May Devil Take Your Soul?

twelve

A robotic voice crackled through the speaker. “The person you are calling is not answering. Please leave a message after the tone.”

The line went dead.

Taehyung lowered the phone, his hand trembling. In the hall, the only light came from a single lamp, casting long, distorted shadows that bled into the corners. Seokjin was sprawled on the sofa, one arm thrown over his eyes. His head was pounding—a deep, sick throb behind his temples that pulsed with every heartbeat. He could feel each thump in his teeth.

They were both too scared to speak.

When Taehyung had left him alone with Lily,. He’d gone to Taehyung’s room and picked up the Bible from the nightstand, the leather warm and soft under his fingers. The words blurred. He was reading the same verse over and over when he heard it—a violent SLAM from somewhere in the house, like a door ripped off its hinges and thrown against a wall.

His head snapped up. "Tae?" His voice was a dry whisper.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs. Not Taehyung’s quiet tread. These were slow, deliberate, and wrong—a dragging shuffle followed by a weighty thump, like something hauling a dead limb.

Seokjin stood, the Bible falling to the floor. "Lily?"

She appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

Her head was tilted at an unnatural angle, almost touching her shoulder. Her hands were slapping her own face—not gentle pats, but hard, open-palmed strikes that left red welts. Smack. Smack. Smack. Her breathing was a deep, guttural growl that rattled in her chest, too low, too animal. Her eyes were rolled back, showing only two thin crescents of white.

Seokjin stumbled toward her, reaching out a shaking hand. "Lily, stop—"

Her head snapped toward him. The movement was too fast, a jerking, inhuman twist. Her arm shot out and her palm connected with his chest.

It wasn't a push. It was an impact.

He felt the force of ten men, a concentrated blast of invisible power that lifted him off his feet. He flew backwards, his spine slamming into the sharp corner of the console table before he hit the floor. The world exploded into white stars, then dissolved into black. The last thing he heard was that growling breath, getting closer.

Now, he was back. His back screamed with pain and temple have bruise. Taehyung was kneeling beside him, shaking him awake, his face pale with terror.

They sat in the living room, the silence between them thick and suffocating. Seokjin’s phone buzzed again. And again. His manager. His producer. His director. The screen lit up with a dozen missed calls. He was a public figure, every second of his life scheduled, and he had carved out this time for Lily’s birthday. This was happening instead.

He looked at Taehyung. He couldn't leave him. Not now. Not when Lily's life was hanging by a thread.

"he's not home yet," Taehyung said, his voice a hoarse rasp, like he'd been screaming. His eyes were swollen, red-rimmed, sunk deep in bruised sockets. He had changed his shirt—the other one was dirty—but his hair was a wild mess, sticking up in every direction. He hadn't slept since yesterday. His head felt like it was splitting open, his eyelids weighted with lead, but fear was a current of electricity running through him, jolting him awake every time he started to drift.

"What do we do?" Seokjin asked.

"We wait." Taehyung leaned his head back against the sofa, squeezing his eyes shut. "If he doesn't call back in half an hour, I go there."

For a moment, there was silence. Then Taehyung flinched. His whole body seized, a violent, full-body jerk. His eyes flew open, wide and staring at something only he could see. Sweat beaded and rolled down his forehead.

"Taehyung? What happened?"

Taehyung's breath hitched. He wasn't in the living room anymore. He was back in that mansion, years ago. The memory slammed into him with the force of a physical blow.

That thing.

It had been face to face with him. He could see it now, in perfect, horrifying detail. Its mouth wasn't just open—it was unhinged, a gaping, wet pit in its face. The teeth were long, like needles, jagged and yellowed, with dark ribbons of human flesh caught between them. And the eyes. They weren't eyes anymore, just pits of endless black that pulled at him, trying to suck the soul right out of his body. The smell of it—rotting meat and wet earth—filled his nose.

He gasped, choking on air, and was back in the hall. His hand flew to his chest, feeling his own frantic heartbeat.

"I can't wait." His voice was a raw, desperate scrape. He shot up from the sofa, grabbing his keys. "I'm going to Father Martin. He'll know what to do. He knows everything. Come on."

He grabbed Seokjin's arm, pulling him up. He couldn't leave him here alone. Not after seeing that face again. Not tonight.

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