Chapter 7: The First Ward

Chapter 7: The First Ward

For a frozen eternity, Trey could only stare into the cold, green fire burning in his father’s hollow sockets. The world dissolved into three points of reality: the intelligent malice in those eyes, the dead weight of the journal in his left hand, and the pounding of his own heart, a frantic drum signaling his imminent demise. The creature—the Vessel—took a step forward, a fluid, silent motion that was far more terrifying than any monstrous roar. Its head was cocked, the dry skin of its neck crackling softly, as if analyzing him, savoring the fear that poured off him like heat.

It was the scent. The lock of hair. He wasn't just in the way; he was the other half of the bounty.

The creature lunged.

Time snapped back into motion. Pure, primal terror finally broke Trey’s paralysis. He stumbled backward, tripping over an exposed root and landing hard on his back. The flashlight flew from his grasp, its beam careening into the darkness, leaving him in the horrifying glow of those approaching green eyes. The journal was still clutched in his hand, its worn leather a useless, academic shield against the physical violence about to descend upon him.

His mind screamed. He was going to die here, in this foul, forgotten creek bed, torn apart by the animated corpse of the man he hated, all while his brother—his replacement—watched with serene indifference.

The herbs, the symbols. I have tried everything.

His father’s frantic words from the journal flashed in his mind, not as a memory, but as a desperate, last-second suggestion. He had none of the herbs or bones from the stone box, but he had the book. The source code for his father's madness, or his salvation.

The creature was almost on top of him, its gaunt, claw-like hands reaching. With a surge of adrenaline, Trey scrambled into a sitting position, fumbling with the journal, his fingers like clumsy sausages. He ripped the book open, pages fluttering past in a blur of frantic script and mad diagrams. His eyes searched for anything, any symbol that looked like defense, like a shield.

He saw it. A page his father had dog-eared and marked with a single, stark word in the margin: REPULSION.

The diagram was a complex knot of intersecting lines and angular, runic characters, all contained within a sharply defined circle. It looked like something a madman would doodle, but his father had believed in it. Right now, belief was the only weapon he had.

With no time to think, to doubt, Trey tore the page from the journal. The sound of ripping paper was shockingly loud in the preternatural silence. The creature hesitated for a fraction of a second, its head tilting at the sound, its green eyes narrowing.

That was all the time Trey needed.

"Get back!" he screamed, his voice raw with terror, and shoved the crumpled page forward like a shield. He didn't know if he was supposed to recite a phrase or draw the symbol in the air. He just acted, channeling all his fear and desperation into the flimsy piece of paper.

The moment he presented the page, a wave of force, invisible and silent, erupted from the paper. It wasn’t a flash of light or a clap of thunder. It was a distortion in the air, a sickening lurch in reality, as if the very fabric of the woods had been violently pushed backward.

The creature recoiled as if struck by a physical blow. A sound tore from its throat, a dry, rasping hiss of static and rage, like a radio being tuned between dead stations. It stumbled back, its unnatural grace shattered, one hand coming up to shield its glowing eyes from the page, from the symbol it clearly recognized and hated. The green light in its sockets flickered and dimmed, poisoned by the ward.

It worked.

Holy God, it actually worked.

The revelation struck Trey with the force of a physical blow. This wasn't a delusion. The journal wasn’t the ravings of a lunatic. It was real. The occult tools, the wards, the fight—it was all terrifyingly, verifiably real.

He didn't waste a second marveling at his victory. He scrambled to his feet, the torn page clutched in his fist, and grabbed Neil’s arm. "We have to go! Now!"

Neil turned from the creek, his eyes slowly clearing as if waking from a deep dream. The placid emptiness was gone, replaced by a dawning, human confusion. The stutter returned to his voice. "T-Trey? What… what was that noise? Where are we?" He looked past Trey and saw the thing that wore their father's face, now beginning to recover its balance in the shadows. Neil's face went white with terror. He didn't seem to recognize the specifics, only the pure, undiluted menace of it.

"Don't look, just run!" Trey yelled, dragging his brother away from the creek.

Neil was dead weight, his legs clumsy with shock. Trey practically had to carry him, stumbling through the grasping thorns and treacherous roots. Behind them, the hissing rose in volume, a promise of pursuit. Trey didn't dare look back. He just ran, pulling Neil along, the crumpled ward held out behind him like a talisman to ward off the dark.

They burst from the tree line into the overgrown yard, the dim, yellow light from the kitchen window looking like the brightest sanctuary in the world. The sounds of the woods, the hissing and the unnatural silence, seemed to stop at the edge of the yard, as if they could not cross onto the blighted property.

Trey shoved Neil through the back door and slammed it shut, ramming the bolt home with a loud, metallic clang. He leaned against the door, his chest heaving, his lungs burning. Sweat and grime slicked his skin. He was alive. They were alive.

"Trey, what is going on?" Neil whispered, his body trembling as he slid down the wall to the floor. "That thing... it looked like..."

"It was," Trey gasped, unable to lie, unable to process the full truth himself. He unclenched his fist. The torn page was crumpled and damp, but the intricate, hateful symbol was still visible. A weapon. He had a weapon. For the first time since returning to Harrow Creek, a flicker of something other than fear sparked within him: a grim, savage sense of empowerment. He wasn't just a victim anymore. He wasn't just the boy who ran. He could fight back.

He straightened up, his eyes scanning the familiar, dusty kitchen. The feeling of victory evaporated as quickly as it had come, replaced by a new and even more profound dread. He looked at the peeling wallpaper, the water-stained ceiling, the worn floorboards beneath his feet. He thought of the journal, now lying on the kitchen table.

The corruption is rooted in him. It's rooted in my house. A door I didn't know was left open.

They hadn't escaped to safety. They had retreated to the epicenter. The thing in the woods hadn't crossed into the yard because it didn't need to. The curse wasn't just out there. It was in here. The house wasn't a fortress protecting them from the evil outside. It was the source of the infection, a prison they had just willingly locked themselves inside. And the warden was watching from the woods, patiently waiting for its prisoner to be delivered.