“Far enough that he’s got black veins showing. Fern doesn’t know what she’s dealing with. She thinks he’s just sick.”
“Can she reach him?”
“I don’t know. She’s good at this. It’s what she does. But the corruption might be too deep.”
“If it’s Cheslem magic, there might not be anything left of the original personality,” Thomas adds. “We’ve seen what happens when their influence takes hold. It doesn’t just amplify negative emotions. It consumes them. Uses them as fuel.”
“So what do we do?” Dylan asks.
“We wait,” Nic decides. “For now. Let Fern do what she can. But be ready to move if things go south.”
Through the door, I hear Fern continue her careful, measured approach.
“Robbie, I need you to focus on my voice. Just my voice. Can you do that for me?”
“I…” The knife wavers slightly in his grip. “My head hurts. It feels like something is crawling inside my skull. Like insects, burrowing deeper and deeper.”
“That sounds terrifying. I’m so sorry you’re going through this. But that’s exactly why you need help. Whatever is causing those symptoms, whatever is making you see and feel these things—it’s treatable. I promise you, we can figure this out. But not like this. Not with a knife in your hand.”
“I don’t want to fight. I just want you to come home with me. I just want things to go back to the way they were.”
“They can’t, Robbie. Too much has happened. But that doesn’t mean your life is over. It just means it has to change. And change can be good. Change can be healing. You just have to be brave enough to let it happen.”
“You sound like a therapist.”
“I am a therapist.” A hint of dry humor enters her voice. “It’s literally my job to help people through difficult moments. Let me do my job, Robbie. Let me help you the way I’ve helped dozens of other people.”
The knife wavers again. I hold my breath, my hands pressed flat against the broken door.
“I don’t…” Robbie’s voice cracks. “I don’t know what’s real anymore. I see things that aren’t there. I hear voices telling me to do things. Terrible things. And I can’t make them stop. No matter what I do, they just keep getting louder.”
“Auditory hallucinations can be a sign of serious illness, Robbie. Fever, infection, even certain toxins can cause them. You’re not crazy. Your brain is just misfiring because something is physically wrong. But we can fix it. We can make the voices stop. You just have to trust me.”
The black veins on Robbie’s neck pulse and writhe, like something alive beneath his skin is fighting against her words. His hand trembles, and I can see the war playing out across his face. The corruption wants blood. But somewhere deep inside, the man Robbie used to be is still listening to Fern’s voice.
And for one endless moment, I watch Robbie’s grip on the knife loosen—just a fraction, just enough to give me hope—before the black veins pulse again, and his eyes go dark.
Chapter 23 - Fern
The knife presses harder against my throat, and I know I’m running out of time.
Robbie’s eyes have gone dark, completely black, like something has swallowed the man I used to know and left only this monster behind. The veins on his neck pulse with that same inky darkness, and his grip on me tightens until I can barely breathe. Every instinct screams at me to fight, to claw at his arm, to do something. But I’ve been trained for situations like this. I’ve sat through hostage negotiation seminars. I’ve read case studies about victims who survived by keeping their captors calm.
So I breathe. I force my racing heart to slow. And I do what I do best.
“Robbie.” I keep my voice steady, even though my heart is hammering so hard I’m sure he can feel it. “Look at me. Focus on me.”
“Shut up.” His voice comes out layered, like two people speaking at once. “Just shut up. I need to think.”
“Okay. Okay, I’ll be quiet. But can you loosen your grip a little? You’re hurting me.”
For a moment, nothing happens. Then his arm relaxes just a fraction, and I suck in a grateful breath. Good. He’s still listening. He’s still responding to reason, even if that reason is buried under whatever sickness has taken hold of him.
Through the hole in the door, I can see Connor watching us. His face is a mask of fury and fear, and I know he’s seconds away from tearing through what’s left of that door, whether itkills me or not. I give him a tiny shake of my head. Not yet. Let me try.
“Robbie,” I begin softly, “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About going home with you.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
