The silence between them stretched like a second skin tight, suffocating.
Matthew Grayson stood unmoving at the edge of the room, his sharp eyes locked onto Noah as if trying to peel away whatever face he wore. His fingers hovered near the silver cross hidden inside his coat, a quiet threat veiled as caution.
Noah sat back down on the edge of the bed, still reeling.
"I'm not Caleb," he said quietly to him .
"I know you're not," Matthew replied.
"Then who was he?"
Matthew's jaw clenched. "A liar. A sinner. And once… someone I loved."
Noah's breath caught, and not from the confession but from how easily the man said it. There was no warmth. Just weight. Regret, maybe. Resentment more likely.
The floorboards creaked beneath Matthew's boots as he stepped farther into the room. Noah noticed the subtle tension in his frame, like he was approaching a corpse that might sit up screaming at any second.
"You're in Caleb Thorne's body," Matthew said, eyes flicking to Noah's chest. "But something's off. You move differently. Speak differently. Your soul doesn't match your flesh."
"Because I'm not from here," Noah admitted. "I don't know how. I died. One moment I was in Chicago, and the next I was bleeding in this… this decaying mausoleum."
"Then you're a vessel," Matthew said flatly. "Possessed or worse."
Noah gave a bitter laugh. "No exorcism jokes? I thought priests had a sense of humor."
Matthew stepped closer, his voice like cut ice. "I'm not here to entertain you. I came to bind what was left of Caleb. Destroy the remains before he resurrects again."
Noah's blood ran cold. "He's not gone?"
"You're living proof."
Something creaked.
Not the floor.
Not the walls.
The mirror.
Both men turned toward it at the same time.
In the reflection, Caleb's body sat still on the bed but the face in the glass wore a crooked smile. The eyes were too wide. The pupils dilated, wolf-like. Then the reflection blinked, slow and deliberate.
Noah's reflection hadn't moved.
But something inside it had.
He staggered to his feet. "Did you see that?"
Matthew didn't answer. He stepped toward the mirror, drawing something from his coat a flask of thick black salt. He sprinkled a line across the windowsill and the door, murmuring something low and guttural. Words in a language Noah didn't know. Holy, maybe. Or Maybe not.
"This room isn't clean," Matthew said. "Whatever ritual Caleb performed… it anchored his spirit to this place. Maybe to the body itself."
Noah touched his face, his chest. "I feel him."
Matthew stopped.
"What?"
"He's inside me. Not just his memories. Not just images or shadows. I feel his thoughts sometimes, like… like I'm thinking them, but they're not mine."
Matthew's expression darkened. "Then this is worse than possession. This is entwinement."
Noah flinched. "What the hell does that mean?"
"It means," Matthew said slowly, "that if we don't sever the link, your soul will rot. You'll fade. He'll take control again permanently."
Lightning flashed outside, painting the room in bloody light. For a moment, Caleb's smile appeared again in the mirror wider this time. Hungrier.
"I didn't ask for this," Noah whispered.
"Neither did I," Matthew replied, and for the first time… his voice cracked.
Noah collapsed into the chair beside the fireplace. The coals were dead, but the scent of ash still lingered.
He looked at the strange man this priest, this former lover sitting across from him, now examining him like a surgeon would examine a wound.
"You loved him?" Noah asked after a long silence.
Matthew didn't flinch. "Yes. Before I knew what he was."
"What was he?"
"A beautiful lie. A man cursed by bloodlines and pride. But he was also charming. Wicked. He made you want to believe him."
Noah looked down at his hands at Caleb's hands. The veins looked darker in the moonlight. Thicker. Like roots. His nails had a faint, unnatural sheen to them.
"Can I survive this?" Noah asked.
Matthew looked at him, dead serious. "Only if we act fast. The longer you wear that flesh, the more it claims you."
"I don't even know where to start."
"I do." Matthew stood, pulled a worn book from his satchel, and opened it. The pages were brittle and stained. "There's a ritual cleansing. It can be performed at the root of where Caleb's essence is anchored."
"And where's that?"
Matthew looked at him grimly. "The basement."
As Noah followed Matthew down the creaking hallway, he realized how still the house was. Too still. No wind. No sound. Not even the hum of insects. Like the mansion itself was holding its breath.
At the end of the hall stood a door, sealed with chains and nails blackened by time.
Matthew placed his hand on it. "This door hasn't been opened in five years. Not since the night Caleb died."
Noah swallowed. "Then why am I here?"
Matthew turned to him, gaze unreadable.
"That's what I intend to find