10 – Shadows of the Past

Shadows of the Past

The town hall basement pulsed with a low hum, the air thick with condensation and dread. Liam gripped the pistol—one shot left—his flashlight beam slicing through the dark as the growl upstairs grew louder, closer. The Eclipse Protocol: Containment Log trembled in his other hand, his dad's photo a shard in his chest. Maya clutched her sketchbook, runes half-drawn, her bandaged palm throbbing. Sofia held her wrench high, eyes darting, her faith a frayed thread. Ethan stood by the radio, crowbar ready, static crackling with that ominous warning: operatives en route. Noah pored over the journal beside Liam's mom, who sat hunched in the chair, whispering apologies no one accepted.

"It's coming," Liam said, voice steady despite the ache in his leg. The sigils on their skin glowed faintly, a dull burn syncing with the growl. "Upstairs—now."

They climbed the stairs, weapons raised, the lobby a cavern of shadows. The broken window gaped, fog seeping in, claw marks scarring the floor. A shape loomed outside—tall, eyeless, the Watcher—its form flickering, less solid than in the cellar. It didn't move, just stared, the lullaby weaving through the silence.

"Why's it waiting?" Sofia hissed, wrench trembling.

"It's weak," Noah said, journal open. "The circle's broken—it's stretched thin."

"Then we hit it," Liam said, aiming the pistol. He fired, the last shot cracking the night, but the bullet passed through, shattering a wall. The Watcher laughed—deep, layered—and dissolved into mist, the sigils flaring hot again. They staggered, pain lancing, but it faded fast.

"It's stalling," Maya said, catching her breath. "Buying time."

"For them," Ethan growled, nodding at the radio in his pocket, still spitting static. "Operatives. We're screwed."

A new sound cut through—tires screeching outside, headlights piercing the fog. Doors slammed, boots hit pavement. Liam peeked—three black SUVs, figures in tactical gear spilling out, rifles glinting. One barked orders, voice clipped: "Secure the perimeter. Subjects inside."

"Protocol," Liam muttered, pulling back. "They're here."

Sofia's eyes widened. "They'll kill us?"

"Or worse," Noah said, pale. "Carter said they clean up messes. We're the mess."

Liam's mom stood, shaky. "They… took the survivor in '98. Locked him away. Your dad—he wouldn't let them."

"Then we don't let them," Liam said, bat in hand now, pistol empty. "Out the back—move!"

They ran, dodging overturned chairs, toward a rear exit. Ethan kicked it open, fog swallowing them as they spilled into an alley. Shouts echoed—"Targets moving!"—and flashlights swept, beams cutting the mist. Liam led, his mom stumbling beside him, the group a tight knot of desperation.

A figure blocked the alley—black gear, rifle up. "Freeze!" he barked, but Liam swung the bat, cracking his knee. The man dropped, groaning, and Maya snatched his radio—"Unit down, south alley!"—before they bolted again.

The woods loomed, a dark promise of cover. They plunged in, branches clawing, fog choking. Gunfire cracked behind, bullets shredding leaves. Liam shoved his mom ahead, pain shooting through his leg, as Sofia's wrench flew, clocking a pursuer's helmet. Ethan bashed another with his crowbar, a grunt cutting the night.

"Keep going!" Liam yelled, breath ragged. The manor's silhouette flickered through the trees—ironic sanctuary. The operatives closed in, radios buzzing, but the woods thickened, slowing them. The group hit a clearing, collapsing against trees, lungs burning.

"They're fast," Ethan panted, wiping blood from a cut brow. "Too fast."

"Trained for this," Noah said, journal clutched. "Protocol's been hunting it—and us—since '98."

Liam's mom gripped his arm, voice frail. "Your dad… he sabotaged them. Broke the containment to save me. They never forgave him."

Liam pulled away, anger flaring. "And you let me walk into this?"

"I didn't know it'd wake!" she cried, tears streaking. "I thought it was buried!"

"Buried doesn't help," Maya snapped, sketching runes by flashlight, her hand shaking. "We're marked—it's still out there."

A rustle—soft, deliberate. They tensed, weapons up, but it wasn't operatives. A creature skittered from the fog—spider-like, Liam's dad's face, eyes glowing. "Son…" it rasped, claws clicking.

Liam froze, bat slipping. "No…"

Sofia lunged, wrench smashing its head, ichor spraying. "It's not him!" she shouted, pulling him back. More shapes moved—Maya's aunt, Sofia's abuela—leering, closing in.

"Run!" Noah yelled, journal flapping. They sprinted, creatures snapping at their heels, the lullaby roaring. The manor loomed closer, doors wide, a trap they couldn't avoid. Liam shoved his mom inside, the group piling in, slamming the doors as claws raked wood.

The foyer was silent, dust swirling, chandelier still. The sigils pulsed, a dull ache, but no Watcher—just its echoes. Liam leaned against the wall, catching his breath, his mom trembling beside him.

"They'll find us," Ethan said, crowbar dented. "Operatives, monsters—pick your poison."

"Then we fight both," Liam said, voice hard, picking up the empty pistol like a club. "No running."

Maya flipped her sketchbook, runes glowing faintly. "I've got something—reversal sigil. Might cut the marks."

"Blood again?" Sofia asked, grim.

"Always," Noah said, flipping to Elias's ritual. "Five anchors, five cuts. Risky."

A thud outside—boots, not claws. Flashlights swept the windows, voices barking: "Breach the manor!" The doors rattled, a battering ram slamming.

"They're in," Ethan growled, bracing the doors with Sofia. "Plan?"

Liam met their eyes—scared, fierce, alive. "Hold them off. Maya, Noah—do it. We're ending this."

The doors buckled, splintering, as Maya sliced her palm again, blood dripping on her sketch. Noah chanted Elias's words, voice shaking, the sigils flaring brighter. A scream tore from outside—not human, cosmic—the Watcher, raging in the fog.

Gunfire erupted, operatives shouting: "Hostiles! Fall back!" The doors burst, black-clad figures storming in, rifles blazing. Liam swung the pistol butt, cracking a helmet, Sofia's wrench flew, Ethan tackled, the room a chaos of fists and steel.

Maya smeared blood on her rune, shouting, "Now!" The sigils burned, white-hot, and the Watcher's scream peaked—then cut off. The marks faded, pain vanishing, but the manor shook, walls cracking.

The operatives froze, radios crackling: "Anomaly spiking… retreat!" They bolted, leaving the group battered, alive, the fog swirling in.

"It worked," Maya gasped, blood pooling. "The anchors—"

"Not over," Noah said, journal trembling. "We cut its reach, but it's still here."

Liam helped his mom up, trust shattered but holding. "Then we keep fighting. Protocol's next."

Outside, engines roared, SUVs peeling out, but the lullaby hummed—faint, eternal….