The Stonehaven Chronicles-6- The Education of Marcus Thorne (Part A)

 

The Stonehaven Chronicles-6

The Education of Marcus Thorne (Part A)

The House That Laughs

By Arindam Bose

⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡

Chapter 1: The Predator and the Prey

The Intrusion

Three days.

That's how long the peace lasted.

Three days of Jonas waking up to a house that didn't groan like it was dying. Three days of Leona making coffee without the kitchen floor tilting under her feet. Three days of Daniel playing in his room without frost forming on the windows or toys rearranging themselves into cryptic messages.

Three days of normal.

Which, Jonas was learning, was approximately two and a half days longer than the universe typically allowed before dropping something new and terrible into his lap.

The silver sedan appeared at 9:47 AM on a Tuesday.

Jonas noticed it first because he was standing on the porch, halfway through his second cup of coffee, staring at the section of the extension that had partially collapsed during the ceremony. The structural engineer was supposed to come by tomorrow. The insurance adjuster the day after that. Neither of them were going to believe the reason for the damage, but Jonas had already practiced his lying face in the mirror: Old foundation. Happened gradually. We just noticed it.

The sedan rolled up the gravel driveway with the kind of aggressive confidence that immediately set Jonas's teeth on edge. Not the speed—it wasn't driving fast—but the certainty. Like the driver had every right to be here and knew exactly what he was going to find.

The car was one of those aggressively boring models that rental companies loved—a Nissan Altima or Toyota Camry, something so generic it actively rejected personality. Silver. Four doors. Completely unremarkable except for one detail that made Jonas's stomach drop:

The dashboard camera.

He could see it through the windshield—a professional-grade recording setup, the kind that cost more than Jonas's first car. Not a dashcam for insurance purposes. A broadcast rig.

The car came to a stop about twenty feet from the porch. Close enough to be assertive. Far enough to maintain an "objective" distance.

Jonas set his coffee mug down on the porch railing very carefully and waited.

The driver's door opened.

Out stepped a man who looked like he'd been assembled from a kit labeled "Serious Investigative Journalist—Urban Professional Model." Mid-forties, probably, though he had that aggressively maintained quality that made it hard to tell. Hair styled with product that cost more per ounce than caviar. Glasses with fashionably thick black frames that screamed I'm intellectual but accessible. A blazer over a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up exactly two turns—the universal sign of someone who wanted you to know they worked hard but also understood fashion.

The shoes gave him away though.

Italian leather. Oxblood. Polished to a mirror shine that had no business being within fifty miles of a gravel driveway in rural North Carolina.

The man didn't get out of the car so much as arrive—like he was stepping onto a stage and the audience should be grateful he'd shown up. He pulled out his phone immediately, not even glancing at the house, and held it up in that specific way people do when they're recording themselves.

"Tuesday, April sixteenth, nine forty-seven AM," the man said into his phone, his voice carrying across the yard with the projection of someone who'd spent time in broadcasting. "Arriving at the Stonehaven property, colloquially known as the 'Crying House' among local spiritual communities. Initial visual assessment confirms reports of recent structural damage to the rear addition."

He lowered the phone slightly, finally looking at the house. His expression was the carefully cultivated neutral mask of someone who'd already decided what story they were going to tell and was just collecting supporting evidence.

"Property shows signs of deliberate aesthetic neglect—consistent with so-called 'authentic hauntings' that appeal to the credulous and the desperate." He said the last two words with the kind of contempt usually reserved for people who talk in movie theaters. "The question isn't whether something supernatural occurred here. The question is: what kind of fraud are we dealing with, and who profits from it?"

Jonas felt his jaw tighten. Three days. Three peaceful, quiet, normal days. And now this.

The man pocketed his phone and finally—finally—acknowledged Jonas's existence with a glance that was somehow both dismissive and invasive at the same time. Like Jonas was a piece of the property to be catalogued and judged.

"You must be Jonas Redfeather," the man said, not as a question. He didn't wait for confirmation before pulling out a leather portfolio—actual leather, probably Italian like the shoes—and extracting a business card with the theatrical flourish of a magician revealing the card his mark had chosen.

Except Jonas hadn't chosen anything, and this definitely wasn't magic.

The man crossed half the distance to the porch and held out the card like he was bestowing a papal blessing.

Jonas didn't take it.

The man's smile flickered—just for a second—before reasserting itself with renewed wattage. "Marcus Thorne. Investigative journalist. I specialize in exposing fraudulent supernatural claims and the exploitation of vulnerable communities by—"

"We're not interested," Jonas said.

"—by individuals who profit from superstition and fear," Thorne continued as though Jonas hadn't spoken. "I've been tracking reports of unusual activity at this property for approximately eighteen months. The recent surge in electromagnetic anomalies and eyewitness accounts of—" he made air quotes with his fingers, "—'spiritual phenomena' have elevated this location to priority status in my investigation."

Jonas picked up his coffee mug. Took a sip. The coffee had gone lukewarm but he drank it anyway because it gave him something to do with his hands that wasn't reaching for this man's perfectly styled hair and using it to steer him back toward his rental car.

"Not interested," Jonas repeated.

Thorne's smile didn't budge. "I understand your reluctance. Many families in your position feel threatened by objective scrutiny. But I want you to know—" and here his voice dropped into that earnest, I'm-on-your-side register that made Jonas's skin crawl, "—I'm not here to attack you. I'm here to help."

"Help."

"Yes. Help." Thorne gestured vaguely at the house. "Whether you're aware of it or not, you're sitting at the center of what could be a significant story about cultural appropriation, spiritual exploitation, and the commodification of indigenous belief systems for—"

Inside the house, something fell.

Not crashed. Not shattered.

Just... fell.

The sound was distinctive—like a book sliding off a shelf and hitting the floor with that specific heavy thump that only hardcovers make.

Thorne's eyebrows rose. "Is someone else home?"

"My wife and son," Jonas said, which was true. They were home. They were also both in the backyard, well out of range of any interior bookshelves.

Another thump.

Then another.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Like someone walking through the house, knocking books off shelves as they went. Except the rhythm was wrong—too steady, too deliberate, spaced exactly three seconds apart.

Thorne pulled out his phone again, already recording. "Are you experiencing regular poltergeist phenomena? Unexplained object displacement? Because I should tell you, Mr. Redfeather, that ninety-seven percent of reported poltergeist cases can be traced to—"

THUMP.

This one was loud enough to make them both jump. Like someone had dropped a dictionary from shoulder height directly onto hardwood.

Thorne's professional mask slipped for just a second, revealing something underneath that looked almost... hungry.

"I'd like to come inside," he said.

"No."

"Mr. Redfeather, I have documentation of unusual electromagnetic signatures emanating from this property. I have photographs—verified and timestamped—of amber-colored luminescence visible through your windows on the night of April thirteenth. I have testimony from three separate witnesses who observed—"

"Stop."

Jonas set his coffee mug down and walked to the edge of the porch. He didn't descend the steps. Didn't need to. Just stood there, at the threshold between the house and the yard, and looked at Marcus Thorne with the full weight of three days' worth of exhausted peace that this man was actively destroying.

"You want to know what happened here?" Jonas asked quietly.

Thorne's eyes lit up. "Yes. Exactly. That's why I've—"

"A child died. A hundred and sixty years ago. During the Civil War. Her name was Atsila. She was eight years old. She was buried in the backyard without proper ceremony because there were Confederate soldiers nearby and her family had to run."

Thorne was recording now, phone held up, but his expression had shifted into something Jonas recognized from his own reflection three days ago: the look of someone who'd been expecting a con and was being forced to confront the possibility that they'd miscalculated.

"My great-great-great-grandfather helped bind a guardian spirit to this house," Jonas continued. "To contain a mother's grief and protect future families. And my grandfather—who didn't know any better, who was just a carpenter doing his job—built an extension over that child's grave in 1952. Sealed her in. Trapped her for seventy years."

The thumping inside the house had stopped. The silence felt heavier somehow.

"Three days ago," Jonas said, "her family came back. All four families whose ancestors made promises they couldn't keep. And we performed a ceremony. We freed her. We released the binding. We gave both entities—the guardian and the ghost—the peace they'd been denied."

He met Thorne's eyes. "That's the story. That's the truth. It's not fraud. It's not exploitation. It's not—" he gestured at Thorne's designer glasses, his Italian shoes, his phone recording everything, "—whatever you were hoping to find."

For a long moment, Thorne just stood there, phone still recording, face cycling through several expressions before landing on something that looked like... disappointment.

"Mr. Redfeather," Thorne said slowly, "with all due respect, what you've just described is textbook occult fraud. The tragic backstory. The generational curse. The expensive ceremony performed by 'spiritual experts' who I'm sure charged—"

"Nobody charged anything."

"—substantial fees for their services. The convenient physical evidence—" Thorne gestured at the collapsed section of the extension, "—that can't be independently verified. The elaborate mythology designed to make skeptical inquiry seem like disrespect for indigenous culture."

He lowered his phone, and his smile was back—sharper now, more confident. "I've seen this pattern a dozen times. And I've written exposés that have shut down operations far more sophisticated than this."

Jonas felt his hands curl into fists. "Get off my property."

"I'm on public access," Thorne said, gesturing at the gravel driveway. "This easement extends thirty feet from the road. I have every legal right to—"

The front door opened.

Not violently. Not even particularly fast.

Just... opened.

Leona stepped out onto the porch, phone in hand, and her expression made Jonas take an involuntary step backward. She was smiling. That specific smile she got when she was about to do something that would either be brilliant or get them both arrested.

"Jonas, honey," she said sweetly, "I just got off the phone with David Owl. He says Thorne here has published seventeen articles in the past three years."

"Eighteen," Thorne corrected automatically.

"Seventeen that weren't later retracted for factual inaccuracies," Leona continued, her smile never wavering. "David's cousin is a media lawyer. Apparently Mr. Thorne has been sued for defamation four times. Settled out of court twice. Lost once. The fourth case is still pending."

Thorne's jaw tightened. "Frivolous lawsuits from people who don't want their scams exposed."

"Mm." Leona descended the porch steps, moving with the kind of calm purpose that made Jonas think of nature documentaries where predators explain that the gazelle is already dead, it just doesn't know it yet. "David also mentioned that Mr. Thorne was fired from the Charlotte Observer two years ago for fabricating sources. And that his current 'publication'—" she made her own air quotes, "—is a blog with approximately two hundred subscribers, most of whom appear to be bots."

Thorne's face had gone red. "I am a legitimate journalist engaged in legitimate investigative—"

"You're a parasite," Leona said, and the pleasant tone of her voice made the words hit harder. "You target grieving families, vulnerable communities, and anyone who's experienced something they can't explain. You twist their stories, manufacture controversy, and profit from their pain."

She stopped directly in front of him, close enough that Thorne actually took a step back. "And you picked the wrong family."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a fact." Leona's smile widened. "Because Jonas might be too polite to explain what's actually going to happen if you don't leave right now. But I'm not Jonas."

She pulled out her own phone. "See, while you were busy recording your little exposition memo, I was texting. And the people I texted are very interested in meeting someone who—according to David's research—recently published an article claiming that Cherokee spiritual practices are 'primitive superstitions exploited by con artists.'"

Thorne's face went from red to pale. "That's... you're taking that out of context—"

"The Cherokee community in this region is small," Leona continued. "But it's very, very connected. And they remember people who insult them. Especially people who then show up on their doorsteps with cameras and accusations of fraud."

She leaned in slightly. "So here's what's going to happen, Marcus. You're going to get back in your rental car. You're going to delete whatever footage you just recorded. And you're going to drive away. Because if you don't—"

A sound erupted from inside the house.

Not thumping this time.

Laughter.

High, clear, unmistakably childlike laughter that echoed through the open door and carried across the yard with crystalline precision.

Little Atsila.

Except she was supposed to be at peace. Released. Transformed.

The laughter continued, punctuated by a sound that made Jonas's stomach drop: the metallic clicking that had once meant the Uktena was tracking a threat.

Click-click-click-click.

But different now. Faster. Almost... playful.

Thorne stared at the open door, phone still in hand but forgotten now, all his professional confidence evaporating into something that looked disturbingly close to fear.

"What—" he started.

The laughter cut off.

The clicking stopped.

And in the sudden silence, they heard it: a voice. Distant. Muffled. But clear enough to make every hair on Jonas's body stand up.

"Journalist man thinks he's clever. Journalist man thinks he knows better. But journalist man can't see what we see. Can't hear what we hear. Can't feel—"

The voice shifted—no longer childlike but deeper, older, carrying harmonics that shouldn't exist in human speech.

"—what lives in the walls."

Thorne dropped his phone.

It hit the gravel and cracked, the screen splintering into a perfect spiderweb pattern.

"I—" Thorne's voice broke. He cleared his throat, tried again. "I should... I have other appointments. I should—"

"Yes," Leona said pleasantly. "You should."

Thorne bent down, grabbed his cracked phone, and practically ran back to his car. He fumbled with the door handle twice before getting it open, threw himself into the driver's seat, and gunned the engine.

The silver sedan peeled out in a spray of gravel, fishtailing slightly before straightening and disappearing down the driveway fast enough to leave small dust clouds in its wake.

Jonas and Leona stood in the yard, watching until the car was completely out of sight.

Then Jonas looked at his wife. "Did you actually text David?"

"No," Leona said. "But I will now. Because I want to know if everything I just said about Thorne was true."

"And if it wasn't?"

"Then I'll apologize. But Jonas—" she looked up at the house, at the open door, at the shadows beyond. "Did you hear that? The voice?"

"Yeah."

"That wasn't—" Leona's voice dropped to a whisper. "That wasn't part of the ceremony. That wasn't release. That was—"

"Active," Jonas finished.

They both turned to look at the house.

Stonehaven stood in the morning light, looking exactly as it had three days ago—damaged but peaceful, wounded but healing.

Except now Jonas could see it: a faint amber glow in the windows of Daniel's room. Not bright. Not pulsing. Just... present. Like the embers of a fire that wasn't quite out.

From inside, they heard it again:

Click-click-click.

Not panicked. Not warning.

Amused.

The house had just had fun.

Jonas felt something cold settle in his chest. "I think," he said slowly, "we need to call Margaret."

"Yeah," Leona agreed. "I think we really do."

Because the ceremony was supposed to have freed both entities. Was supposed to have released them into transformation, into peace, into whatever came next.

But nobody—not Margaret, not the four families, not even the Uktena itself—had discussed what would happen if the transformation didn't mean dissolution.

What if it meant evolution?

What if "release" didn't mean the end of consciousness but the beginning of something new?

Something that could laugh.

Something that could play.

Something that apparently really, really didn't like investigative journalists.

Jonas looked at his wife. "Should we tell Daniel?"

"Tell him what? That the ghost he helped save is now..." Leona gestured helplessly at the house. "What? Haunting us? Protecting us? Playing pranks?"

"Yes?"

They stood there for another moment, neither quite ready to go back inside, both trying to process what they'd just witnessed.

Then, from the porch behind them, a small voice:

"The house thinks he was funny."

They turned.

Daniel stood in the doorway, still in his pajamas, holding a Pop-Tart. He looked completely unconcerned—the expression of a child who'd just witnessed something adults found disturbing but that he found perfectly reasonable.

"What?" Jonas asked.

"The house," Daniel repeated, taking a bite of his Pop-Tart. "It thinks the journalist man was funny. Like a... like a squeaky toy. It wants to know if he'll come back."

"How do you—"

"It's laughing," Daniel said simply. "Can't you hear it?"

And Jonas realized, with a sinking feeling that mixed dread and wonder in equal measure, that he could.

Faintly. Barely audible. But unmistakable:

The sound of old wood settling, old beams adjusting, old foundations shifting—

But arranged, somehow, into a rhythm that sounded disturbingly like snickering.

Stonehaven—ancient, powerful, finally freed from impossible duty—had discovered something new about itself.

It had a sense of humor.

And Marcus Thorne had just become its favorite joke.

The Confrontation

Marcus Thorne did not stay gone.

Jonas had known he wouldn't. Men like Thorne—men who built their entire identities around being the smartest person in the room, around exposing other people's "delusions"—didn't run away and stay away. They regrouped. They strategized. They came back with bigger guns.

Metaphorically speaking.

Jonas hoped.

The silver sedan reappeared exactly forty-seven minutes after its dramatic exit. Jonas knew because he'd been sitting on the porch the entire time, coffee long since finished, watching the driveway like a soldier on guard duty. Leona had tried to get him to come inside, but he'd refused. Whatever was coming, he wanted to see it arrive.

The car rolled up slower this time. More controlled. The aggressive confidence from earlier had been replaced by something harder to read—determination mixed with the kind of careful planning that suggested Thorne had spent the past three-quarters of an hour doing exactly what Jonas had been doing: thinking.

The difference was that Thorne had probably spent that time in his car, parked at the end of the driveway, reviewing footage and making phone calls.

Jonas had spent it listening to his house giggle.

Because that's what it was doing. Giggling. Not constantly—just occasional little bursts of sound that weren't quite wind, weren't quite settling wood, but definitely weren't natural. Like a kid trying very hard not to laugh during a serious moment and failing spectacularly.

The clicking had settled into a rhythm that sounded disturbingly like the opening bars of "Shave and a Haircut"—click-click-click-click-CLICK—repeated every few minutes from different locations in the house. The kitchen. The attic. Daniel's room. Even the partially collapsed section of the extension, which should not have been making any sounds at all given that most of its structural supports were currently held together by prayer and a building inspector's deliberate decision not to look too closely.

Stonehaven was in a mood.

Thorne parked in the exact same spot as before—twenty feet from the porch, assertion of presence without invitation—and climbed out of his car with the bearing of a man who'd found his courage again.

Or at least convinced himself he had.

He didn't pull out his phone this time. Instead, he reached into the back seat and withdrew a tablet—one of those oversized ones that cost more than Jonas's monthly mortgage payment—and a leather messenger bag that probably had its own insurance policy.

Jonas stayed exactly where he was: sitting on the porch steps, forearms resting on his knees, looking for all the world like a man who had nothing better to do than watch uninvited guests arrive on his property.

Thorne approached with measured steps, and Jonas could see the exact moment when the man's brain caught up with his feet and reminded him what had happened the last time he got this close. He stopped about fifteen feet out—just beyond conversational range but close enough to project authority.

"Mr. Redfeather," Thorne said. His voice was different now. Clipped. Professional. All the false warmth from earlier had been stripped away, leaving something metallic underneath. "I apologize for my hasty departure. I was... unprepared for the level of theatrical production you and your family have invested in maintaining this deception."

Jonas said nothing. Just watched.

Thorne took the silence as permission to continue. He tapped his tablet, and the screen illuminated with that specific blue-white glow that made everything look important and official.

"I want to show you something," Thorne said, turning the tablet around so Jonas could see.

The screen showed a photograph. Night-time. Long exposure, judging by the slight blur of the tree branches and the way the stars had stretched into small trails. And there, in the center of the frame, impossible to miss or misinterpret:

Stonehaven, glowing like a goddamn beacon.

The amber light Jonas remembered from the ceremony—the moment when the Uktena and little Atsila had merged, when the binding had released, when transformation had occurred—was captured in perfect, undeniable detail. Every window blazed with it. The foundation itself seemed to pulse with luminescence. Even the dreamcatcher in Daniel's room was visible as a point of intense brightness, like a small sun had decided to take up residence on the second floor.

It was beautiful.

It was terrifying.

It was absolutely, completely damning.

"I took this," Thorne said, "from the end of your driveway at approximately 11:43 PM on April thirteenth. I have seventeen more images from that night, all showing similar phenomena. I also have video—" he swiped to another file, "—of what appears to be human figures moving through the structure despite the fact that, according to county records, the building should have been unoccupied during a mandatory evacuation due to structural instability."

Jonas felt his jaw tighten but kept his expression neutral. There had been no mandatory evacuation. That was a lie. But it was the kind of lie that would sound plausible to anyone who didn't know better—which was everyone except the people who'd been there.

"I have documentation," Thorne continued, warming to his subject now, tablet held up like a prosecutor presenting evidence, "of at least eleven vehicles on your property that night. I have partial license plates. I have timestamps. And I have testimony—" another swipe, another screen full of text, "—from a concerned neighbor who reported 'unusual activity' and 'possible trespassing' at this address."

"Mrs. Henderson," Jonas said quietly.

Thorne's eyebrows rose slightly. "You know her?"

"She's eighty-three. She calls the sheriff every time someone drives too fast past her house. Which is every car, because she thinks the speed limit should be fifteen miles per hour."

"She's a concerned citizen exercising her civic duty."

"She's bored and lonely and watches too much true crime TV."

Thorne's smile was razor-thin. "Nevertheless, her testimony—combined with my photographic evidence—establishes a clear pattern of suspicious activity. Which brings me to my proposal."

He lowered the tablet, and his expression shifted into something that was probably meant to look reasonable but came across as smug. "I'm willing to suppress this story. All of it. The photos, the testimony, the evidence of what I believe to be—at minimum—unlawful assembly and—at maximum—fraudulent spiritual exploitation of vulnerable community members."

"In exchange for what?"

"An interview. On record. You, your wife, and anyone else involved in the events of April thirteenth. You tell me exactly what happened that night. Who organized it. Who profited from it. What 'ceremony' was performed and what fees were charged. Complete transparency."

Jonas stood up slowly, brushing off the seat of his jeans. "And if I refuse?"

Thorne's smile widened. "Then I publish everything. The photos. The speculation. The questions about what really happened here. And I make sure it reaches the right people."

"What people?"

"The Bishop."

The way Thorne said it—with capital-B emphasis and a slight pause afterward for dramatic effect—made it clear he thought he'd just played a trump card.

Jonas felt something cold settle in his stomach. "Which bishop?"

"Bishop Patterson. Of the First Baptist Church of—"

"I know who he is."

Everyone within fifty miles knew who Bishop Richard Patterson was. The man ran the largest congregation in three counties and had opinions about everything from zoning laws to school curriculum to what kind of music should be played at the summer fair. He was also—according to every piece of local gossip Jonas had ever reluctantly absorbed—deeply, vocally opposed to anything he considered "un-Christian."

Which apparently included Indigenous spiritual practices, based on the sermon he'd given last year about how "pagan rituals have no place in a God-fearing community."

Jonas had not attended that sermon. He'd heard about it third-hand from Leona, who'd heard it from a coworker, who'd heard it from her sister-in-law. But the gist had been clear: Bishop Patterson believed that anything involving spirits, ceremonies, or non-Christian belief systems was, at best, misguided and, at worst, actively evil.

Thorne was watching Jonas's face carefully, clearly pleased with the reaction he was getting. "Bishop Patterson has expressed interest in my work. He's very concerned about the influence of—" air quotes again, Jonas was really starting to hate those, "—'New Age spiritualism' in the area. I imagine he'd be quite interested to learn about ceremonial activity happening right here in his community."

"It wasn't New Age spiritualism. It was Cherokee—"

"I'm sure he'll appreciate the distinction," Thorne interrupted. "Just as I'm sure Sheriff Bramlett will appreciate hearing about the unauthorized gathering, the potential property damage, and the possible safety violations occurring at a structurally compromised residence."

Jonas felt his hands curl into fists. "You're blackmailing me."

"I'm offering you an opportunity to control the narrative," Thorne corrected. "You can either talk to me—one journalist who's actually interested in the truth—or you can deal with a bishop who thinks you're practicing witchcraft and a sheriff who has to respond to allegations of criminal activity."

He tucked the tablet under his arm. "I'm staying at the Hampton Inn on Route 52. Room 314. I'll be there until Friday. That gives you—" he checked his watch, a chunky silver thing that probably cost more than Jonas's truck, "—approximately seventy-two hours to decide whether you want to cooperate or become the subject of a very public investigation."

Thorne started back toward his car, then paused and turned back. "Oh, and Mr. Redfeather? I should mention that I've already sent copies of all my documentation to a colleague. Standard journalistic practice—protect your sources, protect your evidence. So even if something were to happen to me, or to my devices, the story would still come out."

He said it casually, like he was discussing the weather. But the implication was clear: don't try anything. Don't threaten me. Don't think you can intimidate me into silence.

Jonas stood on the porch and watched Thorne climb back into his silver sedan. Watched him adjust his mirror, fasten his seatbelt, check his phone. Watched him pull away with the same measured control he'd arrived with—a man who believed he'd just won.

The sound of the engine faded.

The dust settled.

Jonas stood there for another moment, alone in the yard, feeling the weight of what had just happened press down on his shoulders like a physical thing.

Behind him, the front door opened.

Leona stepped out, and her face told him she'd heard everything. She'd probably been standing just inside, listening through the screen door, hand over her mouth to keep from making noise.

"Jonas—"

"I know."

"He has photos. Actual evidence. And if he gets Bishop Patterson involved—"

"I know."

"The Bishop will bring the whole congregation down on us. They'll protest. They'll call us devil worshippers. They'll make our lives hell. And the Sheriff—Jonas, if Sheriff Bramlett thinks there was criminal activity, he'll have to investigate. He'll have to—"

"I know."

Jonas turned to face her, and whatever expression he was wearing made Leona stop mid-sentence.

"We need to call Margaret," he said quietly. "And David. And Sarah Fourkiller. And every single person who was here that night."

"Why?"

"Because Thorne thinks he's threatening us. Thinks he can blackmail us into giving him a story. But what he doesn't understand—" Jonas looked back at the house, at the windows where amber light had pulsed just three days ago, at the structure that had learned how to laugh, "—is that he's not threatening us. He's threatening them."

From inside the house came a sound that made them both freeze:

CRACK.

Not a beam settling. Not wood adjusting.

The sound of something breaking. Deliberately. With force.

Followed by a long, low sound that was absolutely, definitely not wind through old timbers or foundation settling or any other natural explanation.

It was a growl.

Deep. Resonant. Carrying harmonics that shouldn't exist outside of sound design software and nightmares.

The Uktena—transformed, released, supposedly at peace—had just heard everything Marcus Thorne said.

And it was pissed.

Leona grabbed Jonas's arm. "Oh God. Oh God. Jonas, the house is—"

"Protecting us," Jonas finished. "Just like it always has."

"But the ceremony was supposed to—"

"Release it from duty. From obligation. From having to hold impossible things together." Jonas felt something loosen in his chest—not quite laughter, not quite relief, but close to both. "But nobody said anything about it losing its personality."

From Daniel's window came another sound: that high, clear laugh they'd heard earlier. Little Atsila, merged with the guardian, part of something larger now.

And beneath it, synchronized perfectly, the clicking resumed—

Click-click-click-click-CLICK.

Click-click-click-click-CLICK.

Over and over. Faster now. Building.

Like a countdown.

Like a warning.

Like the house equivalent of cracking your knuckles before a fight.

Jonas looked at his wife. "We should probably go inside."

"Why?"

"Because I think Stonehaven just declared war on investigative journalism."

"Jonas, that's not—the house can't—it doesn't have agency, it can't just decide to—"

Another growl, louder this time, rolling through the structure like thunder.

Followed by a sound that made both of them flinch:

Glass breaking. Multiple windows, all at once, in perfect synchronization.

But not shattering outward. Not exploding from pressure or impact.

Breaking inward.

Like the house was inhaling, pulling everything tighter, drawing itself inward in preparation for something neither of them could predict.

"Inside," Jonas said urgently. "Now."

They ran for the door.

Behind them, as they crossed the threshold, they heard one more sound:

A voice. Old. Vast. Speaking in harmonics that made their teeth ache and their vision blur:

"Journalist man wants truth? Journalist man wants evidence? Journalist man wants to know what lives in the walls?"

A pause. Then, somehow infinitely worse:

"We show him. We show him everything."

The door slammed shut behind them.

And outside, in the perfectly ordinary late-morning sunlight, Marcus Thorne's silver sedan pulled onto Route 52, the driver completely unaware that he'd just issued a challenge to something that had been containing curses, protecting families, and holding impossible things together for one hundred seventy-eight years.

Something that was finally free to choose how it responded.

Something that had just chosen revenge.

Wrapped in comedy.

Delivered with the precision of a guardian that had spent nearly two centuries learning exactly how to break things that needed breaking.

And Marcus Thorne—with his designer glasses, his Italian shoes, and his absolute certainty that he was the smartest person in any room—had just been marked as the house's new favorite toy.

The Redfeather Calm

Jonas stood in the foyer for exactly three seconds after the door slammed shut.

Three seconds of absolute stillness while his brain caught up with what his body already knew: panic wouldn't help. Anger wouldn't help. And letting a house—however sentient, however justified—wage supernatural warfare on a man with cameras and a blog was probably not the best long-term strategy.

Probably.

"Jonas?" Leona's voice was tight. "What are we—"

He held up one finger. Wait.

Then he pulled out his phone and typed a single text message:

Now.

He hit send.

Leona stared at him. "What did you just—"

"Insurance," Jonas said quietly.

"What kind of insurance requires a text message that says 'now'?"

Jonas walked back toward the front door—not opening it, just standing close enough to feel the wood thrumming under his palm. The house was still angry. Still growling in frequencies that made his back teeth ache. Still preparing for something.

"The kind," Jonas said, "that I arranged two days ago when I realized that four families performing an unsanctioned spiritual ceremony on private property might attract attention we didn't want."

Leona's eyes widened. "You didn't."

"I did."

"Jonas, we talked about this. We agreed that bringing in—"

"We agreed that we'd handle things ourselves if we could," Jonas corrected. "But Thorne showing up with photos and threats to involve the Bishop? That's not something we can handle ourselves."

From upstairs, Daniel's voice: "Dad? The house says there are cars coming."

"I know, buddy."

"Big cars."

"I know."

"Are they the good guys or the bad guys?"

Jonas felt his mouth twitch despite everything. "Depends on who you ask."

The sound reached them before the vehicles did: the distinctive low rumble of heavy engines, the kind that came with reinforced chassis and the understanding that fuel economy was for people with different priorities.

Leona moved to the window. "Oh my God."

"Yep."

"Jonas, those are—"

"Yep."

Two black Chevrolet Suburbans rolled up the driveway with the inexorable certainty of continental drift. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just... present. The way avalanches are present. The way hurricanes are present. The way things that cannot be stopped or reasoned with are present.

They parked in a V-formation behind where Thorne's sedan had been—a configuration that would make it physically impossible for any other vehicle to leave without their permission.

The engines cut simultaneously.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, with the kind of choreography that suggested either extensive practice or telepathic coordination, all four doors of the lead vehicle opened at once.

Out stepped four men who looked like they'd been ordered from the same catalog, just in slightly different sizes. Dark suits. Sunglasses despite the overcast sky. The kind of purposeful stillness that came from knowing—absolutely, bone-deep knowing—that you were the most dangerous thing in any given square mile.

The second vehicle's doors opened more casually. Two more men emerged—one from the driver's side, one from the passenger's—followed by two more from the back.

Eight total.

All wearing variations of the same uniform: dark clothing, practical shoes, the bearing of people who'd spent significant portions of their lives being paid to stand in uncomfortable places and look intimidating.

Jonas pushed open the screen door and walked out onto the porch.

He didn't descend the steps. Didn't need to. Just leaned against the doorframe with one shoulder, arms crossed, and looked at the assembled team with the expression of a man who'd ordered a pizza and was now confirming it had arrived with the correct toppings.

The lead man—tall, broad-shouldered, with a jawline that could cut glass and hair styled with military precision—removed his sunglasses and tucked them into his jacket pocket. His eyes were the color of winter oceans, and they swept across the property with professional efficiency before landing on Jonas.

"Mr. Redfeather."

"Marcus."

The man's mouth twitched. "It's still weird when you call me that."

"You asked me to call you that."

"I was drunk. And trying to sound cool in front of—" He caught himself, glanced at Leona who'd joined Jonas on the porch, and cleared his throat. "The point is, you didn't need to use the emergency signal. I would've come anyway."

"This is the emergency," Jonas said.

Marcus—Marcus Kowalski, technically, though he hated his last name and had spent most of his adult life trying to get people to forget it existed—frowned. "What emergency? Your text just said 'now.' I thought someone was actively threatening you. I thought—" His eyes narrowed. "Wait. Did another journalist show up?"

"How did you—"

"Because it's the same pattern as last time. And the time before that. And that disaster in Asheville." Marcus turned to look at his team. "How many times have we had to extract families from overzealous paranormal investigators?"

One of the other men—shorter, stockier, with the kind of facial hair that suggested he'd given up on regulations years ago—spoke up. "Seventeen. Eighteen if you count the incident with the psychic who turned out to be an undercover ATF agent."

"We don't count that one," another man said. "That was weird for everyone involved."

Marcus turned back to Jonas. "Alright. What's the journalist's name, what organization are they with, and how quickly do we need them to disappear?"

"Marcus—"

"Not permanently disappear," Marcus amended. "Just... professionally inconvenienced. Maybe convinced that their equipment malfunctioned and all their footage got corrupted and pursuing this story would be a waste of time and resources."

Leona stepped forward. "You can do that?"

Marcus's smile was the kind that showed too many teeth. "Ma'am, I can make it so this person forgets they ever heard of Stonehaven. I can make their GPS think this address doesn't exist. I can—with appropriate authorization—convince their cell carrier that their phone fell into a dead zone that coincidentally covers this entire property."

"Is that legal?"

"Define legal."

"Marcus," Jonas said warningly.

"Fine. It's borderline. But so is showing up at someone's house with photos taken from public property without consent and using them as blackmail material." Marcus's expression hardened. "Where is this person now?"

"Hampton Inn. Route 52. Room 314."

"And they threatened you with what? Publication? Exposure? Involving local authorities?"

"All three. Plus the Bishop."

Every man in the assembled group went very still.

"Bishop Patterson?" Marcus asked quietly.

"Yeah."

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

Marcus turned to his team. "Okay, we're escalating to Protocol Seven. I need eyes on the Hampton Inn. I need a complete digital footprint on—what's the journalist's name?"

"Marcus Thorne."

"Please tell me that's not his real name."

"I think it is."

"Of course it is. Probably changed it from something normal because he thought it sounded more impressive." Marcus pulled out his own phone, typed rapidly. "I need everything on Marcus Thorne. Publications, affiliations, known associates, credit history, parking tickets, everything. If he's ever done anything questionable—and guys like this always have—I want to know about it within the hour."

One of the team members jogged back to the lead Suburban and retrieved a laptop.

Marcus moved up onto the porch, lowering his voice so only Jonas and Leona could hear. "How bad is the evidence?"

"Photos of the ceremony. Seventeen of them, apparently. Plus video. Plus testimony from a neighbor about 'suspicious activity.'"

"Mrs. Henderson," Marcus said immediately.

Jonas blinked. "How do you—"

"Because I've been monitoring this property since you moved in. I know about Mrs. Henderson. I know about the mailman who thinks the house is 'creepy.' I know about the county inspector who's been putting off his visit because he doesn't like old houses." Marcus's expression was grim. "What I didn't know was that someone was actively surveilling you during the ceremony. That's... that's a problem."

"Can you fix it?"

"Depends. How good are the photos?"

"Very."

"Shit. Okay. That complicates things, but it's not insurmountable. The key is going to be—"

A sound from inside the house interrupted him: the clicking, sharp and insistent, followed by what Jonas could only describe as an interrogative rumble.

Who are these men? Why are they here? Are they threats?

Marcus froze. "Is the house talking?"

"Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"It's complicated."

"Jonas, I've done protection work for three Indigenous families dealing with bound spirits and two hauntings that turned out to be inter-dimensional bleed-through. I'm comfortable with complicated. What I need to know is: is this house going to object to us being here?"

Before Jonas could answer, the front door swung open.

Not all the way. Just enough for Daniel to stick his head out.

"The house says you're okay," Daniel announced. "It remembers you from before. When you came to check the property after we moved in."

Marcus looked at the boy, then at Jonas. "Your son can talk to it?"

"Apparently."

"And it remembers me specifically?"

"Apparently."

"That's..." Marcus paused, clearly trying to find the right word. "Concerning? Impressive? I'm not sure which."

Daniel tilted his head, listening to something the adults couldn't hear. "The house wants to know if you brought the Italian guys."

Every man on the porch and in the driveway turned to look at Daniel.

"What Italian guys?" Marcus asked slowly.

"The ones with the hands," Daniel said, making elaborate gestures. "The house really liked them. They were funny."

Marcus's expression shifted through several emotions before landing on something that looked like resigned amusement. "You told Stonehaven about Nico and Lorenzo?"

"I might have mentioned them," Jonas admitted.

"Why?"

"Because the house was anxious about all the ceremony preparation. About all the people coming. I was trying to... I don't know, lighten the mood? I told it some stories about your team. About the time those two had an entire conversation using only hand gestures at that restaurant in Charlotte."

"That was classified security work."

"You told me about it."

"I was drunk!"

"You need to stop getting drunk around me."

Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay. Fine. Yes, I brought Nico and Lorenzo. They're in the second vehicle. But I need you to understand—they are professional security consultants. They are not entertainment. They are not—"

The house rumbled again. Louder this time. Not threatening. More like... excited.

Daniel grinned. "The house says please."

Marcus looked at Jonas with the expression of a man who'd lost control of the situation and was just now realizing it. "Your house just said please."

"Apparently."

"And it wants to see Nico and Lorenzo."

"Apparently."

"Why?"

"Because," Jonas said, fighting to keep his expression neutral, "I think Stonehaven is about to recruit them for whatever it's planning to do to Marcus Thorne."

From the second Suburban, as if on cue, two more men emerged.

They were shorter than the others. Stockier. Both wearing leather jackets despite the spring weather, both moving with the kind of casual confidence that came from being absolutely secure in who you were and not giving a single damn what anyone else thought about it.

Nico was the taller of the two, with olive skin and dark hair that he wore slicked back in a style that shouldn't have worked but somehow did. Lorenzo was broader, with a face that looked like it had been carved from granite by someone who was angry about it, and a nose that had clearly been broken at least twice.

They walked up the driveway, and Jonas could already see it starting: the hands.

Nico said something to Lorenzo in Italian—too quiet for Jonas to catch the words—and punctuated it with a gesture that involved his thumb and three fingers coming together in a point.

Lorenzo responded with a sound that wasn't quite a word and a gesture that swept from his shoulder to somewhere in the middle distance, fingers splayed, eyebrows raised.

Nico laughed—a sharp bark of sound—and replied with both hands moving, palms up, rotating in small circles.

They weren't just talking. They were performing. And they weren't even to the porch yet.

From inside the house came a sound that Jonas had never heard before and hoped he'd never have to explain to an insurance adjuster:

Delighted cackling.

Not human. Not quite. But unmistakably expressing joy.

Stonehaven—ancient guardian spirit, container of curses, protector of families—had just discovered physical comedy.

And it was about to get an education from two Italian security consultants who'd elevated gesticulation to an art form.

Marcus looked at Jonas. Then at the house. Then back at Jonas.

"This is going to be a disaster, isn't it?"

"Probably."

"People are going to get hurt."

"Maybe."

"Marcus Thorne is going to end up with trauma that no amount of therapy will fix."

"Possibly."

Marcus sighed. "Good."

He turned to face his assembled team. "Alright, listen up. We've got a journalist threatening our client with exposure, involvement of hostile local religious authorities, and potential criminal investigation. Standard intimidation pattern. But there's a complication."

He gestured at the house. "The property itself is sentient, spiritually active, and apparently has opinions about investigative journalism. So here's how this is going to work: we run standard counter-surveillance and evidence suppression protocols, but we coordinate with the house. Which means—"

He looked at Daniel. "Kid, you're our liaison. You tell us what Stonehaven wants, and we'll make it happen. Clear?"

Daniel nodded seriously. "The house says it wants to scare the journalist man."

"How scared are we talking? Like, nervous? Uncomfortable? Existentially terrified?"

Daniel listened to something, then looked up with a smile that was equal parts innocent and absolutely terrifying. "The house says 'yes.'"

Marcus absorbed this. "All three?"

"The house says it wants the journalist man to cry."

Every member of the security team grinned. These were men who'd spent careers dealing with threats—human and otherwise. And not one of them had any sympathy for someone who showed up at a family's home with cameras and blackmail.

"Alright," Marcus said. "Then here's what we do. Nico, Lorenzo—you're on distraction duty. I need this journalist so confused and off-balance that he can't think straight. Use whatever methods you consider appropriate."

Both men nodded, already conferring in rapid Italian about something that involved a lot of pointing and one extremely complicated hand gesture that seemed to require both participants.

"Rest of the team—we split into two groups. Half of you on digital suppression. I want every photo, every video, every piece of documentation this guy has either corrupted or mysteriously transferred to an external drive that then gets lost in transit. The other half on social engineering. We need to know who he's talked to, who he's planning to talk to, and how we can convince those people that Marcus Thorne is about as reliable as a Magic 8-Ball."

"What about Bishop Patterson?" one of the team members asked.

Marcus's expression went cold. "I'll handle the Bishop personally. He and I have... history."

Jonas raised an eyebrow. "Should I ask?"

"No."

"Is it going to be a problem?"

"Only for him."

From inside the house, the rumbling had subsided into something that sounded disturbingly like purring. Satisfied purring. The kind a cat makes when it's just been promised an entire aquarium's worth of fish.

Leona leaned close to Jonas. "Are we sure this is a good idea?"

"Nope."

"Should we stop it?"

"Probably."

"Are we going to?"

Jonas looked at his wife. At Daniel, who was explaining something to Marcus using a combination of words and gestures he'd apparently learned from watching the Italian consultants. At the security team coordinating with the precision of people who'd done this before and expected to do it again.

And at the house—damaged, wounded, finally free from impossible duty—choosing its first act of liberation to be elaborate psychological warfare against a man who'd threatened its family.

"No," Jonas said. "No, I don't think we are."

Because Marcus Thorne had made a critical miscalculation.

He'd thought he was threatening a family.

What he'd actually done was threaten a family that was protected by:

• A sentient house with one hundred seventy-eight years of experience containing impossible things
• The merged consciousness of a Cherokee guardian spirit and an eight-year-old ghost who'd learned about revenge from the wrong side of seventy years' imprisonment
• A security team with questionable methods and zero patience for journalists
• And two Italian men whose conversational style involved more hand gestures than words and who were about to teach an ancient spiritual entity the fine art of physical comedy

Jonas had tried to warn him.

Had offered him the chance to walk away.

But Thorne had chosen to come back. Chosen to escalate. Chosen to threaten not just Jonas and his family, but the four families who'd spent generations trying to keep a promise, and the spirits who'd suffered to protect what couldn't be protected any other way.

So now?

Now they were going to let Stonehaven play.

And Marcus Thorne was going to learn exactly what happened when you threatened something that had spent nearly two centuries learning how to break things that needed breaking.

Marcus Kowalski finished his briefing and turned back to Jonas. "One more thing. When this is over—when Thorne is properly discouraged and all evidence has been neutralized—we need to have a serious conversation about long-term security for this property."

"Why?"

"Because you're not the first family to complete a release ceremony. You're not the first to transform a binding. But you might be the first to do it successfully without destroying the house or the spirits involved." Marcus's expression was grave. "That makes you interesting. And when people in our line of work become interesting, they attract attention. The kind of attention that makes Marcus Thorne look like a minor inconvenience."

"What kind of attention?"

"The kind that thinks transformed guardian spirits would make excellent research subjects." Marcus's jaw tightened. "Or weapons."

Jonas felt his blood run cold. "There are people who—"

"Later," Marcus interrupted. "Right now, we focus on the immediate threat. But Jonas? After this is done? We talk. Because Stonehaven isn't just your home anymore. It's a proof of concept. And that makes it valuable to people who shouldn't know it exists."

Before Jonas could respond, Nico called out something in Italian that made Lorenzo double over laughing.

From inside the house came another sound—that cackling again, but longer, louder, building in a way that made every team member look up with expressions caught between alarm and delight.

Daniel stuck his head out the door again. "Dad? The house wants to know when we're going to visit the journalist man."

Jonas looked at Marcus.

Marcus looked at his watch.

"Thorne's check-in at the Hampton Inn was 10:15 AM. Standard protocol says he'll spend an hour settling in, another hour reviewing his footage and making calls. That puts us at approximately 12:30 for optimal intervention timing."

He looked up at the house, at the windows where—Jonas swore—shadows were moving in ways shadows shouldn't move unless they were very excited about something.

"Tell Stonehaven," Marcus said, "that we leave in thirty minutes. And it should probably start getting ready."

"Getting ready for what?" Leona asked.

Marcus's smile was sharp enough to cut. "For its debut performance."

"Performance of what?"

"Justice," Marcus said simply. "Wrapped in comedy. Delivered with the precision of a guardian that's been waiting one hundred seventy-eight years to remind someone that threatening its family was a very, very bad idea."

The house rumbled its approval.

And somewhere in Room 314 of the Hampton Inn, Marcus Thorne was reviewing his footage, making his calls, and planning his exposé—completely unaware that he'd just been marked as the opening act in a show that would feature:

• Two Italian security consultants as the warm-up comedy
• A Russian wall of intimidation as the second act
• And a centuries-old guardian spirit as the headliner, performing its first piece of creative revenge with all the enthusiasm of something that had just discovered it could be funny and terrifying simultaneously

The curtain was about to rise.

And nobody—not even Jonas—knew exactly how this performance was going to end.

But he had a feeling it was going to be memorable.

The Terms of Engagement

The thirty minutes passed faster than Jonas expected.

Partly because Marcus and his team moved with the kind of efficient purposefulness that made time compress—radios tested, equipment checked, vehicles repositioned with tactical precision.

But mostly because Stonehaven spent those thirty minutes preparing.

Jonas wasn't sure exactly what a sentient house did to prepare for psychological warfare, but apparently it involved a lot of internal rearranging. Doors opened and closed throughout the structure with no one touching them. Furniture scraped across floors in rooms nobody was occupying. The clicking moved through the walls in complex patterns that sounded less like Morse code and more like an orchestra tuning up before a performance.

And the sounds.

Every few minutes, the house would emit a noise that seemed designed to test the limits of what could be explained away as "old building settling." A long, resonant hum that made the windows vibrate. A series of rapid clicks that sounded exactly like footsteps running across the attic—except the attic was empty and the footsteps were going in circles. At one point, what sounded like a full orchestra playing a single, sustained note that shouldn't have been possible without actual instruments.

Daniel sat on the couch in the living room, listening with the focused attention of a kid watching his favorite show.

"It's practicing," he explained when Leona asked what was happening. "The house hasn't had to scare anyone in a long time. It wants to make sure it remembers how."

"It spent seventy years scaring people away from little Atsila's grave," Jonas pointed out.

"That was different. That was protective scary. This is..." Daniel paused, searching for words. "Fun scary. Like a haunted house at Halloween. Except real."

"That's not comforting, buddy."

"The house says it's going to be hilarious."

"Also not comforting."

Marcus appeared in the doorway, radio in hand. "We're ready. Thorne just ordered room service, which means he'll be stationary for at least twenty minutes. That's our window."

Jonas stood, feeling the weight of what they were about to do settle onto his shoulders. "We're really doing this."

"Unless you've changed your mind."

"Have you ever seen me change my mind?"

"Fair point." Marcus checked his watch. "Nico and Lorenzo are already in position at the Hampton Inn. They've been in the lobby for the past fifteen minutes having what appears to be a very animated argument about soccer. Three different guests have filed complaints about the noise level."

"That's the plan?"

"That's the warm-up. By the time we arrive with you, Thorne will already be off-balance. Wondering what the commotion is about. Possibly considering changing hotels." Marcus's smile was predatory. "That's when you knock on his door."

"And say what?"

"Whatever Stonehaven tells you to say."

Jonas blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You think we're running this operation?" Marcus gestured at the house around them. "We're support staff. Stonehaven is the lead operative. We're just here to provide transportation and plausible deniability."

From upstairs came a sound that might have been agreement or might have been the house laughing at the idea of plausible deniability.

"So what's the actual plan?" Leona asked. "Jonas shows up at Thorne's hotel room and... what? Invites him back here?"

"Exactly."

"That's insane. Why would Thorne come back after—"

"Because," Marcus interrupted, "Jonas is going to offer him exactly what he wants: the truth. Complete transparency. An exclusive interview with full access to the property and everyone involved in the ceremony."

Jonas stared at him. "We're giving him the story?"

"We're giving him the opportunity for the story. There's a difference." Marcus's expression was carefully neutral. "What happens after he accepts that opportunity is between him and Stonehaven."

"You want me to lure him into a trap."

"I want you to extend an invitation. What Thorne chooses to do with that invitation is his decision. He's a journalist. He wants the truth. We're offering to let him experience it firsthand."

"Marcus—"

"Jonas." Marcus's voice dropped, losing all trace of humor. "This man threatened your family. He threatened to weaponize the local religious community against you. He threatened to involve law enforcement in what was a private spiritual ceremony performed on your own property with full consent of all participants."

He stepped closer. "He doesn't get to do that and walk away clean. He doesn't get to threaten people with cameras and consequences and then cry foul when those people defend themselves. So yes—we're setting a trap. We're luring him somewhere he thinks he'll be safe, somewhere he thinks he has control, and we're going to show him exactly how wrong he is."

Marcus paused. "But here's the key thing: we're not going to hurt him. Not physically. We're not going to destroy his equipment or steal his evidence or do anything illegal. We're just going to let him experience—really, genuinely experience—what happens when you threaten a house that's been containing impossible things for nearly two centuries."

"And if he still publishes after that?"

"He won't."

"How can you be sure?"

Marcus's smile returned, sharp and cold. "Because I've done this before. And I've never met anyone who experienced a genuine supernatural encounter and still wanted to tell the world about it. The ones who survive—and they all survive, that's important—they run. They delete their footage. They find new careers. They spend the rest of their lives pretending it never happened because the alternative is admitting that everything they thought they knew about reality was wrong."

He pulled out his car keys. "So. Are you ready to invite Marcus Thorne back to Stonehaven?"

Jonas looked at Leona. She gave a single, tight nod.

He looked at Daniel. The boy grinned.

He looked up at the ceiling, at the house that had been his home for barely a month but felt like it had been waiting for his family for generations.

"Yeah," Jonas said. "Let's go ruin this guy's day."

The Hampton Inn parking lot was quieter than Jonas expected.

He'd half-anticipated some kind of dramatic scene—police cars, angry guests, Nico and Lorenzo being escorted out by security. Instead, everything looked perfectly normal. A few cars scattered around. A family unloading luggage. A businessman talking on his phone near the entrance.

Marcus parked the lead Suburban in a spot that had clear sight lines to both the lobby entrance and the side exit. The second vehicle pulled in beside them.

"Nico and Lorenzo?" Jonas asked.

Marcus touched his radio. "Status."

A voice crackled back—Nico's, heavy with an accent that somehow made everything sound both sophisticated and vaguely threatening. "We are in position. The target has been... prepared."

"Define prepared."

"He has heard us. He has seen us. He has witnessed Lorenzo's..." a pause, then rapid Italian that Jonas couldn't follow but which made Marcus close his eyes like he was in pain. "...demonstration of proper gestural emphasis when discussing controversial referee decisions."

"Did you actually discuss soccer?"

"Of course not. We discussed the target. But loudly. And with many gestures. The front desk has asked us twice to lower our voices. We have complied by lowering our voices exactly five percent each time."

Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please tell me you didn't actually discuss Thorne where he could hear you."

"We discussed a 'troublesome individual who does not understand when he is not welcome.' We discussed this individual's poor decision-making. We discussed what might happen if this individual continued to make poor decisions in areas where he was clearly not wanted."

"Jesus Christ."

"We were very subtle," Nico added, sounding genuinely offended. "No names were used. Only implications. And hand gestures."

"How many hand gestures?"

"All of them."

Marcus looked at Jonas. "They're perfect for this."

"They're insane."

"I prefer 'dedicated to their craft.'" Marcus checked his watch. "Thorne's room is on the third floor. You take the elevator up, knock on his door, deliver the invitation. We'll be in the stairwell providing overwatch in case he reacts badly."

"And if he refuses?"

"He won't."

"But if he does?"

Marcus's expression was unreadable. "Then we proceed to Plan B."

"What's Plan B?"

"You really don't want to know."

Jonas climbed out of the Suburban. The afternoon sun was bright, the air warm, everything perfectly ordinary. He could have been visiting anyone. Delivering anything. Making any kind of normal, reasonable human interaction.

Except for the fact that he was about to invite a man back to his house so that a centuries-old guardian spirit could psychologically torment him.

Just a normal Tuesday, Jonas thought wildly. This is fine. Everything is fine.

"Jonas."

He turned. Marcus had rolled down the window, his expression serious.

"Remember—once he agrees to come back, once he crosses the threshold of Stonehaven, the interview belongs to the house. Not to him. Not to you. The house. Whatever happens after that point, you let it happen. Don't intervene. Don't try to stop it. Don't apologize."

"What if it goes too far?"

"It won't. Stonehaven has been protecting families for nearly two centuries. It knows the difference between deterrence and destruction." Marcus paused. "But Jonas? It also knows the difference between threats that need gentle correction and threats that need to be broken. And I think it's already decided which category Marcus Thorne falls into."

Jonas nodded and walked toward the hotel entrance.

The lobby was exactly as generic as expected—beige carpet, leather furniture that was trying very hard to look expensive, a front desk staffed by a young woman who looked like she was counting down the minutes until her shift ended.

And there, in the far corner near the complimentary coffee station, were Nico and Lorenzo.

They weren't doing anything dramatic. Just... talking. Hands moving, voices rising and falling, the two of them engaged in what appeared to be the world's most passionate discussion about absolutely nothing.

Except Jonas could see it—the way other guests kept glancing at them. The way the front desk clerk's jaw was tight with suppressed frustration. The way the entire lobby had developed a low-grade tension just from their presence.

They were performing.

And they were fucking good at it.

Jonas caught Nico's eye for just a second. The man gave the tiniest nod—acknowledgment without breaking character—and went right back to making a gesture that involved both hands rotating in opposite directions while his face expressed profound disappointment in something.

Jonas headed for the elevators.

The ride up to the third floor felt longer than it should have. His heart was pounding, palms sweating, every instinct screaming that this was a terrible idea and he should turn around right now.

But he didn't.

Because Marcus Thorne had threatened his family. Had threatened four families, actually, and two spirits who'd suffered enough. And sometimes—sometimes—the right response to a threat wasn't backing down. It was walking straight into the lion's den and reminding the lion that you'd brought friends.

Friends who happened to include a sentient house with a newly developed sense of humor and a century and a half of experience making things very, very uncomfortable for people who needed to be uncomfortable.

Room 314 was at the end of the hallway. Jonas could hear a television playing inside—news, from the sound of it. Professional voices discussing something that probably mattered to someone.

He raised his hand and knocked.

Three firm raps. Nothing aggressive. Just... present.

Footsteps approached from inside. A pause—Thorne was probably checking the peephole. Then the sound of the chain being removed, the deadbolt sliding back.

The door opened six inches. Thorne's face appeared in the gap, and Jonas was gratified to see that the man looked slightly less composed than he had at Stonehaven. His hair was mussed. His designer glasses were slightly askew. And his expression carried the specific kind of irritation that came from being in a hotel where the other guests were inexplicably, persistently, loudly annoying.

"Mr. Redfeather." Thorne's voice was clipped. "I believe I gave you seventy-two hours to consider my offer."

"You did. I've considered it."

"And?"

Jonas leaned against the doorframe—casual, relaxed, channeling every bit of calm he could fake. "You want the truth about what happened at Stonehaven. You want transparency. You want access to everyone involved and everything that occurred during the ceremony."

"That's correct."

"Then come back."

Thorne blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Come back to the house. Right now. I'll give you the full tour. I'll answer every question you have. I'll introduce you to my family, explain the history, show you where the ceremony took place. Complete transparency. Complete access."

Thorne's expression cycled through several emotions—suspicion, confusion, interest, back to suspicion. "Why would you suddenly agree to this?"

"Because you're right," Jonas said, and the lie tasted like copper on his tongue. "You're right that people deserve to know what happened. You're right that keeping secrets only makes things worse. And you're right that if I refuse to cooperate, you'll just involve the Bishop and the Sheriff and make everything infinitely more complicated."

He straightened up. "So I'm choosing cooperation. You want the story? Come get it. Right now. While the house is still fresh in everyone's memory. While the evidence is still visible."

"Evidence?"

"The amber glow you photographed. The structural damage. The..." Jonas paused, then went for broke. "The residual phenomena. It's all still there. But it's fading. In a few more days, it'll be gone completely. So if you want the truth—the real, documented, observable truth—you need to come now."

Thorne's eyes had lit up at "residual phenomena." Jonas could practically see the gears turning behind those designer glasses.

"You're offering me full access? Right now? No restrictions? No—"

"One restriction," Jonas interrupted.

"What restriction?"

"Once you enter the house, the interview belongs to Stonehaven."

Thorne frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It means exactly what it sounds like. You want to know what really happened? You want to experience what we experienced? Then you have to let the house show you. On its terms. In its way."

"That's absurdly vague."

"That's the offer." Jonas pushed off from the doorframe. "You're a journalist. You're trained to be objective. To observe without interfering. So that's what you'll do—observe. The house will show you what it wants you to see. You document it. You ask your questions. And when it's done, you'll have your story."

He started walking back toward the elevator, then paused and looked over his shoulder. "Or you can stay here. Call the Bishop. Spend the next week dealing with investigations and interviews and probably getting run out of town by a community that doesn't appreciate outsiders threatening their families. Your choice."

"Wait."

Jonas stopped but didn't turn around.

"This isn't a trap?"

"It's an opportunity. What you make of it is up to you."

"And your... security team. The men I saw at your property this morning. Will they be there?"

"Some of them. But they're not the story. The house is the story. That's what you wanted, right? The supernatural angle? The evidence of genuine phenomena?"

Jonas finally turned around, and he let every bit of exhaustion, frustration, and bone-deep seriousness show on his face. "I'm offering you something no journalist has ever gotten, Thorne. A genuine, observable, documented encounter with a sentient structure. A house that knows you're coming. A house that's aware of what you've threatened to do to my family. A house that wants to show you exactly what it's capable of."

He paused. "The question is: are you brave enough to accept?"

It was a masterful piece of manipulation—Jonas knew it even as the words left his mouth. Thorne's entire professional identity was built on being the skeptic, the debunker, the man who walked into supposedly haunted locations and exposed them as frauds. Turning down this offer would mean admitting that he was afraid. That he didn't believe his own skepticism. That he was all talk.

Thorne's jaw tightened. "I'll need to bring my equipment."

"Bring whatever you want. Camera, recording devices, EMF readers, whatever. Document everything. That's the whole point."

"And you guarantee my safety?"

"I guarantee that Stonehaven has never permanently harmed anyone in one hundred seventy-eight years. But I can't guarantee you'll enjoy the experience." Jonas smiled—thin, humorless. "After all, you threatened my family. The house is... aware of that. And it's not particularly forgiving."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a fact. You wanted the truth, Thorne. This is it—all the truth, unfiltered, experienced firsthand. You still want it?"

For a long moment, Thorne stood in his doorway, clearly weighing his options. Fear warred with professional pride. Caution battled with ambition. The smart choice would be to say no, to back off, to find an easier target.

But Thorne hadn't built his career on smart choices. He'd built it on being willing to go where others wouldn't. On pushing boundaries. On proving that he was braver, smarter, more persistent than everyone else.

"Give me ten minutes to gather my equipment," Thorne said.

"You have five."

"That's not enough time to—"

"Five minutes. After that, I'm leaving. And the offer disappears." Jonas was already walking toward the elevator. "Oh, and Thorne? When we get to the house, you're going to meet two members of my security team in the lobby downstairs. Italian guys. Very friendly. Very enthusiastic. They're going to want to have a conversation with you."

"About what?"

"About the proper way to show respect when entering someone's home." Jonas pressed the elevator button. "I'd listen to them if I were you. They're very particular about manners."

The elevator arrived. Jonas stepped inside and turned to face Thorne, who was still standing in his doorway, looking caught between curiosity and alarm.

"Five minutes," Jonas repeated as the doors began to close. "And Thorne? Bring extra batteries for your camera. You're going to need them."

The doors closed.

Jonas leaned back against the elevator wall and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

His phone buzzed. Text from Marcus: He took the bait?

Jonas typed back: Hook, line, and sinker.

Good. Nico and Lorenzo are waiting in the lobby. They've been instructed to be 'welcoming.'

Define welcoming.

You really don't want to know.

The elevator descended. Jonas could hear his own heartbeat, feel the adrenaline singing through his veins. In a few minutes, they'd be headed back to Stonehaven. Back to a house that was currently preparing an elaborate psychological operation designed to break a man's entire worldview.

And Jonas—Jonas who'd spent his whole life avoiding confrontation, who'd inherited a debt he hadn't asked for, who'd just wanted to give his family a fresh start in a new home—was the one leading that man to slaughter.

Not literal slaughter. But close enough.

The elevator doors opened.

Nico and Lorenzo were there, standing near the coffee station, no longer arguing. Just... waiting. Two predators who'd spotted prey and were deciding how best to approach.

When they saw Jonas, both men straightened. Their expressions shifted—no more theatrical frustration, no more elaborate gestures. Just professional focus and something that looked disturbingly like anticipation.

"He's coming," Jonas said quietly.

Nico smiled. It was not a friendly smile. "Bene. We will prepare the welcome."

"Don't scare him too badly. Not yet."

"We would never," Lorenzo said, looking genuinely offended. Then his expression shifted into something predatory. "We will simply... educate him. On proper behavior. And consequences."

"And hand gestures," Nico added. "So many hand gestures. By the time we arrive at Stonehaven, he will be very confused about what hand gestures mean."

"That's the plan?"

"That is the beginning of the plan," Nico corrected. "The house will provide the ending. We are merely the aperitivo."

Jonas had no idea what that meant, but from the way both men were grinning, he suspected Marcus Thorne was about to receive an education in Italian intimidation tactics that would make his journalism career look quaint by comparison.

"Be gentle," Jonas said, without much hope that they would be.

"We are always gentle," Lorenzo said solemnly. Then he made a gesture that involved his fist slowly closing while his other hand made a spiraling motion upward. "Until we're not."

The elevator dinged.

Thorne stepped out, looking harried and anxious, his designer messenger bag slung over one shoulder, a professional camera in hand, his other arm laden with equipment cases.

He saw Jonas. Then he saw Nico and Lorenzo.

And Jonas watched—with no small amount of satisfaction—as every bit of color drained from the journalist's face.

Because Nico and Lorenzo were no longer making friendly gestures or discussing soccer. They were standing perfectly still, hands at their sides, expressions neutral, radiating the kind of quiet menace that came from years of professional violence management.

"Mr. Thorne," Nico said pleasantly. "We are so pleased you have decided to accept Mr. Redfeather's invitation."

"We have been looking forward to meeting you," Lorenzo added. His smile showed too many teeth. "We have heard so much about your work."

Thorne looked at Jonas with something approaching panic. "These are the men from—"

"My security team, yes." Jonas gestured toward the exit. "They'll be escorting us back to the property. For your safety, of course. The road can be tricky, and we wouldn't want anything to happen to you or your equipment before you get the story you came for."

"My safety."

"Absolutely. We take the safety of our guests very seriously." Jonas started walking toward the door. "Don't we, gentlemen?"

"Oh yes," Nico agreed. "Very seriously. In fact, Lorenzo and I were just discussing proper safety protocols for journalists entering spiritually active environments. We have many thoughts on this subject."

"So many thoughts," Lorenzo confirmed. "We will share them with you during the drive. All of them. With gestures for emphasis."

Thorne looked like a man who'd just realized he'd made a terrible mistake but couldn't figure out how to back out without looking like a coward.

Which, Jonas reflected, was exactly the position they wanted him in.

Cornered. Off-balance. Too proud to run but too anxious to think straight.

Perfect prey for a house that had just discovered the joy of creative intimidation.

"Shall we?" Jonas asked, holding the door open.

Thorne swallowed hard. Adjusted his equipment. And—because pride and ambition overrode every survival instinct he possessed—walked through the door.

Behind him, Nico and Lorenzo exchanged a glance and a gesture that Jonas could only interpret as: This is going to be amazing.

They climbed into the vehicles—Thorne in the back seat of the lead Suburban, sandwiched between Jonas and one of the other security team members, his equipment piled at his feet. Nico and Lorenzo took their positions in the second vehicle, already visible through the rear window, already engaged in what appeared to be an animated discussion that involved pointing at Thorne's car and making elaborate gestures that probably meant something terrible.

Marcus, in the driver's seat, caught Jonas's eye in the rearview mirror and gave the smallest nod.

The convoy pulled out of the parking lot.

And somewhere ahead, in a house that had spent one hundred seventy-eight years learning how to contain impossible things, Stonehaven waited.

Doors already rearranged. Sounds already prepared. Shadows already positioned.

Ready to give Marcus Thorne exactly what he'd asked for:

The truth.

All of it.

Unfiltered.

Experienced firsthand.

With zero mercy and maximum comedic timing.

The journalist wanted a story about supernatural phenomena?

He was about to become one.

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Blackmail is a dangerous game to play with the Redfeathers. Next week, the silver sedan returns, but Jonas won't be meeting it alone. It’s time for Marcus Thorne to meet 'the family'—and their legendary way of handling uninvited guests. The lesson begins next SUNDAY.