He listened intently, trying to decipher the direction of the sound—a sensation that reminded him of someone's shoulder brushing past in a crowded room. The explanation had come to him earlier, a lesson in how to sense the world through echoes and the subtlest rustles. Now, careful not to betray his presence, he inched his feet down from the bed, lowering them so softly that the carpet barely noticed his weight. He crept forward, each step measured, following the elusive noises that seemed to dance just beyond the next corner. With his breath held tight in his chest, he rounded the doorway and glimpsed two children—small, darting figures, their laughter bubbling like water over smooth stones, circling the house in a wild game. He pressed himself into the shadows, watching as they chased one another, their movements too quick and bright to belong to ordinary children. His hands trembled, both from the effort to remain silent and from a growing unease.
Then, fate intervened—a careless elbow nudged a glass cup perched on a side table. In a heartbeat, the cup toppled and shattered with a sharp, ringing crash that sliced through the night. The sound seemed to freeze the world. The first child vanished instantly, dissolving into thin air as if erased by an unseen hand. The second followed a moment later, leaving only silence and the echo of their laughter hanging in the empty space.
Heart pounding, Ben turned and fled. He darted back to the bedroom, desperate to lose himself in the familiar safety of his bed. But as he tried to quietly slip beneath the covers, something caught his eye—a strange, undulating movement beneath Katrina's skin, as though shadows were shifting deep inside her. He blinked, unsure whether his eyes were playing tricks or if something was truly wrong. Then he heard voices—soft, urgent, and entirely inhuman.
"Please hurry, I need to get out of here," one voice whispered, its tone brittle with fear.
Another, more measured, replied, "Don't be impatient. We have to make sure they believe you're human. You must finish your nine months, just like any other baby."
Ben's mind reeled. Logic battled with fear, each explanation more impossible than the last. He clung to the hope that he was simply overtired, that stress was twisting his perceptions into nightmare. But the fear grew until it was all he could feel. Unable to endure the oppressive atmosphere, he left the room, seeking solace elsewhere in the house. Sleep came only in fragments, chased by doubt and anxiety.
Morning arrived gray and heavy. Katrina awoke alone, the space beside her cold. She called for Ben, her voice echoing through the house. Panic crept in as she searched each room, finally finding him outside beneath the old sycamore, sitting with his back against the trunk, eyes fixed on a point only he could see.
"Ben, what's wrong? Why are you out here?" she asked, her worry plain.
He shrugged, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Nothing. Just needed some air. Couldn't sleep."
She reached for his hand, her grip gentle but insistent, and led him back inside. They barely had time to settle before a stranger appeared at the door—a man with sharp eyes and a battered notebook, his presence somehow both ordinary and unsettling. They assumed he was just another journalist from Babbel City, come to chase rumors or stories.
"Good day, sir. Can we help you?" Ben asked, voice taut.
The stranger smiled, but the warmth didn't reach his eyes. "Actually, I'm here to help you."
Katrina stepped between them, her hands trembling. "Please leave. We don't need your help."
The man's gaze lingered on her, searching, probing. "Still hiding things from your husband?" he said, his words heavy with implication.
Ben bristled, suspicion and confusion swirling together. But in his heart, he trusted Katrina—he couldn't believe she would ever betray or harm him.
"Please go!" he insisted, his voice firmer this time. The stranger—a doctor with a reputation for chasing the supernatural—shrugged as though none of it mattered. He warned Ben that the truth would come out eventually, then turned and left, promising that the world would hear the story, whether they wanted it or not.
For months, Ben lived in a haze of uncertainty. He had no idea Katrina was pregnant—not really, not in a way that made sense to him. The house felt different; shadows seemed to move with a mind of their own. The strange visions continued: glimpses of figures at the edge of his sight, whispers that faded when he tried to listen, dreams that lingered like smoke after he woke. He wondered if he was losing his grip on reality, if the boundaries between what was real and what was imagined were slowly eroding.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the world, the spirit called Elixic wandered alongside the restless wind. Together, they sought a human body to possess—a vessel to give them shelter in the mortal world. But each attempt ended the same way: the host body died within hours, unable to withstand the presence of a spirit. With each failure, their frustration grew. They didn't realize the truth: the earth was not a place for spirits to dwell, but a domain carefully watched over by angels. Even the angels who watched over Katrina and Ben struggled with the challenge of guiding and protecting those they loved while remaining unseen.
Elixic and his kind grew desperate. The fleeting moments of life inside a human body always ended in death or madness. If they lingered too long, they risked becoming trapped—forced to live out mortal lives, feeling hunger and pain and fear, everything they had once transcended. The threat of being bound to flesh haunted them, a fate worse than oblivion.
One night, Katrina dreamed with an intensity that felt prophetic. In her dream, a scroll fell from the sky, trailing shimmering light. She reached out, her hand closing around the parchment—and awoke to find herself truly holding it. The scroll's cover was inscribed in gold: "The prophecy book that will reveal what's about to happen."
Her heart raced as she unrolled the scroll, expecting answers, revelations—words that would explain the strange events, the voices, the changes in her body. But the inside was blank, empty as a cloudless sky. Not a single word appeared.
Suddenly, a ravenous hunger gripped her, so fierce it felt like her body had been starved for years. She stumbled through the kitchen, searching for anything to eat, but found only a single orange sitting on the counter. She stared at it, confused—she had no memory of buying it, and yet it looked impossibly fresh, its scent sharp and sweet. She peeled it with shaking hands, each segment a small relief against the gnawing emptiness inside her.
As Katrina ate, she realized her hunger was not just for food, but for understanding—for some thread of truth to weave the strange pieces of her life together. The blank scroll lay on the table, a silent promise of answers yet to come, as the world outside shifted, waiting for the next revelation.
Hunger had become her constant companion, gnawing at her insides with a relentless ache that never truly faded. The rumble in her stomach drowned out reason, leaving her with only one thought: eat, now. Driven by this desperation, Katrina snatched a knife and seized an orange from the table. Her motions were frantic, hands trembling as she sliced too quickly, the need to silence her hunger overriding caution. In a single careless moment, the blade slipped—pain flared, sharp and immediate, as blood welled up, hot and bright against her skin.
The pain was so intense that it stunned her, making the world blur at the edges. Automatically, she reached for something to staunch the bleeding, her hand falling on the old, yellowed scroll she'd kept hidden among her things. She pressed her palm against it, smearing blood across the ancient parchment. Then, impossibly, the scroll seemed to stir beneath her touch—as if awakened by her blood. Dark, curling letters began to appear, etching themselves onto the surface with a life of their own. Line after line unfurled with a sense of urgency:
"It has happened. The wait will soon be over, because the time has come. Soon, all the spirits will find perfect bodies, and they'll keep tormenting the world for thousands, even millions of years.
The gates of the spirits in the heavens will open, and the spirit winds will break free. The earth will welcome them.
The demons on earth will finally take the bodies they want. The king of evil will be released from the wind, and the earth is doomed."
Katrina's pulse quickened as she read, the meaning just out of reach, tangled in prophecy and warning. The words seemed to pulse with a life of their own, as if the scroll itself were a living witness to some ancient, cosmic tragedy. Her hands shook as she slammed the scroll shut, desperate to contain whatever power it might hold. But when she glanced at the back cover, fresh words had appeared, jagged and urgent: "Come back and check if it's already happening—it won't be long. But look, the chosen one will be born to save mankind."
The words burned into her memory, their meaning a mystery, but the sense of impending disaster was unmistakable. She stared at the scroll, heart pounding, unable to shake the feeling that her life had just become entangled with something far larger and more terrifying than herself.
Before she could contemplate the implications, Ben's voice echoed from the other room, jarring her back to the present. "Honey, honey!" Panic burst through her as she scrambled to hide the scroll among the kitchen clutter, trying to compose herself before he entered.
The night passed in restless fragments of sleep, the scroll's messages looping endlessly in her mind. When morning finally arrived, she forced herself through the motions of preparing breakfast, hoping the mundane rhythms would steady her. But as she reached for a pan, a sudden, blinding flash of white light engulfed her, so bright it blotted out the world. In an instant, everything changed.
She found herself standing in the corridor of a hospital—the same hospital where she'd been admitted months before, when her life had veered off course. Disoriented, she stepped inside, heart thudding. The scene before her was impossibly familiar, yet she was both observer and participant. There she was, lying motionless in a hospital bed, her own face pale and drawn. The doctor was there, furtively recording her conversation with the first angel, just as it had happened. Ben stood at her side, eyes wild with desperation, clutching a gun in white-knuckled hands, fury and fear etched into every line of his face. He was shouting at the doctors, demanding they release his wife, his voice cracking with emotion.
Every detail was laid bare before her, as if the universe itself wanted her to witness these secret moments anew. She watched herself, watched Ben, watched the doctors—every suppressed memory, every whispered conversation, every hidden fear exposed. But most disturbing of all was the presence she'd never noticed before: a demon, its fingers moving with elaborate, unnatural grace. It hovered near Ben, its intentions inscrutable but its influence unmistakable.
At first, Katrina could only stare in confusion, but realization dawned with sickening clarity—the demon was manipulating Ben, twisting his thoughts and emotions to suit its own purpose. Terror flooded her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the scream rising in her throat. She tried to call out, to warn her past self and Ben, but a voice, cool and disembodied, whispered from the shadows: "Keep quiet. They can hear, but they can't see." She froze, forcing herself silent, every muscle rigid with fear.
She watched, powerless, as Ben—under the demon's thrall—pointed the gun, his trembling hands guided toward a glass vial labeled HT4: the deadly virus. The shot rang out. The doctors collapsed, and Ben dashed to the bedside, gathering Katrina in his arms and fleeing down the corridor, even as the virus began its insidious spread.
Just as quickly as it had begun, the vision ended. Katrina gasped, finding herself once more in her own kitchen, the ordinary morning sunlight spilling across the counter. Ben entered, concern etched into his face.
"Honey, are you alright?" he asked, searching her eyes for answers she couldn't give.
"Yes, my love. I'm fine," she replied, forcing a smile, but inside her nerves were frayed and raw. The memory of the demon's influence haunted her. What if it still clung to Ben, unseen but ever-present, pulling the strings of their lives?
As soon as Ben left the room, Katrina moved with renewed urgency. She grabbed the knife, ignoring the pain as she cut her palm again. Blood dripped onto the scroll, a scarlet offering. She watched, breath caught in her throat, as the scroll responded. Once again, letters bloomed across the parchment, promising revelation or perhaps another warning. The sense of destiny pressed down on her, heavy with dread and hope, as if she stood at the threshold of something vast and inescapable.