THOR - Chapter 2: The Whispering Walls
The Finch household had always been modest, a place of quiet dinners and muted laughter. But after Maria's nightmare and the welts carved into her arm, the air inside their home shifted. It was no longer a refuge; it was a cage filled with dread.
Logan stared at his daughter's wounds, his breath hitching. The marks weren't scratches. They were deep, angry welts, branded into her skin as though by invisible claws. Martha rushed in with the first aid kit, but she stopped dead at the doorway. The bedroom, which should have been warm from the afternoon sun, was so cold that their breath misted in the air.
"What happened?" Martha whispered, kneeling beside Maria. She dabbed antiseptic onto the wounds, but the moment the liquid touched her skin, Maria hissed—not in her own voice, but in a guttural rasp that made Logan recoil.
"It wasn't a dream," Maria muttered, her eyes fixed on a dark corner of the ceiling. "She was there. She touched me."
The First Night of Terror
That evening, the family tried to pretend things were fine. Logan cooked dinner, Martha set the table, and Samantha sat quietly, her fork untouched. But the house wouldn't let them forget.
"Mom, why is the hallway light flickering?" Samantha asked, her voice trembling.
"It's just old wiring, sweetie," Martha said, though her hands shook as she served the mashed potatoes.
Suddenly, the heavy wooden dining table groaned. A glass of water near Maria's hand began to slide across the surface, inching toward the edge as if pushed by an invisible finger. Maria watched, mesmerized. Just as it reached the edge, it didn't fall—it shattered into fine powder right there on the table.
"Enough!" Logan stood, pale and trembling. "Maria, tell us the truth. What happened at school today? Anni and Hanna were with you, weren't they?"
Maria looked at her father. For a moment, her pupils dilated until her eyes were almost entirely black. "We just played a game, Dad. A ritual. But we didn't finish it."
Logan, a man of logic and grocery store inventories, didn't believe in ghosts. But he couldn't explain the scratches or the powdered glass. "Tomorrow, you aren't going to school. We're going to the doctor."
The Shadow in the Mirror
Late that night, Maria couldn't sleep. The scratches on her arm burned like fire. She crept down the hallway for water. As she passed the mirror, she froze.
Her reflection wasn't still. The scarred side of her face seemed to move, the ridges shifting like worms beneath the skin. She leaned closer.
"Help me," a voice whispered. It wasn't coming from her mouth. It was coming from the mirror.
Behind her reflection, a figure emerged—the veiled woman from her dream. She placed a withered hand on Maria's mirrored shoulder. The glass cracked, a spiderweb fracture spreading from the touch.
Maria tried to scream, but no sound came. Her throat felt filled with molten lead. Suddenly, the lights in the house flared to blinding brightness—and then exploded.
A Mother's Fear
Martha and Logan rushed out of their room to find Maria standing in the dark hallway, surrounded by shards of glass. She was clawing at the wallpaper, peeling it back in jagged strips.
"Maria! Stop it!" Logan grabbed her shoulders, but gasped and let go. Her skin was boiling hot, like a fever that shouldn't be survivable.
"She says the circle is a door," Maria whispered, her voice hollow. "She says thank you for leaving it open."
Martha felt a chill of recognition. She had grown up in a village where old stories spoke of spirits that fed on anger. She had dismissed them as superstition—until now.
"Logan," she whispered, clutching his arm. "The doctor can't fix this. We need someone who understands the things we can't see."
The Arrival of Father John
The next morning, the house was a wreck. Every picture frame had been turned toward the wall. The scent of rotting meat hung in the air, despite Logan scrubbing the kitchen three times.
Logan called Father John, a local priest known for his calm demeanor. But when he stepped onto the porch, he hesitated. He gripped his crucifix tightly, his knuckles white.
"Mr. Finch," Father John said gravely. "I felt the heaviness of this house from the street."
Inside, Maria sat on the sofa, unusually still. Samantha hid in the kitchen, too frightened to come out.
Father John approached Maria. "Hello, Maria. May I speak with you?"
Maria didn't turn her head. She just smiled—a wide, unnatural grin that stretched her scarred face painfully. "The priest is here to play," she whispered.
Suddenly, every window rattled violently. A bookshelf tipped forward, crashing to the floor and narrowly missing Logan.
Father John pulled out a vial of holy water and began to pray. As the first drop touched the air, Maria's body contorted. She fell to the floor, her limbs twisting at impossible angles. She spoke in Latin, her voice a chorus of three different people screaming at once.
"It's not just one," Father John shouted over the rising wind. "The ritual didn't just let something in—it invited a legion."
The Vanishing Shadows
The living room became a battlefield. Father John's voice rose in steady Latin prayer, but the house fought back. The air thickened with sulfur and dust. Then, as quickly as it began, the chaos stopped.
Maria lay limp on the carpet, breathing shallowly. The scars on her face pulsed with a faint, sickly purple light.
"The entity has retreated for now," Father John said grimly. "But it hasn't left. It's using her anger as an anchor. You must watch her every second. Do not let her leave this house. Whatever she invited in is using her as a bridge to our world."
The Toll of the Ritual
At Merry International High School, Marcus—the boy who had kicked Maria's chair—was bragging about how he had "broken" her. But as he sat in the cafeteria, a sharp pain bloomed in his leg. He looked down to see a massive purple bruise spreading beneath his jeans.
He glanced at the window. In the reflection, he didn't see the cafeteria. He saw the Dead Room. And standing in the center was a figure that looked like Maria, her face a swirl of shifting shadows.
She raised a finger to her lips. "Shhh," the reflection whispered.
Marcus panicked. He sprinted out of the cafeteria, but every door was locked. The hallways stretched and distorted, pushing him toward the basement.
The First Disappearance
Back at the Finch house, Maria woke. But the girl who opened her eyes wasn't Maria. Her gaze was cold, predatory.
"Where is Samantha?" she asked calmly.
"She's in her room, honey," Martha said softly.
"She should be," Maria muttered. "Everyone should be."
Logan entered, exhausted. "I just got a call from the school. There's a lockdown. A student went missing—Marcus. They found his backpack in the basement, but the boy is gone."
Maria didn't look surprised. A cruel smile touched her lips. On the wall behind her, her shadow stretched, its fingers elongated into claws, reaching toward the kitchen where Samantha hid.
The Priest's Warning
Father John returned that evening with a heavy leather-bound book. His face was pale.
"I've been researching the ritual Anni described," he said. "It's called the Vessel of Vengeance. It promises justice to the bullied, but it actually provides a body for a Devourer—a spirit that feeds on spite."
"How do we stop it?" Logan asked.
"We need the other two," Father John said. "Anni and Hanna. The original circle must be reformed. But the entity knows this. It will do everything in its power to keep them apart."
As he spoke, a crash came from upstairs. A scream followed.
"MARIA! STOP! YOU'RE HURTING ME!"
They bolted upstairs. Samantha was pinned against the wall by an invisible force, her face turning blue. Maria stood in the center, her hair floating as if underwater.
"Maria is gone," the entity boomed through her. "There is only the Debt. And the Debt must be paid in blood."
At that moment, the front door slammed open. Hanna stood in the entryway, sobbing, her clothes torn. "It's Anni!" she screamed. "The shadows... they took Anni into the woods!"
The horror was no longer contained within the Finch home. The ritual was spreading through Merry, and Maria was the center of the storm.