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Calarogu Shark Media, Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly.
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This episode is titled Whispers in the Dark, Part three Possession.
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The knife from the intruder sits on my desk as
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I write this, a constant reminder that the danger in
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Blackwood Estate isn't confined to dreams and ghosts. It's been
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three days since the break in, and in that time,
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the boundaries between my world and Alexander's have begun to
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blur in ways I never thought possible. I called the
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police the morning after the attack. Of course, the local
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sheriff arrived, took photos of the overturned furniture, the broken vase,
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the bloodstain on the wall. He examined the knife with
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gloved hands, bagging it as evidence. This is an unusual weapon,
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he commented, ceremonial. Maybe not the kind of thing your
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average burglar carries. I told him about the elderly woman
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who had warned me carefully omitting the supernatural elements of
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her appearance and disappearance. He promised to check local records
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for anyone matching her description, but his expression told me
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he didn't expect to find anything. These old estates attract
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all kinds of attention, he said, as he was leaving.
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History buffs, ghost hunters, teenagers looking for a thrill, but
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an armed intruder. That's something else. You got, somewhere else.
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You can stay for a while. I told him I didn't.
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The truth is I couldn't leave even if I wanted to,
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Not with Alexander's journal still unfound, not with his mystery
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still unsolved, not with his touch still lingering on my skin.
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After the sheriff left, I renewed my search for the
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journal with a desperate intensity. I scoured the library again,
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checking for hidden compartments in the desk, behind books, beneath floorboards.
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I returned to the small room where I'd found Alexander's portrait,
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examining every trunk and box nothing. By late afternoon, frustrated
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and exhausted, I found myself in the cellar, a vast
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space beneath the house that I had avoided until now.
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Stone walls wept with moisture, and the dirt floor was
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uneven beneath my feet. Most of the space was taken
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up with abandoned furniture, old trunks, and the kinds of
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debris that accumulate over a century of habitation. I was
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about to give up when my flashlight illuminated a section
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of wall that seemed different from the rest. The stones,
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more precisely fitted, the more newer. Pressing my hand against it,
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I felt a slight draft. There was something beyond. It
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took me an hour of careful examination to find the mechanism,
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a protruding stone that, when pushed in the right way,
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caused a section of the wall to swing inward. The
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space beyond was small, more of a closet than a room,
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empty except for a metal box on the floor. My
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hands trembled as I lifted it. No lock, just a
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simple latch. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, was a leather bound book,
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Alexander's Journal. I carried it upstairs to the library, my
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heart racing with anticipation. The first entry was dated June nineteen, nineteen,
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seven months after the armistice that ended the Great War.
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Alexander's handwriting was elegant, decisive, the script of a man
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educated in an era when penmanship mattered. I have returned
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to Blackwood Estate at last. The war has taken more
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from me than I care to admit, not just years
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of my life, but something of my faith in humanity,
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what I witnessed in Europe cannot be unsaid or undone.
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But I am home now, and there is comfort in
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these familiar walls, in the constant presence of the sea,
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the text I discovered in the ruins of Saint Michel
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is safely hidden. I have begun the translation work, though
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my knowledge of medieval Latin is imperfect. What I have
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deciphered so far is unsettling. If even half of what
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it suggests is true, then everything we believe about the
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nature of reality is fundamentally flawed. The next several entries
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detailed his progress translating the mysterious text, interspersed with obser
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about the estate and his plans for restoring the family businesses.
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It painted a picture of a man trying to balance
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mundane responsibilities with an increasingly consuming intellectual pursuit. By August,
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his entries had grown more erratic, his elegant script occasionally
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deteriorating into hasty scrawls. The translation is nearly complete, and
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I find myself both exhilarated and terrified by what I
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have learned. The ancients understood truths that modern science has
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yet to rediscover. That the barrier between worlds is permeable
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that consciousness itself is the key to traversing these boundaries.
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I have begun the preliminary rituals described in the text,
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simple meditative practices to heighten awareness of the liminal spaces
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around us. Already I sense changes in my perception. The
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house feels different, more alive. Somehow. Last night, I would
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swear I heard whispers in the walls, though I was
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quite alone. As September turned to October, Alexander's entries became
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more concerning. I am no longer alone in the house.
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Something has taken notice of my work. I feel its
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presence most strongly at night, A weight in the air,
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a darkness deeper than absence of light. I should be afraid,
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I suppose, but curiosity overwhelms caution. What manner of entity
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have I attracted from? What realm does it originate? I
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have left offerings, as the text suggests, small things, drops
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of my blood, fragments of personal items, memories willingly surrendered
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in return. It shows me visions of other places, other times,
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knowledge beyond imagining. The final entries, dated early November nineteen twenty,
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were the most disturbing. The entity has revealed its nature
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to me at last, not a ghost or spirit as
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we commonly understand them, but something far older. It calls
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itself many names, none of which I can pronounce in
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any human tongue. It exists in the spaces between worlds,
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feeding on a particular energy generated by human consciousness, specifically
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the energy of fear, desire, and death. It offers a
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bargain knowledge and power in exchange for sustenance. I hesitate
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to commit the details to paper, even in this private journal.
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The implications are too terrible to contemplate, and yet the
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temptation is overwhelming. I dreamed last night of a woman
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I have never met. She stood in my bedroom, her
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face both strange and achingly familiar. Don't trust, she said,
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No matter what it promises, no matter what it shows you,
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it cannot create, only consume. When I tried to speak
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to her to ask her name, she placed her finger
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against my lips. I will find you, she whispered, in
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another time, and then perhaps we can undo what has
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been done. I awoke with the certainty that her warning
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was real, a message across time. But from whom? And
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how can I possibly interpret such a vision when my
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every thought may now be influenced by the entity's presence.
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The final entry was dated November fifteenth, nineteen twenty. I
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have made my decision. Tonight. I will complete the binding ritual,
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not as the entity expects, but with modifications of my
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own design. If my calculations are correct, the result will
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trap it within the confines of the estate, preventing it
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from extending its influence into the wider world. The cost
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will likely be my life, but I see no alternative.
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What I have unleashed cannot be allowed to roam free
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to whoever may find this journal. Beware, the entity remains
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bound to Blackwood Estate, but not destroyed. It will seek
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a new agent, someone to complete what I began. It
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will offer dreams, desires, knowledge beyond imagining. Do not trust it.
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Do not trust any visions or visitations within these walls.
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And if by some miracle she exists, the woman from
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my dream, know that I have done this for you,
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though we may never meet in any life or time.
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The journal ended. There no further entries, no explanation of
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what happened that night, of how Alexander died, just that
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final warning, written in a hand that suggested agency, perhaps fear.
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I closed the book, my mind racing the woman in
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his dream. Could it have been me? Had Alexander somehow
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sensed my existence across the span of a hundred years
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and this entity he described? Was it still here, bound
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to the house as he claimed? Was it the true
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cause of our connection? I didn't realize how late it
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had grown until I noticed the darkness pressing against the
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library windows. The house seemed unnaturally quiet, the usual creaks
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and settling noises absent, as if it was holding its
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breath waiting Alexander. I called out, my voice, small in
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the silence.
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Are you here?
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No response came, but I felt a change in the air,
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a heaviness, a pressure against my skin, the same sensation
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Alexander had described in his journal. I wasn't alone, but
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for the first time since arriving at Blackwood Estate, I
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wasn't sure if the presence I sensed was Alexander at all.
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I retreated to the master bedroom, the journal clutched against
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my chest like a shield. If Alexander's ghost was bound
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to the house because of this entity, then whatever connection
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we shared might be tainted by its influence. The passion
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I'd felt, the impossible pleasure of our encounters. Was any
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of it real? Or merely the entity's way of luring
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me in as it had once lured Alexander. Despite my exhaustion,
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I fought against sleep that night. I didn't want to dream,
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didn't want to find myself in that liminal space where
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Alexander waited, not until I could be sure it was
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truly him, not some manifest created by the entity to
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manipulate me. But eventually fatigue won out. I drifted into
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uneasy slumber and found myself in the familiar, transformed version
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of the bedroom. Alexander stood by the window, his back
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to me, gazing out at the moonlit grounds. For the
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first time, I studied him with suspicion rather than desire.
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Was this really the ghost of a man who had
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died a century ago? Or something older, darker? Wearing his
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face like a mask, He turned sensing my presence. His
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smile of welcome faltered as he registered my expression. You
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found it, he said quietly the journal. I nodded, keeping
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my distance. You knew where it was all along, Not
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exactly I knew it existed, but my memories of what
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I wrote of where I hid it agmentary, like trying
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to recall a book you read as a child. You
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wrote about an entity, something ancient, that you accidentally summoned
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or contacted through that text you found in France. His
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expression grew grim. Yes, you said you performed a ritual
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to bind it to the estate, that you expected the
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effort to kill you, and so it did. His hand
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went to his chest, to the scar I'd noticed before,
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though not in the way I anticipated what happened. Alexander
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moved toward me, stopping when I instinctively backed away. Pain
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flashed across his features. At my retreat, the ritual required blood,
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he said mine. I had prepared everything, set the boundaries
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of the binding, but at the last moment, as I
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raised the knife, he broke off, his form, flickering like
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a candle in a draft. Someone else was there, someone
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I had trusted. They took the knife from my hand
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and completed the sacrifice for me. You were murdered, yes,
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But the murderer didn't understand the ritual's true purpose. They
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believed they were completing what I had begun, a binding
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that would give the entity access to our world, not
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confine it. Why would anyone want that? I asked, power knowledge,
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the same temptations the entity had offered me Alexander's expression darkened.
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The entity promised impossible things, immortality, command over the forces
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of nature, the ability to bend reality itself. My colleague
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believed every word, but the ritual still worked. The entity
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was bound partially. My preparations were sound enough that it
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couldn't escape the estate entirely. But it wasn't fully contained
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as I had intended. It has influence here within these walls,
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and it has been waiting, gathering strength, looking for another chance.
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I thought of the woman who had warned me of
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the intruder with the ceremonial knife. Who killed you? Alexander,
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who completed the ritual? He shook his head, frustration evident
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in his expression. I don't remember that moment, the actual death.
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It's blank. I remember the pain, the feeling of betrayal,
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but not the face. I studied him, trying to see
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beyond the handsome features, the intense eyes that had captivated
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me from our first encounter. Could I trust him? Or
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was this entire story just another manipulation the entity? I
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said carefully. He wrote that it feeds on fear, desire,
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and death. Our encounters, what we've shared. Is that real?
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Or is it just food for this thing. Alexander's face softened.
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He approached me, slowly, as one might have frightened animal.
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This time, I held my ground. What we share is real, Elise.
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The entity didn't create it. It's merely taken advantage of it.
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His hand reached for mine, and despite my reservations, I
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allowed the contact. That same electric current flowed between us,
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warming his spectral touch. I believe you are the woman
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in my dream that somehow across time you reached back
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to warn me that our connection exists outside the entity's influence.
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How can you be sure? His smile was sad. I can't,
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but I know what I feel when I'm with you,
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and it's not dark or hungry or consuming. It's light, warmth,
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something I haven't felt since I was alive. I wanted
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to believe him. God help me. I still wanted him,
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even knowing what I now knew. I let him pull
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me closer, let his arms encircle me. If what you
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say is true, I murmured against his chest, then the
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entity is still here, still dangerous, and someone else knows
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about it, someone who sent that intruder with the ritual knife. Yes,
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he agreed, his fingers threading through my hair. Someone who
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has discovered what I discovered, who wants what I wanted
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before I understood the true cost. We need to find them,
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stop them. I pulled back to look into his eyes.
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And we need to finish what you started. Bind the
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entity properly, or banish it entirely. Alexander's expression grew troubled.
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That may not be possible without risking your life. The
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ritual requires blood, Elise, a sacrifice. There must be another way,
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I insisted. Your journal mentioned the text you found in France.
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Is it still here, hidden somewhere in the house. I
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believe so, though I don't remember where. His hands framed
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my face with exquisite tenderness. But Elise, you must understand,
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even if we find it, even if there is another