Chapter 11: The Severance Ritual

Chapter 11: The Severance Ritual

The return to the apartment was a funereal procession. They carried the leather-bound book from Mr. Corbin like a holy text and the bundle of herbs like a final offering. The shoebox containing the doll sat on the floor of the rental car, a silent, malevolent passenger. Inside Apartment 3B, the air was still and heavy, a held breath waiting for the inevitable scream. The two red words on the wall, MY TURN, seemed to glow with anticipation.

There was no more discussion. There was only the grim, methodical execution of Mr. Corbin's instructions. Jenna, ever the practical one, took charge of the physical preparations. She found the large container of table salt in the back of the pantry and began to pour a thick, unbroken circle in the center of the living room floor, her movements precise and focused. The white line was a stark, fragile boundary against the encroaching darkness, a desperate attempt to impose order on a world that had none.

Remi’s task was to prepare her mind. She sat on the edge of the mattress, the old book open on her lap. The instructions were written in a spidery, archaic hand, detailing a ritual of pure will. It wasn't about prayers or gods; it was about claiming sovereignty over one's own soul. You must not falter, the text warned. You must not believe the lies it will show you. Hold fast to who you are. It is your only shield.

When the circle was complete, Jenna placed the shoebox in the very center. The doll’s unblinking glass eyes stared up from its cardboard prison, the epicenter of their terror. With a shudder, Jenna took her place opposite Remi, just inside the salt line. The living room was now their battleground, a sacred, and soon to be desecrated, space.

“Ready?” Jenna whispered, her voice tight.

Remi could only nod, her mouth too dry for words. She clutched the bundle of herbs—a mix of sage, mugwort, and something else that smelled faintly of iron and earth.

Following the book’s directive, Jenna struck a match. The flame wavered in the unnaturally still air. Remi held the herbs over it. They smoldered for a moment, then caught, releasing a thick, acrid plume of smoke that smelled like a dying fire. The scent filled the small room, sharp and cleansing, a stark contrast to the grave-like cold that was beginning to seep from the floor.

“Now,” Jenna urged, her eyes on the book.

Remi took a deep, shuddering breath, the smoke stinging her lungs. She fixed her gaze on the doll and spoke the first line of the incantation, her voice trembling but clear.

“What was bound by chance, I now sever by choice.”

The instant the words left her lips, the temperature in the room plummeted. It wasn't the creeping cold from before; this was a violent, arctic plunge. Frost bloomed in feathery patterns on the windowpanes. Their breath plumed in front of them in thick, white clouds.

From the shoebox, a low hum began, a sub-audible vibration that resonated in their teeth and bones.

Remi continued, her voice gaining a fragile strength. “What clung in shadow, I cast into light. This vessel is mine. This life is mine.”

WHUMP.

The power in the entire apartment cut out, plunging them into near-total darkness, relieved only by the faint orange glow of the smoldering herbs. The humming intensified, rising in pitch to a malevolent whine.

“Jenna, don’t stop,” Remi gasped, her heart hammering against her ribs.

Jenna, her face a pale mask in the gloom, read the next line. “By will and by blood, the tie is undone. By memory and name, the parasite is gone.”

That was the trigger.

The entity unleashed its full, unrestrained fury. The apartment became a psychic warzone. The first assault was physical. A stack of magazines on the end table flew across the room, pages flapping like panicked birds, and shredded themselves against the far wall. The armchair, Mrs. Millar’s tormentor, screeched across the laminate floor, slamming into the kitchen doorway with a splintering crack. A glass on the counter exploded, showering the linoleum with glittering shrapnel.

The noise was a deafening cacophony, a poltergeist’s symphony of rage. But they held their ground inside the salt circle, the smoke from the herbs coiling around them like a protective serpent.

Then the assault shifted, turning inward, seeking out the cracks in their resolve. It had learned their fears, and it wielded them with surgical precision.

A voice, thin and reedy, whispered directly in Jenna’s ear, a perfect imitation of the old woman at the Japanese temple. “Kanashii… You took her from her home. You left her alone. This is your fault.”

Jenna flinched as if struck, her eyes wide with guilt. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I didn’t know.”

But the voice was relentless, twisting the knife. “Your sister pays for your mistake. Your carelessness. You brought this sorrow upon her.”

Remi saw Jenna’s resolve crumbling and gripped her sister’s hand. “Don’t listen, Jenna! It’s a lie! It’s what Corbin warned us about!”

But the entity was already turning its attention to Remi, its true target. It reached into her past, pulling forth the half-forgotten ghost of her grandmother’s voice, twisting her spooky stories into venomous, personal threats.

“I always told you to be careful, Remi,” the spectral voice rasped, seeming to come from the ceiling above them. “Some things, once they have your scent, never let go. It will wear your skin like a dress. It will smile at your sister with your mouth.”

A wave of nausea washed over Remi. This was a violation of memory, a desecration of her childhood. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to recite the words from the book, but her concentration was shattering.

And then, the entity unleashed its masterpiece.

The psychic pressure in the room shifted. The chaos of flying objects ceased. The whispering voices fell silent. In the oppressive quiet, a new image began to form in the darkest corner of the room, coalescing out of shadow and spite.

It was Remi.

Or rather, a version of her. This Remi stood tall, her posture confident, her hair neat. She was smiling a bright, easy smile—a smile Remi herself hadn't managed in years. She wore a crisp, clean blouse, not a faded gas station polo. And she was not alone. Jenna was standing beside her, her arm linked through the illusion’s, laughing.

“See?” the illusory Remi said, and the voice was Remi’s, but stripped of all its anxiety and exhaustion. It was a voice full of life. “This is what she wants. What everyone wants. No more worrying about you, no more dragging you down.”

The real Remi stared, her breath catching in her throat. This was her deepest, most secret fear made manifest: that she was a burden, a black hole of anxiety her vibrant, successful sister was tethered to out of pity.

“That’s not real,” she choked out, but the vision was so potent, so perfectly tailored to her insecurities, that belief was a slippery, treacherous thing.

The illusionary Jenna looked at her with an expression of cool disappointment. “It’s so much easier this way, Remi. She’s not tired all the time. She’s not afraid of everything. Don’t you want me to be happy?”

The psychic blow was devastating. The entity wasn’t just trying to scare her; it was trying to convince her to surrender. It was offering a twisted form of release, promising that everyone’s life would be better if she just gave up, stepped aside, and let it have its turn.

Her will, which she had held onto like a shield, began to fracture. Doubt, cold and sharp, pierced her heart. Maybe they’re right. Maybe it would be better.

As her resolve faltered, the entity struck. The illusions vanished, and a force like a physical ram slammed into her mind. It was an invasive, crushing pressure, an intelligence made of pure, desperate loneliness forcing its way into her consciousness. She felt cold, alien fingers sifting through her memories, examining her thoughts, cataloging her emotions. It was the feeling of being erased, of her own soul being hollowed out to make room for the new tenant. The name Remi Vance began to feel thin, fragile, like a word about to be forgotten.

The smoldering herbs fell from her numb fingers, their protective smoke thinning. The doll in the center of the circle, Kiko, its smile serene and victorious, seemed to pulse with a dark, triumphant light. The battle for Remi’s soul had begun, and in the psychic onslaught, she was beginning to lose herself.