CHAPTER TWO
1822 Words
Pastor Gregory had known Sky for so long that her name felt like a prayer on his tongue. He had baptized her with his own trembling hands when she was just a bright‑eyed, glowing infant an infant unlike any he had ever held in fifty years of ministry. To him, she remained the one child whose presence had once made the entire church feel as though heaven itself had leaned closer.
He remembered that morning vividly. The sanctuary was filled with the soft murmurs of congregants, the fragrance of burning candles, and rays of sunlight piercing through stained glass, painting Sky’s tiny form in warm hues. She had a glow an actual, soft radiance that shimmered around her like a veil. Even the air felt different, sharper, clearer, lighter. And when he dipped her into the baptismal basin, her small hand shot up and grasped his finger with surprising strength before she pulled it toward her mouth and began sucking it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
A wave of laughter rippled across the church. Pastor Gregory had chuckled too an unrestrained, fatherly laugh that warmed him all the way to his chest. Something divine stirred in him that moment. He felt it. Sky was special. Marked.
From that day on, he watched over her as though she were his own daughter. Her parents allowed it, even encouraged it. Sky adored him, and he adored her. For years she had been a beacon bright, pure, and full of life.
But now… now everything was wrong.
For six months he had watched her light drain away. The glow she once carried an essence of innocence and peace was fading like a dying ember in wet ash. And though he first noticed the dimming four years ago, on the day she introduced him to Alf Stanvile, only now was the darkness enveloping her completely.
Gregory had never been a man quick to judge. In nearly five decades of pastoral service, he had welcomed sinners and saints alike with the same open arms. But Alf something about him had unsettled the deepest parts of the pastor's spirit. When their hands first met, Gregory felt a shock. A cold so biting it seeped into his bones followed by a wave of scorching heat that burned the back of his palm.
He had pulled his hand away abruptly, startled, embarrassed, and confused. Sky and Alf exchanged puzzled looks, unaware of the spiritual warfare Gregory felt raging under their touch. Later that evening, when he examined his hand, he found faint burn marks finger‑shaped marks. He knew then that something was wrong with Alf Stanvile. Terribly wrong.
Yet he said nothing. Not to Sky, not to anyone. Instead, he prayed in silence every night, pleading for protection over her. But prayer alone didn’t seem enough anymore. Because Sky’s light was nearly gone.
On that particular Sunday, when Sky stepped into the church, Pastor Gregory’s breath caught in his throat. She looked… hollow. Her skin pale and stretched, her eyes heavy and sunken, her entire posture slumped as though she were carrying a weight far too heavy for her own body.
The congregation was too polite to stare, but the pastor felt their quiet alarm in the shuffling of feet and the tightening of their faces.
When the service ended, he forced himself toward her. He needed to speak. To ask. To help.
But the moment he clasped her hand, time slowed.
A coldness unlike anything he had ever felt crept through his arm, spreading rapidly to his shoulder, his chest, his spine. His knees went weak. His fingers trembled. The air around them thickened into an oppressive silence. And then he felt it an ancient, malevolent presence staring at him from behind Sky’s eyes.
It smiled.
He froze. Every instinct screamed at him to pull away, but he couldn’t not out of duty, not out of fear, but because something held him there. Images flashed across his mind chaotic visions, shadows twisting, flames consuming, a faceless figure standing over Sky. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t even pray.
His lips trembled as he tried to speak to her, but the words dissolved somewhere between his thoughts and his mouth. All he managed was a strained nod as he loosened his grip.
Sky walked away slowly, unaware of the war she carried within her. Each step tore a deeper wound into Gregory’s heart. He closed his eyes against the pain, and when he opened them again she was gone.
But in the very last blink, he saw it. A glimmer. A flicker. A faint spark deep within her almost invisible, almost gone, yet still there.
And it hit him like a revelation.
"Dear God… it can’t be. Not her. Not Sky…"
But his spirit whispered the truth: It had begun.
ALF
That same Sunday morning, Alf woke drenched clothes, sheets, pillow, everything soaked as though he’d been pulled from the bottom of a lake. His limbs were heavy, his head throbbing. He stared at the wet fabric clinging to him and tried to make sense of it. He wanted to ask Sky if she’d noticed anything strange the previous night, but even thinking about it made his stomach twist.
He remembered fragments of the conversation they’d had. Sky had sensed the lie in his reassurance. He knew she always did. She was slipping, breaking, dimming and he felt responsible. He felt guilty. He felt terrified.
Still, he loved her. He would always try to protect her, even if he had to fake strength to do it.
Sky had insisted on visiting her childhood church that morning three hours away. She looked exhausted, but determined. Alf couldn’t let her leave without helping prepare her and their son.
So he forced himself out of bed.
"Hey, champ," he whispered gently as he nudged his four‑year‑old, Thuram. "Mama is going on a journey today. I need you to be her little bodyguard, okay?"
The sleepy boy simply rubbed his eyes, nodded absentmindedly, yawned, and collapsed back on the mattress. Alf chuckled softly. Thuram was the light of his life his anchor, his sanity. Many nights it was the thought of his son that kept him grounded when the nightmares threatened to swallow him whole.
He tickled Thuram’s side, coaxing a giggle from him. Sky appeared at the door with a tired smile. "You two better not make me late."
Alf wanted to respond playfully, but the shadows of the night clung too tightly to him.
SKY's POV
Sky had barely slept. The exhaustion was not just physical it was spiritual. Something pressed against her spirit, tightening around her lungs, her mind, her very soul. For months she’d fought it. Now she felt it breaking through.
She had always been sensitive emotionally, spiritually, physically. Even the sound of Alf turning in bed used to keep her awake. But last night… last night was different. It was violent.
Alf thrashed, mumbled, and convulsed. His nightmares had always been bad, but this time his entire body trembled with unnatural intensity. Sky tried shaking him awake. He didn’t respond. She splashed a cup of cold water in his face. Still nothing.
Then it happened. At exactly 3:33 a.m., Alf’s body went completely still. No breathing. No twitching. No sound.
Seconds later, his body rose.
Not dramatically, but enough enough for Sky to see the duvet lift and separate from the mattress beneath him.
Her entire body froze. Something cold brushed against her cheek. Then another. A gust of wind burst through the room despite the tightly shut windows.
A loud thud hit the glass.
Sky jerked her head toward the sound, and in that brief turn, she saw it. A reflection. A shape. Something dark, almost human yet not, lingering in the corner.
She had to leave the house. She had to talk to Pastor Gregory.
Her heart pounded as Alf’s body suddenly slammed down onto the bed at 3:34 a.m. the impact so hard the mattress shook.
His breathing resumed, calm and steady.
Sky stood there, trembling violently. For over an hour she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe properly. Couldn’t look away from her husband.
When she finally dared to approach him, she gently lifted the duvet and let out a choked sigh when she found only her husband underneath pale, frail, exhausted, but human.
“Maybe I was dreaming,” she whispered to herself as she kissed his forehead.
He was burning up.
She fetched a cold towel. She nursed him through the early dawn. Even in terror, she cared for him because he was still Alf. Her Alf.
By sunrise, she began preparing for her journey.
THURAM
Thuram knew something was wrong. Even at four years old, his tender heart sensed it. Mama wasn’t the same. Daddy wasn’t the same. The warm laughter in the house was fading. At night Mama would sneak into his room to hold him, crying quietly into his little pajamas. Sometimes he woke and hugged her. Sometimes he pretended to sleep so she wouldn’t feel embarrassed.
He didn’t understand everything, but he understood enough: things were not okay.
His constant companion was Snuggles, the stray kitten who had appeared out of nowhere two years ago, curling up beside him in his cradle like a guardian angel.
But that night, Snuggles behaved differently.
At exactly 3:32 a.m., the cat began meowing urgently, tugging at Thuram’s blankets, clawing at the bedroom door. Thuram, confused but trusting, followed. Snuggles led him to his parents’ room. He stood outside, tiny and brave in the dim hallway.
At 3:33 a.m., he heard a dull thud against the window.Snuggles vanished into the shadows.
Thuram placed his palm against the door not pushing, not opening. Just touching. Something guided him. A warm pressure pulsed beneath his small hand.
Then the feeling vanished.
He turned and walked back to his room, meeting Snuggles halfway. They curled up together again and fell asleep.
Neither Alf nor Sky ever knew their son had stood outside their room that night. And neither knew what he had sensed.
- Writer
