The Close—what the locals called it. A narrow alley with decaying buildings looming on either side. Few dared tread it after dusk; those who did speak of indescribable terror.
Sarah, a journalist drawn by the legends, entered as the sun faded. The air turned icy, silence pressing in. Her flashlight flickered, casting shadows on walls etched with strange symbols. Recording notes, she froze as a guttural whisper entwined with her voice.
Deeper in, the air thickened. A shadowy figure emerged jerky movements and piercing gaze. It approached, face grotesque, voice rasping, “She’s mine.”
She stumbled, dropping her flashlight. In the dark, whispers roared. An old man appeared, pulling her into a candlelit room marked with symbols. Chanting, he held a crucifix high as the figure reappeared, shrieking.
Pain seared her chest. The exorcism climaxed as the shadow dissolved. The man warned: “It knows your name.”
As she fled, faint laughter lingered—the Close wasn’t done with her.