Chapter 6: The Burnt Offering

Chapter 6: The Burnt Offering

Another decade had passed in a blur of packed boxes and hushed, frantic departures. Ten years of running, of chasing a fragile peace that always dissolved like mist the moment they thought they’d grasped it. David, now a lanky, resentful eighteen-year-old, knew their life was a lie, even if he didn’t know the shape of the monster that dictated its terms. He only knew his father’s paranoia had stolen his childhood, yanking him from schools and friendships at the slightest hint of anything unusual—a strange car parked on their street, a flicker of movement on a security camera, a nightmare that made Thomas wake up screaming.

Sarah’s patience had been worn thin, polished down to a weary, brittle loyalty. The questions had mostly stopped, replaced by a quiet, heartbreaking acceptance of her husband’s private madness.

This new town, a quiet corner of Ohio, felt different. They had been here for two years, their longest stretch anywhere since David’s crayon drawing had sent them fleeing into the night. Thomas had almost dared to hope. The rituals were still there—the nightly checks, the constant scanning of crowds—but the suffocating, immediate terror had receded to a low, persistent hum of anxiety. He had started to believe, with a desperation that was almost a prayer, that perhaps he had finally outrun the smiling man. Perhaps Ulrich had grown bored of the chase.

This fragile hope was what brought them to St. Jude’s Catholic Church on a bright, cloudless Sunday morning. Thomas sat in the hard wooden pew between his wife and son, mouthing the words to hymns he didn’t believe in, searching for a scrap of the normalcy he had stolen from his family. The sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting the nave in hues of sapphire and ruby. Children coughed, old women prayed, and for a fleeting, beautiful moment, Thomas Price felt like a normal man.

The service ended. As the congregation filed out into the brilliant sunshine, Thomas felt a rare, genuine smile touch his lips. He clapped a hand on David’s shoulder, ignoring his son’s customary flinch. “Let’s get donuts. My treat.”

“Whatever,” David muttered, already pulling out his phone.

“That sounds lovely, hon,” Sarah said, linking her arm through his.

It was in that moment of manufactured peace that he saw him. A man was leaning against the old oak tree at the edge of the church lawn, his posture unnaturally still. He was thin, dressed in ill-fitting clothes, with sallow skin that looked as if it hadn't seen the sun in years. But it was his eyes that made the blood freeze in Thomas’s veins. They were flat, empty, devoid of light or life—the dead, watchful eyes of a guard dog waiting for its master’s command. He looked just like the man in the basement, thirty years ago. Another Diener.

The man’s dead gaze met Thomas’s across the cheerful, chattering crowd. He didn’t smile. He didn’t threaten. He simply pushed himself off the tree and began walking towards them, his movements stiff and deliberate.

Panic, cold and sharp, stabbed through Thomas. “Get in the car,” he said, his voice a low, urgent command.

Sarah’s smile vanished. “Thomas, what is it?”

“Now!” he hissed, shoving them gently towards the parking lot. He saw the flash of hurt and confusion on her face, the familiar eye-roll from David, but he couldn’t stop. He had to be the wall between his family and the approaching horror.

The man intercepted him just as he reached the curb. He was close enough now that Thomas could smell the faint, sour scent of decay on his breath. He was holding a small, unassuming package, a shoebox-sized parcel wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with twine.

“Delivery for Mr. Price,” the man said. His voice was a dry, rasping whisper, like dead leaves skittering across pavement.

Thomas’s heart hammered against his ribs. He wanted to scream, to shove the man away, to run. But his family was watching from the car, their faces pressed against the glass. He couldn’t let them see. He couldn’t let the monster’s world touch theirs. He forced his hand to remain steady as he took the box. It was surprisingly heavy, dense, and cold to the touch, even through the paper.

“Who is it from?” Thomas asked, his throat tight.

The man gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head. A flicker of something—not emotion, but a deep, programmed obedience—passed through his dead eyes. He turned without another word and walked away, disappearing into the flow of Sunday traffic.

Thomas stood paralyzed on the curb, the box a venomous thing in his hands. He could feel a faint, resonant cold seeping into his palms. He knew, with a certainty that was absolute and soul-destroying, what this was. After ten years of silence, Ulrich was done watching from the windows of a child’s nightmare. He was done playing games. This was a new message. A promise.

He walked past his own car, ignoring Sarah’s concerned call of his name, and went to a secluded stone bench in the church’s small memorial garden. His hands shook so violently he could barely work the knot on the twine. The string came loose, and he tore away the brown paper.

Inside was a simple cardboard box. There was a faint, acrid smell coming from it, an odor that his memory instantly, horrifyingly supplied: old smoke, ash, and burnt wood. The smell of the funeral pyre he had fled thirty years ago.

With a final, trembling breath, he lifted the lid.

It lay nestled on a bed of what looked like blackened, shredded fabric. The object itself was a twisted, misshapen lump of iron, no bigger than his hand. It was coated in a thick layer of soot that came off on his fingertips, gritty and black. It took his mind a moment to process the mangled shape, to recognize the distorted form.

It was the small, cast-iron figure of Christ from a crucifix. The body was melted, the features warped and smeared by intense heat, the limbs contorted in a final, metallic agony. But it was unmistakable. He remembered the weight of it, the simple, solid faith it represented in Mr. Baumann’s calloused hand. He remembered dropping it on the attic floor, a final act of terrified surrender.

Ulrich had plucked it from the ashes.

For thirty years, he had kept this relic. This trophy. This symbol of Thomas’s ultimate failure and cowardice. He had preserved it, waited for the perfect moment, and then sent it back, delivered by one of his human pets to the one place Thomas had feigned sanctuary.

It wasn't a threat. It was a declaration. I am here. I have always been here. I have your scent. The game of hide-and-seek is over. Now, the hunt begins.

Thomas stared at the burnt offering, the cold weight of it a final, crushing blow to the fragile life he had tried to build. The fear was still there, a coiling serpent in his gut. But something new was crystallizing around it, forged in the heat of this ultimate violation. It was a cold, hard resolve.

He had spent thirty years running from a ghost. He had sacrificed his family’s happiness on the altar of his own terror. No more. The time for running was over. You couldn't run from a monster who knew your soul. You couldn't hide from a predator who enjoyed the chase.

There was only one path left. The one Klaus Baumann had tried to show him in a dusty, blood-soaked attic a lifetime ago. He had to turn. He had to fight. He had to become the one thing he had run from for three decades.

A hunter.