The scratching clawed deeper into the glass, a sound like nails on bone. Eleanor sat rigid in bed, the revolver trembling in her hand. Moonlight bled through the grimy window, casting jagged shadows across the floor. The symbols on the wall pulsed faintly, their glow sickly and green.
Scrrrritch. Scrrrritch.
She lunged for the curtain and yanked it aside.
A crow perched on the sill, its beak smeared with something dark. Not scratching—pecking. Its head twitched sideways, one obsidian eye fixed on hers. Then it opened its beak and spoke.
"Voss… the crypt… beneath…"
The voice was Abigail's, but warped, as if filtered through broken glass. The bird launched itself into the night, vanishing into the fog. Eleanor's pulse roared in her ears. She dressed quickly, her fingers fumbling with buttons, and crept downstairs. Martha's door was ajar, the innkeeper's snores rumbling like a distant storm.
The woods were alive with whispers.
The standing stones loomed ahead, their silhouettes jagged against the starless sky. Eleanor's flashlight beam trembled as she picked her way through the undergrowth. The skeletal hand she'd found earlier was gone, but the earth around the largest stone bore fresh gouges—claw marks, deep and frenzied.
The crypt beneath the stones. Reverend Blackthorn's words echoed. The dagger. The blood. The name.
She traced the spiral-triangle carved into the monolith, her fingers lingering on its grooves. The stone felt warm, almost alive. Pressing her palm against it, she recoiled as a vibration thrummed beneath her skin—a low, resonant hum, like a heartbeat.
"E-lea-nor…"
The voice came from the ground itself. She stumbled back as the earth beneath the stone shifted, dirt cascading into a newly opened crevice. A staircase, narrow and steep, descended into blackness. The smell that wafted up was metallic, coppery. Blood.
Eleanor tied her handkerchief over her nose and mouth and descended.
The crypt was a cathedral of decay. Stone pillars, slick with moss, supported a vaulted ceiling lost to shadows. The walls were lined with niches holding skeletal remains, each adorned with rusted chains and yellowed parchment. At the far end of the chamber stood an altar, its surface stained black. Resting atop it was a dagger—bone handle, iron blade, etched with spirals.
The dagger of the first Blackthorn.
She reached for it, then froze. A wet, rhythmic sound echoed from the darkness behind her. Slithering.
"Abigail?" she whispered.
No answer. The slithering grew louder. Eleanor snatched the dagger and turned, her flashlight beam slicing through the gloom.
Something moved in the periphery.
A mass of tendrils, luminous and pulsating, writhed across the floor. They converged into a central mound—a grotesque parody of a human torso, its skin translucent, organs visible as shadowy shapes beneath. Where a head should have been, there was only a gaping maw lined with hooked teeth.
"Ssssacrifice…" it hissed.
Eleanor bolted, the creature's tendrils lashing at her heels. She vaulted over a collapsed pillar, the dagger clutched to her chest. The thing shrieked, its voice fracturing into a dozen dissonant tones. The walls shook, dust and bone fragments raining down as she scrambled up the stairs.
The crevice began to close.
"No—!" She hurled herself through the narrowing gap, dirt cascading around her. The creature's tendrils snapped like whips, grazing her ankle before the earth sealed shut with a final, thunderous crunch.
Eleanor lay gasping on the ground, her ankle burning where the thing had touched her. The skin was blistered, oozing a viscous yellow fluid. Poison. Or worse. She staggered to her feet, the dagger heavy in her hand.
A twig snapped behind her.
Sheriff Burke emerged from the trees, his shotgun leveled at her chest.
"Drop the knife, Dr. Voss."
Eleanor hesitated, her mind racing. The sheriff's face was haggard, his eyes bloodshot. "You don't understand," she said. "There's something under these stones. The Blackthorns—they're trying to stop it. I'm trying to stop it."
His finger tightened on the trigger. "You're trespassin' on town property. Desecratin' sacred ground."
"Sacred?" She barked a laugh. "You call that thing sacred?"
For a moment, the sheriff wavered. Then his jaw set. "This town's got rules. You break 'em, you pay. Now drop it, or I'll drop you."
The crow burst from the trees, diving at the sheriff's face with a raucous cry. He fired blindly, the shot tearing through the branches as Eleanor fled.
The old Blackthorn estate was her only refuge. She barricaded herself in what remained of the library, its shelves toppled, books reduced to mulch. Moonlight seeped through cracks in the roof as she examined the dagger. The blade's etchings glinted—not spirals, but words in a language that made her eyes water.
Yog-Sothoth. The Key. The Gate.
A floorboard creaked.
Abigail stood in the doorway, her green eyes luminous. "You found it," she said, nodding at the dagger. "But you're hurt."
Eleanor gripped the revolver. "Stay back."
The girl sighed, as if dealing with a stubborn child. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be rotting in the woods." She knelt, pulling a vial of murky liquid from her pocket. "Grandfather sent this. It'll slow the infection."
"Infection?"
Abigail gestured to the oozing wound. "The Void's touch corrupts. This won't cure you, but it'll buy time." She tossed the vial. "Drink. Then we work."
Eleanor uncorked it, the smell making her gag—rotten eggs and burnt hair. "Work on what?"
The girl's smile was a sickle. "The ritual. You need the blood of the betrayer." Her gaze drifted to the dagger. "Caleb's blood. My father's blood."
Eleanor froze. "He's alive?"
"Alive?" Abigail tilted her head. "No. But his body is. Trapped between the Door and the Void. Grandfather's kept him… preserved." She stood, brushing dirt from her dress. "Come. The church cellar. That's where they keep him."
The chains on the church doors had been replaced, fresh and gleaming. Abigail placed a hand on the metal, whispering words that made Eleanor's teeth ache. The chains fell away.
The cellar was a labyrinth of wine racks and root vegetables, but Abigail led her to a hidden door behind a stack of crates. Beyond it lay a chamber lined with salt and iron nails. In the center, suspended by chains from the ceiling, was a figure.
Caleb Blackthorn.
Or what was left of him.
His body was a mummified husk, skin stretched taut over bone, but his eyes—vivid green, burning with malice—were alive. He strained against the chains, his jaw unhinging with a wet crack.
"LITTLE WITCH… YOU BRING ME A SNACK?"
Abigail ignored him, nodding to a rusted lever on the wall. "Release him. Just enough to reach his arm."
Eleanor's mouth went dry. "Are you mad?"
"He can't break free. The chains are forged from melted standing stones. But his blood still holds power." She pressed a chipped ceramic bowl into Eleanor's hand. "Cut his wrist. Fill this. Quickly."
Caleb's laughter rattled the walls. "SHE KNOWS, DOESN'T SHE? KNOWS WHAT YOU ARE, ABIGAIL… WHAT YOU'LL BECOME…"
"Shut up," the girl hissed.
Eleanor stepped forward, dagger raised. Caleb's gaze locked onto hers, and suddenly, she was falling—
—she stands in a field of stars, their light distorted, their colors wrong. Before her looms the Door—a shifting, fractal abyss. Caleb kneels before it, his face rapturous. A voice, vast and shapeless, booms:
"YOU HAVE OPENED THE WAY. NOW RECEIVE YOUR REWARD."
A tendril whips from the Door, piercing Caleb's chest. He screams, but it's a scream of ecstasy. His body convulses, elongating, bones snapping and reforming. The vision fractures—Abigail's birth, Martha's screams, the Reverend's dagger flashing—
Eleanor wrenched herself free of the vision, gasping. Caleb smirked. "SEE? THE DOOR HUNGERS. AND IT WANTS YOU, ELEANOR VOSS…"
She slashed his wrist.
Black, tarry blood oozed into the bowl. Caleb howled, thrashing, but the chains held. Abigail snatched the bowl, her hands steady. "Now. The final ingredient." She drew a knife from her sleeve and sliced her own palm, letting her blood—luminous, shimmering like liquid mercury—mingle with her father's.
The mixture bubbled, emitting a sulfurous smoke. Abigail dipped the dagger into it, the blade hissing as the etchings flared red.
"The stars align at midnight," she said. "We finish this at the stones."