It’s colder out here than I expected.
The kind of bone-deep cold that seeps through layers of clothing and finds every vulnerable place you forgot to protect. I left my badge and service weapon in the motel drawer this morning, and I keep thinking about that choice. How it wasn’t just about maintaining cover—it was about crossing a line I’ll probably never be able to uncross.
The trees whisper secrets above me, tall pines stretching like silent sentinels into a gray sky that threatens snow. Everything feels wrong—too still, too quiet. Even the birds have abandoned this place, like they can sense the horror I’m about to walk into willingly.
I’m standing at the edge of a gravel lot where Raina promised to meet me. It’s not the commune yet, just a forgotten pull-off that looks like it once served as a picnic area. Wooden benches eaten by moss and time. A rusted trash bin bent outward like something tried to claw its way out from the inside. There’s a split log stump near the entrance, the cut clean and recent, like this is a regular checkpoint on the road to damnation.
Movement in my vision makes me turn. Raina emerges from between the pine trunks like she’s part of the forest itself, stepping into view with an ease that suggests she’s been watching me for longer than I’d like to think about.
Her smile appears instantly—not big, but immediate. Predatory in its warmth.
“You came,” she says, like she’s greeting an old friend. Not surprised, not relieved. Like my arrival was inevitable.
I study her carefully—the brown knit scarf wrapped twice around her throat, the dark wool coat cinched tight at her waist, a white dress peaking through underneath. Boots that are muddy but well-maintained. She looks like someone’s favorite aunt, the kind who remembers birthdays and wraps books in brown paper with careful twine bows, not the kind of woman who ushers people toward death.
“Was I late?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral, giving nothing away.
She chuckles, the sound carrying an odd echo in the stillness.
“Right on time,” she answers, stepping closer. Her eyes sweep over me like she’s checking for signs of something. “I wondered how long it would it take.”
The phrasing stops me cold.
“That evening at the gathering, you were such a good listener. I could tell you understood what was being offered,” Raina says softly, tilting her head like she’s listening to something I can’t hear.
My spine goes rigid. The memory of that night flashes through my mind—the boy’s confession, the weight of collective sin.
“You felt it too,” she continues. “The pull.”
I try to keep my expression blank, but the air feels denser suddenly, charged with significance I don’t want to acknowledge. Her eyes are too steady, too knowing. The training kicks in—assess the situation, maintain cover, gather intelligence—but underneath the professional detachment, something primitive screams at me to run.
My palms start to sweat inside my gloves.
Raina’s attention shifts past me, toward the dirt road that winds deeper into the woods like a throat waiting to swallow us both. Her fingers smooth nonexistent wrinkles from her coat with nervous precision.
“Shall we?”
I don’t trust my voice to answer. I just move—one foot in front of the other, following her down a path that feels less like walking and more like falling. The further we descend into the trees, the thicker the silence becomes, pressing against my eardrums until I can hear my own heartbeat echoing inside my skull.
Raina walks several steps ahead, her gait confident and sure. She knows this route by heart.
“How many have come before me?” I ask, needing to break the suffocating quiet. It’s an innocent enough question—just curiosity about other seekers, other believers who’ve walked this path.
Raina tilts her head without breaking stride. “Not many make it this far. But you feel familiar, like something that’s been returning slowly, piece by piece.”
The words settle wrong in my chest, burrowing beneath my ribs like splinters. Given what I know about their methods—the reconstructing, the careful assembly of human parts—her phrasing takes on a significance that makes my stomach clench.
“You’re talking like I belong here,” I say, testing the waters.
She glances back at me again, eyebrows raised in what might be amusement. “Don’t you?”
I can almost imagine saying yes.
Ahead, the path widens into a clearing where gravel gives way to packed earth, then to carefully laid stone that speaks of intentional design. A building sits at the center—not quite house, not quite barn, just angles and weathered wood topped with an oddly circular roof that seems to spiral outward like a shell. People move around the perimeter in long coats and unhurried steps, and every single one of them looks up when they see me approaching.
Not with suspicion. With recognition.
Like they’ve been waiting.
The commune sits low among the hills, connected by dirt roads that wind between moss-dark cabins and wide windows that reflect the gray sky like blank eyes. There’s no gate, no fence—just open space that feels simultaneously inviting and inescapable. The air carries scents of cedar and old smoke, almost peaceful.
Raina’s boots crunch softly against gravel beside me. I keep my hands buried deep in my coat pockets.
A figure emerges from one of the porches with the unhurried confidence of someone who owns everything his eyes touch. I know who it is before I see his face clearly.
Jonas Vale walks like gravity bends around him instead of the other way around. He takes up space without effort, radiating the kind of presence that makes you feel too small—subtle but fundamentally wrong.
“Welcome home, Claire,” he says by way of a greeting.
Not hello. Not nice to meet you.
Home.
His eyes rest on me for several heartbeats too long, studying my face like he’s reading something written there in a language only he understands. The corners crinkle in what might be a smile if smiles weren’t supposed to contain warmth. His hands hang loose at his sides—no visible threat, no tension—like he’s greeting a beloved friend returning from a long journey.
“You wore it well,” he says, voice level and conversational. “His confession. The burden of it. It suited you.”
My heart stutters against my ribs. The memory of that gathering hits me again—the boy’s whispered words, the way the crowd had absorbed his darkness like communion wine.
“Thank you,” I manage, though the words taste like ashes.
The way he speaks about that night—like we shared something intimate. Something that changed me on a cellular level.
I wanted to see what would happen if something that soft… stopped moving.
The boy’s words echo in my memory, and I have to grit my teeth against the wave of nausea that follows. Jonas watches my face carefully, like he can see the memory playing behind my eyes.
He remembers me. Not vaguely, not as one face among many in a crowd. It feels like he knows me the way you know a scar after running your fingers over it again and again, studying its shape and texture.
I should smile. My training says to mirror his energy, build rapport, maintain the connection. But something in my throat has closed off, making it hard to breathe normally.
Vale turns slightly, gesturing for us to follow with a movement that’s more command than invitation.
“We’ve been waiting,” he says simply, then walks toward the heart of the commune.
Raina falls into step behind him like this is choreographed, like they’ve performed this same dance dozens of times before. Her movements are calm, controlled, giving nothing away. I follow because there’s no choice now—not yet—but every step forward feels like sinking deeper into quicksand.
The others begin to appear as we walk. Figures emerging from cabins, pale shapes pressed against windows like moths drawn to flame. They don’t stare exactly, but their attention feels weighted, significant.
And they nod.
Not at Jonas. Not at Raina.
At me.
The first woman we pass—blonde braid hanging over one shoulder, gray eyes that seem to look through rather than at me, bare feet on damp wooden planks despite the biting cold—speaks softly as I go by: “It’s always the marked ones who find their way back.”
Like I’ve been here before. Like I’m returning to a place I never actually left.
I don’t respond, don’t acknowledge the words, but they burrow under my skin like parasites. Inside my head, something starts to fray at the edges.
The commune’s main lodge rises two stories from the forest floor, built from pine and shadow with windows covered in gauzy curtains that never quite hide what moves behind them. Jonas leads us through the wide-open door like we’re entering a chapel.
Inside, the floor is polished wood worn smooth by years of bare feet. The air smells of lavender and herbs, but underneath those pleasant scents lurks something else—something metallic and wrong that makes my sinuses burn.
Jonas stops at the center of the main room, where a circular rug spreads across the floor like a target. A spiral stitched into the fabric in burnt umber thread against black wool. My stomach lurches when I see it.
“The spiral,” I say before I can stop myself.
Raina glances at me, and her expression shifts to something like pity. “That’s not a spiral, dear.”
I freeze, wondering if I’ve blown my cover with that observation.
She smiles with the patience of a teacher correcting a slow student. “It’s the Eye. It watches over us.”
Jonas nods solemnly, as if this distinction should clarify everything. As if I should understand the significance now. I wonder if he’s disappointed in my ignorance, if a true believer would have recognized the symbol immediately.
A man standing near the edge speaks up—soft voice, uncertain delivery, words floating like vapor. “The Eye sees the spirit beneath the flesh. Only those chosen to carry sin can perceive its shape.”
More cryptic bullshit wrapped in religious language. His tone makes my skin crawl.
I look at him—early forties, beige clothing that makes him fade into the background, expression beatific in the most unsettling way possible. He’s staring at me like I should know exactly what he means.
“It’s difficult,” he adds as we move past, “for the body to recognize what the spirit has already chosen.”
Was that a prepared line? Something they say to everyone who enters this place? Or have I encountered it before in their online materials, in the research that consumed my nights for weeks?
Every instinct screams at me to run, but I force my legs to keep moving. I count exits automatically—front door, two hallways branching off the main room, a staircase leading to the second floor. The space is almost entirely white and bare except for a few decorative pieces, all incorporating their twisted symbology.
I hear a child’s laughter somewhere above us. Voices behind closed doors speaking in hushed, reverent tones.
Jonas steps closer, invading my personal space with practiced ease. “Do you feel it?”
I blink, unsure what response he’s looking for.
“Yes,” I lie, my voice steadier than I have any right to expect.
What I feel is dread. Pure, crystalline terror that tastes like copper pennies on my tongue.
We’re led to a small room off the main hall—low lighting filtered through a single window draped with linen curtains, three cups of tea already waiting on a rough wooden table like they knew exactly when we’d arrive.
Jonas sits first, settling into his chair with the fluid grace of someone completely at home. Raina follows, perching on the edge of her seat like a bird ready to take flight. I sit last, hyper-aware of the door behind me and calculating whether I could reach it before they could stop me.
No one touches their tea. I wonder how long I can avoid drinking whatever they’ve prepared without raising suspicions.
Jonas studies me for what feels like hours before speaking, his gaze steady and unblinking. Like he’s trying to determine how deeply I’ve convinced myself this is all pretense. Like he’s evaluating whether I actually believe any of the doctrine or if I’m just playing a game I don’t understand.
His eyes never leave mine.
“You know,” he begins slowly, each word carefully chosen, “when Raina first told us about you, some of our family were skeptical. They didn’t think you’d be strong enough to handle what we’re offering.”
He tilts his head at me as he continues. “To wear the burden without breaking under its glory.”
I try not to laugh at the pretentious mystical language, even though every word feels like fingernails on a chalkboard. I’ve studied their manifesto, their online presence, their coded communications, and none of it prepared me for how absolutely insane they sound in person.
The phrase “Raina first told us about you” sticks with me, though. It doesn’t feel like it refers to our recent meeting at the café. It sounds like he’s talking about the gathering, about when they selected me to carry that boy’s confession. Like Raina was their scout all along.
I duck my head, playing overwhelmed and honored. “It was a privilege to be chosen.”
Jonas smiles then—really smiles—and the expression transforms his entire face.
I stare down at my mug to avoid that smile. It’s mismatched ceramic, warm against my palms, with faint steam curling from the surface. The scent carries mint and something darker underneath—something earthy. It doesn’t smell dangerous, but that doesn’t mean anything.
The soundscape has shifted around us. Less chatter from outside, more sounds of evening settling in. Insects beginning their nightly chorus. Somewhere in the distance, water trickles—maybe a pump or fountain.
Raina crosses one leg over the other, completely relaxed. Her posture isn’t formal—too fluid for that—but she sits like she’s hosting a ceremony I haven’t been informed about yet.
“Do you like it?” she asks, nodding toward my untouched tea.
She knows I haven’t tasted it. They both do.
“We brew it ourselves,” she continues with obvious pride. “Fresh valerian root. A little lemon balm.”
Valerian root. A natural sedative. Of course.
Her smile widens. “It’s clarifying. Opens the mind to receive what needs to be received.”
That could mean anything, and probably means everything I don’t want it to mean.
They’re both watching me expectantly now. No choice but to play along. I lift the cup to my lips, and the first taste is herbal and sharp, bitter around the edges with an aftertaste that clings to my tongue. The second sip goes down easier, warmth spreading through my chest.
I’m definitely being drugged, but there’s no alternative at this point. They could overpower me easily even without chemical assistance. I’m surrounded, isolated, completely at their mercy.
Raina’s attention feels like a physical weight. Not intense—just persistent enough to keep me off-balance. The kind of scrutiny that lingers between glances, measuring my reactions to everything.
“You all seem comfortable here,” I observe.
Her eyebrows lift with faint amusement. “Shouldn’t we be?”
“Most people would find it strange—living in the woods without cell service, cut off from the outside world.”
She doesn’t flinch at the observation. “Is it any stranger than the world we left behind? All that noise and violence and emptiness masquerading as meaning?”
Violence, huh. That’s rich coming from her.
I study her profile as she speaks—the lines at the corners of her eyes, the faint scar at her left temple, the simple silver earrings.
“What did you think would happen when you came back to us?” Raina asks suddenly.
“I didn’t have specific expectations,” I lie. “I’m just trying to understand what this place offers.”
Her smile tugs wider, like she’s heard a private joke. “No one ever comes here just to observe, Claire. Everyone’s looking for something they’ve lost. Or something they never had but always needed.”
The tea is starting to numb the back of my throat, making my tongue feel thick and uncooperative.
She takes a sip of her own drink and exhales slowly. “Some people spend their entire lives searching for something they don’t have words for. Not God, exactly. Not peace. Just… the click of recognition. The knowing that you’re exactly where you belong.”
I wonder if this is part of their standard recruitment script, if she delivers these same philosophical musings to every potential convert. Jonas remains silent beside her, all focused attention and measured breathing.
“There’s another gathering scheduled,” she says, shifting topics without warning. “A renewal ceremony. One week from tonight.”
I raise an eyebrow, trying to look intrigued rather than terrified. “Like the confession ritual?”
“Not exactly. More structured. More… preparatory.”
Her smile returns—soft, mysterious, absolutely chilling. “You’ll understand when the time comes.”
I wait for elaboration, for some hint about what they’re planning, but she doesn’t offer anything else. Instead, both she and Jonas stand simultaneously, moving with synchronized precision that freaks me out.
I follow them back toward the main hall, my legs feeling less steady than they should.
“It’s almost time,” Raina says conversationally.
My heart starts doing calculations I’m trying to avoid. “Time for what?”
Neither of them answers.
Raina reaches for my hand—not affectionately, but like she’s guiding me through something inevitable. Like I’m already committed to whatever comes next, and she’s simply the shepherd leading me toward my purpose. Her fingers are cool and dry, the pressure soft but absolutely decisive.
“You’ll need to breathe slowly,” she says, voice lilting like we’re heading to a spa treatment instead of whatever horror awaits. “The air gets thick down there.”
We reach a heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor. Brass hinges green with age. Dark grain marked by decades of use. No handle visible, just an old-fashioned keyhole.
Jonas produces a skeleton key from somewhere in his coat. Of course he does.
It turns with a heavy, final-sounding click, and the door groans open on hinges that clearly don’t get regular use.
The cold sinks into my bones instantly—not just the drop in temperature, but something deeper and more fundamental, like the air itself carries memories of things I don’t want to know about. Raina picks up a lantern from a wall hook and lights it with matches produced from her coat pocket. The flame casts dancing shadows that make the stone walls seem to move, illuminating a narrow staircase that spirals downward into absolute darkness.
“Careful,” she warns, starting her descent. “Some of the steps are uneven.”
Maybe you shouldn’t have drugged me then, I think but don’t say.
I follow her down the stairwell.
The door swings shut behind us—not slammed, just a quiet thud that echoes off stone walls like the sound of a tomb sealing. I glance back automatically. No handle on this side. No way out except forward.
Jonas doesn’t follow us down. No goodbye, no final words. Just the finality of that closing door. The realization I’ve been avoiding finally crystallizes in my mind with perfect, terrible clarity.
I’m going to die in this place.
The spiral staircase is tighter than I expected, just wide enough for one person at a time. Raina leads with the lantern swinging in her grip, throwing the walls into flickering, hypnotic motion. My boots scrape against stone with each step, the sound echoing strangely in the confined space.
At the base of the stairs, the temperature drops another ten degrees. There’s a new smell now too—clove and decay, something sweet and cloying underneath it all that makes my stomach turn over.
The room reveals itself gradually as Raina’s lantern light sweeps across the space.
An arched stone chamber, larger than the stairwell suggested, with a ceiling curved into a perfect half-dome. Candles line the perimeter, already burning with steady flames. I don’t see who lit them. I don’t hear anyone else moving in the shadows. But they’re there, dozens of them, casting wavering light against the walls.
And then I see what they’re illuminating.
Arranged with careful precision on a long stone slab at the center of the room. A hand—small, pale, fingers slightly curled. A foot. Something that might be a jawbone, picked clean and gleaming. Clumps of hair in different colors tied with ribbons.
My body freezes mid-breath.
Raina doesn’t look at me. She steps forward calmly, holding the lantern high to better illuminate the grotesque display.
“They’re relics,” she says softly, voice full of reverence. “Offerings from those who came before us. Those who carried their burdens willingly and gave themselves to the greater work.”
She finally turns to look at me, head tilted at an angle that seems wrong, like she isn’t quite human anymore. She looks uncanny.
“To make the vessel whole,” Raina continues like my personal teacher, “it must carry the strength of many. Each piece contributes to the greater glory. Each sacrifice builds toward perfection.”
I can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t process what I’m seeing in any way that makes sense.
“You don’t need to be afraid,” she says gently, like she’s comforting a frightened child.
That’s when my body betrays me completely.
I take a single step backward, just one, and the movement seems to break whatever spell was holding me together. Cold rushes through my system like poison, up my spine and into my skull. The lantern light wavers.
My stomach convulses without warning. I drop to my knees on the stone floor and retch violently, bringing up tea and bile and the taste of my own terror. The herbal mixture burns coming back up, bitter and sharp.
Raina kneels beside me immediately, placing one cool hand on my back.
“There, there,” she whispers, rubbing small circles like she’s soothing a sick child.
Like this is perfectly normal.
Like this is just the beginning of something beautiful.
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