It started with a knock. Soft and rhythmic.
Not violent.
Not rushed.
But wrong.
Amanda froze in the kitchen, one hand wrapped around a cup of cold coffee, the other reaching for a knife she wasn't sure she'd use fast enough. The knock came again. Three times. Then silence. She edged toward the front window and pulled the curtain back one inch.
There were five of them. Three men, two women. All barefoot. All smiling. One wore a butcher's apron soaked in something dark. Another carried a birthday balloon. None of them blinked.
Amanda didn't open the door. She backed away slowly, heart thudding in her ears. She grabbed her phone. No signal. Grabbed the back door key, but dropped it.
"Fuck."
The knock came again. This time, the door creaked under the pressure.
Not pounding.
Just… expectation.
Then a voice.
High and sweet, but too calm.
"Amanda… open up. It's rude to leave guests outside."
It was the woman with the balloon. The others began humming.
Amanda bolted for the back door, but someone was already there.
A face in the window.
A man.
Head tilted. Hands tapping the glass like a metronome.
No anger.
Just rhythm.
Just invitation.
Amanda backed into the hallway, heart in her throat, knife shaking in her hand.
She whispered, "Lucan. Now. Please."
The voices grew louder outside. They began to chant words she didn't understand.
But her bones did.
Then the front door shattered inward. They didn't run. They just stepped inside.
Still smiling.
Amanda turned and came face-to-face with the man from the window, already inside, reaching for her.
Until he stopped.
Mid-step.
Mouth open. Fingers twitching. Eyes frozen.
And then, his body crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut.
The others stilled. The room dropped twenty degrees and Amanda felt it before she saw him.
Lucan.
Standing behind them, eyes dull grey.
He didn't speak. He didn't have to, the air said everything for him.
The others turned slowly. Then dropped to their knees, all at once.
Lucan stepped over the wreckage of the door, past the kneeling intruders.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
Amanda's voice was a whisper. "No."
"Good."
He faced the five on the floor.
"All of you," he said, tone flat. "Go back. Tell her I'm coming."
None of them moved.
Lucan's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Or stay, and see what death feels like when it's yours."
They scattered. There were no final words and no hesitation. Just the sound of feet slapping dirt.
Lucan turned back to Amanda.
"This was the warning."
Amanda stared at him.
"No," she said. "That was the invitation."
-----
The clearing was lit by torchlight when they arrived. Not for ceremony, but for display.
Maryann's followers, twenty, maybe thirty danced around the altar, laughing, writhing, wearing nothing but paint and madness. Some were naked. Some in robes made of meat packaging and twine.
The stone was soaked. Not just blood.
Wine.
Milk.
Oil.
A feast of rot.
Eric stood beside Lucan at the tree line. He didn't speak and neither did Lucan.
They just watched.
"She's building toward something," Eric said.
Lucan nodded. "She's waiting for a kill to make her permanent."
"Who?"
Lucan's answer was immediate.
"Amanda."
Eric didn't ask why. Didn't question it. He just stepped forward, hands relaxed at his sides.
"Want to make it quick?" he asked.
Lucan's eyes narrowed.
"No."
They entered the clearing like a storm at walking speed. No glamour. No sneak attack. Just two immortals who didn't need permission. The crowd noticed them instantly, but didn't run or scream. They welcomed them. Laughing, arms open.
"Join us," a woman said, her face painted with ash.
Lucan walked past her. Grabbed her wrist. And with one subtle twist, broke it backwards.
She dropped to the ground, giggling through the pain.
Eric was less graceful. The first man who touched him lost three fingers before he hit the ground.
Then the flames started.
Not wild.
Not random.
Controlled.
Eric had brought kerosene. Lucan had brought rage. They worked like clockwork. Dousing the trees. The altar. The makeshift idols carved from deer antlers and school trophies.
Eric struck the first match. Lucan lit the last one. The fire didn't roar. It hissed, like something angry trying to speak through smoke.
They stood in the center of the blaze, not moving.
Lucan's shirt black with soot. Eric's knuckles cut open, but healing rapidly.
Around them, the followers fled screaming, tripping and wailing. But not Maryann. She was nowhere in sight.
Eric turned to him, voice low.
"This won't kill her."
Lucan nodded. "But now she knows we can take away her stage."
Back in the woods, Maryann watched the flames.
Naked.
smiling.
Eyes wide.
She dipped two fingers into the dirt and tasted it.
"Now we're having fun."
-----
Amanda didn't sleep. She lay on the floor, the broken door braced shut with furniture, her heart thudding like a clock that was keeping the wrong time.
She didn't cry.
She didn't shake.
She just waited.
Because she could feel it coming. Not Maryann. Not Lucan.
Herself.
Or… the version of her that was waking up in pieces. Her chest ached like she'd swallowed something too big and sharp to pass. Every breath carried whispers now, subtle, fading, but constant.
The dead didn't just call out to her. They recognized her.
And then.
The room went quiet. Too quiet. No wind. No creaking wood. Not even her own heartbeat. Just a single sound.
Scraping.
Like nails over stone. inside her head. She sat up leaning against the wall. The walls didn't move. But her vision did. Blurred and split. For a moment, she wasn't alone in her own skin. Someone else was beside her.
Inside her.
Not a presence and not a ghost. Just… a feeling.
Heavy.
Cold.
Familiar.
She reached out on instinct, not thought and touched the floor. And something below it answered. The boards beneath her fingers chilled instantly. Frost bloomed from her palm across the hardwood in veins. And something just beneath the surface of the floor shifted.
A shape.
It was faint, thin, human and dead.
Not from memory. Not a vision. This was now.
Amanda yanked her hand back and the frost receded. But the feeling stayed.
Still.
Watching.
Waiting for her to reach again.
She stood up slowly and stepped back from the ice like it might follow her. She looked down at her hand. Frostbitten blue at the fingertips.
But not numb.
It tingled.
Alive.
Wrong.
She whispered, "What are you?"
But the answer wasn't a word. It was Lucan's voice. Echoing in her mind like it had been waiting.
"You're not the door anymore. You're the threshold."