They didn't speak for several minutes after they escaped the church. Only their breath made sound—ragged and fast—as they stumbled through the fog.
Ikenna bent over, hands on his knees, trembling. "We left her," he whispered. "We left Maya behind."
Samuel sat on the cracked curb, eyes hollow. "She was already gone."
"You don't know that," Ikenna snapped. "She was alive. She spoke to me."
"And so did that thing," Samuel replied. "In her voice."
Ikenna turned away, fists clenched. The fog around them felt different now—heavier. Almost like it listened.
Buildings had shifted again. The streets weren't the same. The church was no longer behind them. Just rows of ancient houses, half-submerged in overgrowth, all dark and waiting.
"We should've marked the road," Ikenna muttered. "We should've…"
He stopped.
There was something in the window across the street.
A silhouette.
Thin. Watching.
Samuel saw it too. "Don't stare back," he warned. "They like that."
They turned and kept walking. The road beneath them crunched—not gravel, but something brittle. Ikenna looked down and saw it was bone.
Tiny bones.
Birds. Maybe rats. Maybe something worse.
The wind picked up and carried a new sound—faint and high-pitched. It took them a moment to realize it was whimpering.
"Someone's crying," Ikenna said. "It's close."
"No," Samuel said. "Not someone. Something."
Still, Ikenna followed the sound. It pulled at him. Like Maya's voice had. A small house stood at the end of the lane. Not crumbling like the others. It looked… preserved. Like someone had kept it alive while the town rotted.
Its porch light flickered dimly.
"Whatever's in there, it wants us to come," Samuel warned. "That's never good."
But Ikenna was already moving.
Inside, the house smelled like stale perfume and mildew. The floorboards creaked under their weight. Family portraits lined the walls—smiling faces from a different era. But their eyes… their eyes were all scratched out.
They followed the crying to a room at the back. The door was open just a crack. Light spilled out in short, flickering bursts—like an old film reel.
Ikenna pushed it open.
Inside was a nursery. Pristine. A crib in the center. Walls painted with stars and moons. Toys stacked neatly on shelves.
And in the crib, a bundle wrapped in stained blankets.
The crying stopped the moment they stepped in.
Then it laughed.
Samuel grabbed Ikenna's arm. "We need to leave. Now."
But the blankets began to twitch.
And then unravel.
What lay inside wasn't a child.
It had the shape of one, yes. But the skin was paper-thin and stretched too tight. Eyes stitched shut. Mouth sealed with wire. Its body squirmed, writhing unnaturally—like something inside it was trying to escape.
And then—it split open.
With a sound like tearing silk, its chest burst apart, revealing a hollow cavity. From within it, dozens of eyes blinked open, each one bleeding.
The lights went out.
Ikenna stumbled back, heart pounding. In the pitch black, something brushed his arm.
Then his neck.
He turned and felt breath—cold breath—on his cheek.
Then a voice, in a tone that did not belong to the living:
"She's still breathing. You can trade."
He bolted, yanking Samuel with him. They tore through the hallway, back into the fog. The house let out a low, creaking sigh behind them—like it was disappointed.
When they reached the street, the crying started again.
But now it came from every direction.
Dozens of voices.
Dozens of homes.
All of them crying.
Ikenna fell to his knees, clutching his head. "Make it stop," he whispered. "Make it stop!"
Samuel knelt beside him. "They want you to break. That's the only way in. Don't let them in, Ikenna."
The fog pulsed.
And the watchers returned.
All around them—behind windows, beneath broken porches, in the branches of dead trees—eyes opened.
Not human.
Not animal.
Just… watchers.
Ikenna looked up at them, tears in his eyes. "Why us?"
Samuel didn't answer.
Because he knew the truth.
Ember Hollow didn't choose randomly.
It remembered who belonged.
And it never forgot a debt.