Doom At Your Doorstep: The Curse And The Covenant

"Be watchful, stand firm in the faith, act like men, be strong."

— 1 Corinthians 16:13

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Jazz's heels clicked against the marble floor as she darted down the corridor, back to the snack table where she'd left her phone. The party's thumping bass faded behind her, reduced to a distant heartbeat. She needed that phone—great-grandma's family photo was on it, not to mention all her emergency contacts. More importantly, Thalia's number.

She rounded a corner and nearly collided with Caleb, who stood drenched in panic.

"Caleb?!" Jazz skidded to a halt, her dress swishing. "Hey—what's going on? You look like someone stole your soul."

Caleb's eyes were wild, darting between Jazz and the stranger beside him. Luciel Virell. Jazz still hadn't been able to place him—tall, angular, with crimson and storm-grey eyes with a trench coat that looked older than the manor. He said nothing, just folded his arms, gauging her.

Where's Thalia?" Caleb blurted, voice raw. "Jazz, I need to know—she's not back at the snack table."

Jazz frowned. "Caleb, slow down. What are you talking about? She went outside to clear her head. I came back for my phone—"

"Outside?" Caleb's voice cracked. "After what I just saw? No—Jazz, she's not just outside. They—" He broke off, swallowing hard. "There was a ritual. With her photos. Demons—things—twisted shadows playing like cats with their prey."

Jazz blinked, half-laughing. "Caleb, come on. have you been drinking? You think I—"

He grabbed her shoulders. "I'm not drunk jazz."

She froze at that, her amusement dying. She looked past his shoulder at Luciel. "He's not joking," the exorcist agreed quietly. "You need to calm down—but listen."

Jazz drew a sharp breath. "Okay. I'm listening."

Caleb exhaled. "I found this hallway with a hidden room. There were candles—black wax, burnt into symbols I've never seen. And Thalia's pictures, pinned to boards smeared with blood. The air… it moved like something alive. Then shadows came. Not normal shadows. They… they had legs and jaws and they whispered my name."

Jazz's heart pounded. She'd never seen Caleb like this. "Shadows," she whispered. "You mean—like ghosts?"

Luciel stepped forward, voice low. "Not ghosts. Low-tier entities. Cult summons. They were testing a trap."

Jazz shook her head, voice trembling. "This is insane..You're telling me you found some secret cult in a party mansion? Are you guys serious right now? Is this some elaborate prank?"

Caleb's eyes brimmed. "Do you think I'd make this up? I'd never scare you like that."

She swallowed. The truth in his eyes hit her like ice. "Show me," she said.

"There's no time for that" Caleb yelled 

"Look just take us to her we'll talk in the way"

Luciel added, tone weary of the banter

Jazz hesitated, then broke into a sprint, heels echoing against the ancient floorboards. Caleb and Luciel followed closely. The manor's chill settled heavy now; portraits lining the walls flickered under buzzing sconces. Faces in the oil paint seemed to leer.

Finally, they reached the large French doors. Jazz's hand shook as she pushed aside the heavy wood.

The balcony...…was empty.

Moonlight spilled across stone benches and ivy-choked railings. The night smelled of damp earth and something… rotten.

Jazz's chest tightened. "She's not here" Jazz said, eyes wild as she whispered. "She wouldn't have left—not without saying something."

Caleb sank to his knees, trembling fingers tracing carved florals in the stone. "She was here."

Luciel knelt beside him, brushing ash from the railing. "Stains of ash," he murmured. "They took her quickly—no struggle."

Jazz covered her mouth, tears pricking her eyes. "I left her. I… I should never have—"

Caleb placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. "It's not your fault. We need to find them."

Luciel rose, eyes narrowing at the courtyard below. "The ritual was in an older wing—beneath the library. It must still be active."

"In the library?" Jazz repeated, dread pooling. She and Thalia had spent afternoons lost among those shelves. "We have to go—now."

They slipped back inside. Doors shut behind them with a soft thud that echoed in the silent night. The corridors felt alive now, more oppressive—watchful. The walls seemed to guide them, as though they awaited the next victim.

The side corridors stretched and twisted under flickering sconces. Once-certain doorways now ended in blank walls. Jazz's phone throbbed in her hand, screen dark.

The paths are changing?" Caleb gasped.

"Wh....Why is this place shifting?" Jazz stuttered , glancing at doorways that ended in blank walls.

"Because it's old," Luciel said. "Mix old sin with fresh blood and the walls remember."

They skidded down the grand staircase. Luciel paused, hand on the banister, eyes closed. "Where close ."

Caleb's heart lurched. "Where is she?"

Luciel didn't answer. He sprinted down a narrow hallway, Caleb and Jazz close behind. Dust drifted in the lantern light. A distant chant pulsed faintly—growing louder.

At the library door, the flickering glow of candlelight spilled through a crack. Luciel shoved it open. The air inside was thick with incense, old and sickly sweet.

Bookshelves loomed like silent guardians. Tables lay overturned. Pages strewn like frozen screams. At the center, a sarcophagus carved from black stone sat atop a dais. Around it, cultists knelt in dark robes, chanting in a language older than sin.

Jazz stifled a gasp.

On the slab lay Thalia—pale, unmoving, eyes closed in forced peace. A dagger carved with runes rested across her chest. Candles of black wax formed a ring around the dais.

Caleb's voice trembled. "Thalia…"

Luciel stepped forward, drawing both guns. Silver in one hand—blessed—black in the other—etched with binding sigils. "Stand back," he commanded.

The cultists froze mid-chant, heads lifting in unison. Their leader—the professor—stood at the head of the slab, voice rising in that ancient tongue. He turned, tilting his head, eyes glinting.

Luciel's finger tensed on the trigger. "Im guessing you won't stop the ritual even if I asked nicely"

The professor smiled, slow and predatory. "Ah. The rescue party."

His words echoed off the marble columns. The other cultists resumed chanting, louder, their voices layering into a thunderous roar.

Caleb opened his mouth to protest, but Luciel cut him off with a shallow gesture toward the dais.

Jazz's breath caught. She clutched Caleb's arm.

Luciel holstered the silver gun and raised his free hand, palm outward. He traced a fiery sigil in the air.

"Seal of Flame," he intoned. "Unbind this evil."

A ring of golden fire sprouted at the edge of the dais, pushing the chanting cultists back. Their robes hissed at the edges, singed by holy light.

They recoiled. The professor snapped his fingers.

"Insignificant," he hissed. "You misunderstand the power you oppose."

He raised both arms. The chanting spiked. The dagger on Thalia's chest gleamed, a drop of thick black blood oozing down its blade.

Luciel's jaw tightened. He leveled his black gun, aimed at the professor. "I stand on my authority in Christ—"

Before he could finish, the professor uttered a final syllable in that ancient tongue. The air convulsed with power. The candles flared in reverse—black flames licking the dais. The sarcophagus cracked, splinters of stone flying.

Luciel fired once—blessed silver round. It struck the professor's chest, blowing through his robe. He staggered, eyes wide. But the chanting grew louder.

From the open crack in the sarcophagus, a low rumble shook the floor. Mist poured out. Thick, viscous, smelling of sulfur and starless nights.

Luciel's eyes met Caleb's. "Get back!"

He dove forward, snatching the dagger from Thalia's chest and dragging her clear as the sarcophagus ground open fully. From within rose something vast and terrible—an old god waking from slumber.

Its form was fluid darkness, shape only hinted: horns like gnarled roots, a crown of dripping night. Its presence warped the room; the chanting faltered.

Luciel shoved Thalia toward Caleb and Jazz. "Get her out!"

Caleb caught her, cradling her as Jazz gathered her other arm.

The professor stumbled toward Luciel, blood blossoming on his shirt. He raised a trembling hand, pointing at the older god laughing madly. "Your y oo late… your threads can't save her now."

And as the ancient deity's shadows spilled across the dais, its voice a thousand whispers in every corner of the library, Luciel fired his final shot at the professor—ending the man's threat, but unable to stop what had already begun.