The air in the Grimsby House felt heavier tonight. There was something about the way the furniture loomed in the room, old, elegant, almost too proper for the mismatched group that had gathered around the table. The mahogany gleamed under the overhead lights, but it was the history of the place that seemed to settle into our bones as we sat there.
The house was alive with movement, but there was a strange stillness in the way everyone listened intently to Pastor Brooks. The man was quiet for a long moment, his fingers interlaced in front of him, the weight of his words building up in the silence.
“You’ve all dealt with horrors beyond anything most people can even imagine,” Pastor Brooks began, his voice low but sure. “But I’m here to ask you to deal with something... something that’s haunting a family I’ve known for years. The Pattersons.”
We all leaned in slightly, some of us instinctively more focused on the man than others. X and J stood off to the side, still a little disconnected
