Chapter 1: The First Chime

Chapter 1: The First Chime

The only sound in the suffocating silence of Isaiah’s bedroom was the heavy tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the downstairs hall. Each swing of its pendulum was a hammer blow against Leo’s sanity, counting down the last seconds of his friend's life.

The air, thick with the scent of rock salt and cheap incense, was a testament to their desperation. A thick, unbroken line of salt traced the perimeter of the room, stark white against the dark hardwood. Crucifixes, scavenged from every corner of the house, hung crookedly on the walls. A rosary dangled from the doorknob, its plastic beads looking flimsy and pathetic. Useless. Leo knew it was all useless.

He sat hunched in a corner, his back pressed hard against the wall as if he could somehow merge with it. His gaze was fixed on Isaiah, who perched on the edge of his bed, a baseball bat held in a white-knuckled grip. Isaiah was trying for bravery, his jaw set, his shoulders squared, but the frantic pulse beating in his throat betrayed him.

Across from Leo, James paced like a caged animal, his steps carefully avoiding the salt line. He muttered prayers under his breath, a frantic litany of Hail Marys and Our Fathers that tumbled over each other into a meaningless drone of panic.

"It's going to be fine," James whispered, his voice cracking. "The salt... the crosses... Nothing can get through this. It's a fortress."

Leo said nothing. He had said it all already. He’d screamed it, pleaded it, until his voice was raw. They hadn't listened after Sam. They’d barely listened after Nate. Only now, with Isaiah’s seven days drawing to a close, did they finally entertain the impossible truth. But belief was not a shield.

He knew what was coming. He had seen it. Three weeks ago, in a cold sweat, he had woken from a nightmare so vivid it had seared itself onto the back of his eyelids. He saw Sam, then Nate, then Isaiah. He saw how they would die. The dream had been a perfect, horrifying prophecy.

The first chime from the grandfather clock echoed up the stairs, a deep, resonant bong that made all three of them flinch.

Isaiah let out a choked sound, half-laugh, half-sob. "Well, here we go."

Bong. The second chime.

James stopped pacing, his face ashen. "Nothing's happening. See? We're okay."

Bong. The third.

Leo watched Isaiah. He didn't want to, but he couldn't look away. It was like watching a film for the second time, knowing the horrific ending was unavoidable. He saw the flicker of hope in Isaiah's eyes, a desperate spark that was about to be extinguished.

Bong. The fourth.

A sudden, unnatural cold swept through the room, leeching the warmth from the air. The incense smoke, which had been lazily curling towards the ceiling, flattened and dissipated as if blown by an unseen wind. The crucifix above Isaiah’s bed rattled against the wall.

"What was that?" James stammered, his eyes wide.

Bong. The fifth.

Isaiah scrambled back on his bed, pushing himself against the headboard. The baseball bat slipped from his sweaty grip and clattered to the floor. "It's here," he breathed, his voice a wisp of terror. "Oh God, Leo, it's here."

Bong. The sixth.

Leo’s own heart was a frantic drum against his ribs, but his expression was one of grim resignation. He knew no one could see it. Not yet. But he could feel it—a void in the room, a pocket of absolute nothingness that drank the light and sound around it.

The clock in the hall began its seventh chime.

Isaiah’s body was yanked upwards as if by a puppeteer’s strings. He was lifted a foot off the bed, his back arching violently. No hands were on him. Nothing was there. He hung suspended in the chilled air, his mouth open in a scream that wouldn't come out.

"Isaiah!" James shrieked, stumbling forward before catching himself at the edge of the salt line.

Two bloody furrows appeared on Isaiah’s face, deep and impossibly straight, running from his forehead to his chin. They weren’t cuts; it was as if the flesh had been gouged away by invisible claws. His eyes, wide with an agony beyond comprehension, turned into red, ruined pits. Blood streamed down his cheeks, hot and black in the dim light.

Leo squeezed his eyes shut, but the sound was inescapable. A wet, gurgling choke as a third, final line was carved horizontally across Isaiah’s throat. It was deep and viciously precise.

Bong. The twelfth and final chime faded into a profound, ringing silence.

Isaiah’s body dropped back onto the mattress with a soft, wet thud. It lay twisted, a broken doll in a pool of spreading darkness. The pristine salt line was undisturbed. The crucifixes still hung on the walls. The fortress had been breached without a single stone being moved.

A long, terrible moment passed. The only sound was James’s ragged, hyperventilating breaths. He stared at Isaiah’s corpse, his mind refusing to process what his eyes had just seen. Then, his head slowly, mechanically, turned to Leo.

Leo met his gaze. The haunted look in his own eyes was no longer one of fear, but of terrible, soul-crushing certainty. The cycle was as relentless as the ticking clock. The prophecy was not broken, merely fulfilled.

"It's done," Leo said, his voice a dead, hollow whisper that cut through the silence. "The tithe has been paid."

James just shook his head, his face a mask of disbelief and dawning horror. "No... no..."

Leo pushed himself to his feet, his legs trembling. He felt no relief, no victory in being right. Only the cold, heavy weight of the next seven days settling upon his shoulders. He looked at James, the last one left besides himself, and saw the invisible mark already settling on him. He saw the same terror that had been in Isaiah’s eyes just moments ago.

"The clock just started again," Leo said, his words sealing their fate. "It's your turn now, James. We have seven days."