The moment Allan lifted the portrait from the wall, exposing the safe-like structure embedded behind it, a sharp, searing pain tore through his shoulder.
He did not flinch.
Not even the slightest twitch of discomfort crossed his face.
Elaine's hand was buried deep in his flesh, fingers curled unnaturally, nails elongated and blackened, piercing straight through muscle and bone. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head toward her.
"Don't touch it," she said.
But it was not Elaine's voice.
It was pitchy, layered, wrong. A sound that scraped against the walls of the corridor like rusted metal. Her eyes were completely black now, void of pupils, void of reason. Every trace of the girl he knew was gone, erased beneath something older, something far more malicious.
For a brief moment, the corridor fell into an unnatural silence, as though the building itself was holding its breath.
Then she lunged.
Allan reacted instantly, grabbing her wrist before she could pull free. He tightened his grip, only to realize that her strength had multiplied, her bones felt like steel. This was not human strength. This was not Elaine.
She snarled, teeth jagged now, lips split unnaturally as she aimed straight for his chest.
His heart.
He didn't hold back.
If this had been Elaine, he would have restrained her. If this had been anyone else, he would have hesitated.
But this was a spirit.
And spirits did not deserve mercy.
Their bodies collided with a violent force, crashing against the walls, the air cracking with the sound of impact. She attacked relentlessly, each strike calculated, vicious, driven by instinct rather than thought. Claws tore through fabric, through skin. Her clothes shredded beneath the violence, stained dark with blood, blood that was no longer red, but thick and black.
Allan struck back not exactly attacking as the body still belonged to Elaine, mainly defending from the viscous strikes of the spirit.
The corridor became a blur of motion, shadows flickering unnaturally as the spirit pushed itself beyond its limits. It had already overstayed its welcome. Nine days weren't over and the maximum duration for temporary take over was short, anything beyond that risked collapse.
Yet this one endured.
Why?
Because it was close to its source.
The sea-like structure behind the portrait pulsed faintly, feeding it. Anchoring it. Giving it far more strength than it should have had.
Minutes passed.
Ten.
Then twelve.
The air itself vibrated, filled with the sound of clashing bodies, echoes bouncing violently through the corridor. Darkness shimmered unnaturally, as though light itself was bending away from the fight.
By the fifteenth minute, the spirit faltered.
Elaine's eyes rolled back, her body convulsing once before collapsing to the floor, lifeless and limp. Her breathing was shallow, erratic. Foam, dark and thick slipped past her lips, while black blood trickled from her nose.
Allan stood over her, not even breathing hard.
Slowly, he knelt, brushing the blood from her face with careful fingers. He wiped her mouth clean, adjusting her position so she could breathe more easily. He did not open the structure behind the wall.
Not yet.
Minutes passed before her lashes fluttered weakly.
"Allan…" she whispered.
Her voice was hoarse, fragile. Every bone in her body seemed to ache as she tried to move.
"I'm here," he said quietly. "You're alright now."
His tone was calm, soothing, an unfamiliar gentleness that rarely surfaced.
"What… happened?" she asked.
He helped her sit up slowly, brushing damp strands of hair from her face.
"You lost yourself for a moment," he replied evenly.
Her brows furrowed in confusion, then realization hit.
She gasped, eyes snapping to his shoulder.
A deep red patch stained his clothes. She touched it carefully, fingers trembling, pulling back when she saw the blood.
Black.
"Did I… do that?" she whispered, horror flooding her face.
"No," Allan said firmly. "You didn't."
She looked at him, panic rising.
"It wasn't you," he continued. "It was the spirit."
The words grounded her. Slowly, her breathing steadied.
Then she remembered.
The painting.
Her body stiffened.
"That thing…" she whispered. "It changed something, didn't it?"
"No," he said, too quickly. Too flat.
He turned away, the earlier care vanishing as if it had never existed.
Kneeling before the exposed structure, he opened it carefully.
There was no brown paper.
Instead, resting inside, was a necklace.
Old. Vast. Ancient.
Diamonds encased it completely, dull with age yet still gleaming faintly in the dark. Dried blood clung to its surface, dark and unmistakable.
Elaine's breath hitched.
It was the same necklace.
The one the bride wore in the portrait.
Outside the administrative building, Allan inhaled deeply, as though he had forgotten how to breathe while inside, the air felt ten times better than in there, though not as better as when he's away from HERBERT WILBUR.
Horace was the first to speak."It's about time," he said sharply. "Do you know how long we've been waiting?"
"Did you both find it?" Gwen asked the most important question.
Elaine stepped forward. "We didn't find the brown paper."
Allan lifted the necklace into the moonlight.
Gwen's eyes narrowed instantly.
"So that's what it turned into," Gwen mummured. "not shocked it didn't turn out exactly to be a brown paper".
With Gwen wors Elaine remembered Allan telling her how the dreams she saw may actually just be twisted past, he was right but then it seemed as though it would be dar more difficult getting rid of the spirit.
Horace frowned. "And what exactly are we supposed to do with that?"
Allan didn't hesitate. "whay can you divulge out of this?." Allan asked, lifting the necklace at Gwen.
Of course.
Gwen was a witch.
If anyone could coax memories, spells, or truths from a cursed relic soaked in blood, it was her.
"Morning ritual, let's do it in the morning" Gwen suggested cautiously.
"No," Allan said. "Tonight, besides Elaine and I would have to get back tonight."
Gwen studied the necklace, expression unreadable.
"…Let's see what we can do".