The Wrath of Shadows

Ethan Blackwood's voice cut through the air like a well-honed blade, alternating between slow, deliberate invocations and rapid incantations. Each word carried a weight of ancient power, his tones oscillating between sharp clarity and elongated murmurs. This unpredictable rhythm imbued the scene with a palpable sense of mystery, but also reverence—a solemn weight that filled the room. As he began to chant, the energy shifted in the air. What had been oppressive now felt alive with purpose, the words weaving something ancient and sacred.

In his hand, Ethan gripped a Vajra, a sacred symbol that pulsed with layered beams of golden light. It wasn't just a simple glow; the light seemed to breathe, intensifying and shifting in hues of soft gold. Even to the untrained eye, it was clear this was not mere ornamentation—this was divine force. The air crackled with energy, and even the shadows in the room seemed to hesitate, wary of what might come next.

The Wraith of Blackwood Mansion, long feared and whispered about in hushed tones, recoiled. Its form, which had seemed so invincible moments earlier, now faltered, pulling back as if it feared Ethan's growing power. I watched in horror as the spirit abandoned its assault on him, only to turn its predatory gaze toward me.

"Damn it!" I cursed under my breath. Figures. When things get rough, the easiest target becomes the most appealing. Why fight the strong when the weak are easier prey? It's a logic both the living and the dead seem to share. My mind raced, should I run or face it?

The answer wasn't courage, but practicality. I opted for a middle ground—bravery, but just enough. If I could just manage to hold my ground long enough to assess the situation, I'd still be near Ethan. He was handling things, and there was no way the wraith could take me down before he finished it off. I'd be fine. Right?

As I steeled myself, preparing to confront the entity, I noticed my best defense—a small mirror with protective symbols—had been knocked to the ground. Great. Improvisation it was, then. Without much thought, I spat toward the wraith, invoking the old folklore that spit could repel spirits.

Turns out, not this one.

It barely registered my attempt, its blood-soaked claws stretching toward me. A cold wave of dread washed over me. I raised my arms in a desperate defense, expecting the worst.

Then... nothing.

I looked down and realized I was still in one piece. The wraith had latched onto the sleeve of my old military-style jacket but seemed to recoil. I was baffled until I remembered—the jacket was handmade, an heirloom passed down from a priest. It had spiritual significance, after all.

The wraith hesitated, its translucent claws releasing me like it had touched something it shouldn't have. That brief moment was enough. Ethan, who had been silently watching, lunged forward. With a single, precise movement, he drove the Vajra straight into the heart of the wraith.

A piercing light exploded from the contact point. The wraith screamed—a sound so harrowing it seemed to rattle the very bones in my body. The room flashed white for an instant, then returned to a muted glow as the wraith reeled back, writhing in agony.

Instinct kicked in, and I scrambled to retrieve the small mirror from the ground, not because I believed it would do much at this point, but because I felt better holding something. I half-expected the creature to retaliate, but instead, its form buckled and twisted. I saw an opening.

The wraith was thrown off balance, colliding with the ground. My foot, mid-step, caught its mass, sending it tumbling in an almost absurdly physical manner. It wasn't dead yet, but it was vulnerable.

Ethan wasted no time. With a snap of his fingers, a yellow charm appeared in his hand, glowing with the same holy light that had surrounded the Vajra earlier. His lips moved quickly, reciting an incantation that felt older than time itself. "Om Hum Hum, San Ta Na Han..." The words flowed like a river, gaining power as they went.

The charm shot forward, propelled by Ethan's energy, and as it made contact with the wraith, it expanded. No longer just a piece of paper, the charm unfolded like a massive cloak, draping itself over the wraith's form. The creature howled, thrashing beneath the growing weight of the magical seal. The charm seemed to devour its strength, the wraith's desperate flailing growing weaker with each second.

Then Ethan made his final move.

"By fire and flame, let judgment reign. Spirits bound, to dust be chained. Release the heavens, burn with righteous might!"

As the final words left his lips, flames erupted from the charm, dancing like a living entity. Blue and silver flames wrapped around the wraith, consuming it in a matter of seconds. Its final scream was pitiful, a far cry from the terror it had once inspired.

I caught my breath, watching as the malevolent spirit disintegrated into nothing but a wisp of smoke. Relief washed over me. It was finally over.

Or so I thought.

Ethan turned to me, his eyes sharper than before. "There are always two choices—release or destruction," he said calmly. His gaze, however, wasn't focused on me. I followed his line of sight and saw her.

Rose—the third spirit haunting Blackwood Mansion. She stood frozen near the door, her spectral form trembling. She had been watching, maybe hoping for a chance to escape amidst the chaos. Now that Ethan's attention was on her, she had no way out.

For a moment, her ghostly face twisted in grief as she looked toward where the wraith had perished. It was strange, almost human—the sadness in her eyes.

"Let her go," I said impulsively. "She hasn't done anything."

Ethan didn't respond. Instead, he raised his hand, casting another incantation under his breath. The frayed red cord that had been binding Rose snapped back into his grasp. There would be no mercy.

Rose whimpered, backing herself into a corner. She wasn't like the others, that much was clear. The look on her face was more fear than malice. Ethan paused, his brow furrowing in consideration, but the lines of his face remained hard. He had seen too much. This world wasn't one where spirits should be spared simply because they showed vulnerability.

"Either she moves on willingly," he finally spoke, voice steady, "or she faces the same fate."

I looked between the two of them, feeling a pang of sympathy for the sorrowful ghost. But this was the nature of things. Mercy for spirits was rarely an option when their existence meant lingering danger. Ghosts don't often get the luxury of redemption.

"I will move on," Rose whispered, her voice barely audible but full of resignation. She bowed her head, the flicker of her form dimming as Ethan tightened his grip on the red cord.

With another chant, the room began to quiet. The tension lifted as Rose's form dissipated, her sorrowful presence fading into the void. Silence settled around us.

Ethan surveyed the damage, noting the scattered debris and destroyed offerings. He turned to me, his voice calm. "We need to clean this up. And prepare for the next one."

There would always be another.