being a worthless bastard."

The witch turned toward him, and her pupils spread until her eyes were nothing but black.

"God's long gone from here," she said. "Now they decide."

She raised her hands, and all the candles quivered at once. The flame bent toward her, as though drawn by a single breath. For a heartbeat, the air seemed to laugh. Not hers, not anyone's. Something vast and famished finding joy at last.

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