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| Whispers from the Mirror |
The Harrington estate stood eerily still under the moonlight, the soft glow of flickering lights giving it an almost spectral air.
In his study, Jonathan Harrington sat alone, his desk cluttered with papers—bank statements, legal notices, and the appraisal report that had shaken him to his core.
The words stared back at him like a curse, unraveling the legacy he had worked so hard to build. His hand trembled as he traced the appraisal with his fingers, his chest tightening with shame.
The fire in the hearth suddenly dimmed, a chill sweeping through the room. Jonathan stiffened, his eyes darting toward the shadows in the corner.
“Who’s there?” he called, his voice shaking.
The shadows coalesced, forming into a dark, cloaked figure. Its presence sucked the warmth from the air, its gnarled fingers extending as it stepped closer.
Jonathan stumbled back, clutching his chest as pain rushed through him. “No... please...”
The figure’s twisted face loomed closer, its eyes gleaming with malicious delight.
Jonathan’s vision blurred as he fell to his knees, gasping for breath. The last thing he heard was the creature’s low, guttural laugh as darkness consumed him.
Later that night, Brian sat in his living room sipping tea, the soft light of a desk lamp casting long shadows across the walls. He stared at the museum plans in front of him, the words blurring as his thoughts drifted.
The air grew lighter, carrying with it a faint warmth, as though the room itself had begun to glow. The scent of lilies wafted faintly, subtle yet unmistakable.
“Obadiah,” a familiar voice called.
Brian looked up as Gabriel and Michael stepped through the far wall, their forms radiant with divine energy.
“Good to see you, my friend,” Gabriel said warmly.
Brian set down his tea, smiling faintly despite himself. He strolled around the desk. “If you’re here, it must mean trouble.”
Michael’s stern expression softened—barely. “Trouble is an understatement.”
Gabriel stepped forward. “Jonathan Harrington is dead. A demon took his soul, and his wife will soon seek your help.”
Brian’s jaw tightened. “Antioch?”
Gabriel nodded gravely. “One of his underlings.”
Michael crossed his arms. “The enemy is moving fast, and Raguel’s doubts about you remain. But Heaven believes in your purpose.”
Brian sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Raguel never trusted me. And you’re asking me to deal with Antioch again?”
“You’re the only one who can,” Gabriel said. “You have all the help you’ll ever need.”
The faint hum of celestial energy filled the room as a golden staircase materialized. Gabriel placed a hand on Brian’s shoulder.
“Jonathan’s soul isn’t the only one at stake. Stay vigilant, Obadiah.”
The angels ascended the staircase, their glowing forms dissolving into the light. Moments later, the staircase faded, leaving Brian alone in the quiet room.
For a long moment, he sat in the silence, the warmth lingering in the air. Finally, he murmured, “Antioch again. This is far from over.”
___
The Harrington estate was alive with music and laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses echoing through the grand ballroom. Evelyn Harrington drifted through the crowd, her polite smile a thin veil over the heavy ache in her chest. Tonight’s fundraiser, planned months ago by her late husband Jonathan, was in full swing. Yet the weight of his absence dulled everything around her.
Everywhere she turned, whispers followed.
“Jonathan would have loved this,” one guest murmured.
“A shame about the scandal,” said another.
Her husband’s death, paired with the revelation that his prized artifact—the Psalms scroll—might be a forgery, had tarnished his reputation and left her drowning in debts. Their legacy was unraveling, and the pitying glances of the guests only deepened her humiliation.
The walls of the ballroom seemed to close in around her. She excused herself, slipping through a side door into the quiet sanctuary of the powder room.
Evelyn gripped the edge of the sink, staring at her reflection. Her pale face, lined with grief and exhaustion, stared back.
“Get it together,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
As she reached into her purse for a compact, the lights above the mirror flickered.
She froze, her breath hitching. The muffled music and chatter from the ballroom faded into an eerie silence. The air felt charged, as if a storm was building. She turned toward the mirror, watching in horror as the glass began to fog over—not with heat but with something unseen.
Letters appeared, traced by an invisible hand.
BRIAN
Her heart pounded. She stumbled back, her purse falling to the floor.
“Jonathan?” she whispered, barely able to force out the word.
The writing continued, slow and deliberate, until another word emerged beneath the name.
ARKLOW
Evelyn pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. The message was clear: Jonathan was reaching out to her from beyond, urging her to find someone named Brian.
The lights flickered once more, and the letters vanished as if they’d never been there. But Evelyn knew what she had seen.
Her husband’s voice whispered faintly in her mind: “Find him, Evelyn. Brian. Arklow.”
___
The halls of the Arklow Bible Museum were quiet as the last visitors departed for the day. Obadiah—stood in the Psalms exhibit, his hands clasped behind his back. The warm glow of the lights bathed the artifacts in a golden hue, but an uneasy tension lingered in the air.
Gabriel and Michael’s visit weighed heavily on him. Their warning about Jonathan Harrington’s death—and the prophecy that Evelyn would seek him out—had left him restless.
He gazed at the ancient manuscript in the display case, the golden light casting shadows over its worn surface. The Book of the Law, uncovered in Josiah's time, a reminder of a king who had reignited faith in a people who had nearly forgotten it. Jonathan Harrington, taken by a demon, he thought grimly. Antioch again. How far has his reach spread this time?
His reflection rippled faintly in the glass, a momentary distortion as if the weight of the past had brushed against the present. This scroll had been hidden for generations before its rediscovery transformed a kingdom. Now, another scroll, Jonathan’s scroll, had become the center of a mission to restore a family’s shattered legacy.
Obadiah straightened, the echoes of purpose stirring within him. The work of the faithful, past and present, carried on.
“Brian,” called Cole, breaking the silence. His hurried footsteps echoed as he approached, clipboard in hand.
Obadiah turned, his focus shifting from the scroll to his colleague.
“Mrs. Harrington is here,” Cole said, his tone low. “She asked for you specifically. She’s waiting in the lobby.”
Obadiah nodded, his thoughts racing. So it begins, he thought to himself.
Making his way to the lobby, Obadiah spotted Evelyn near a glass display case. She was a petite woman in her sixties, her silver hair neatly pinned back, but her eyes betrayed the turmoil she carried.
“Mrs. Harrington,” Obadiah greeted, his voice calm and soothing. “How can I help?”
Evelyn turned toward him, clutching her purse tightly. “Mr. Sessions... I—” She faltered, then took a deep breath. “My husband sent me to you.”
The Harrington estate stood eerily still under the moonlight, the soft glow of flickering lights giving it an almost spectral air.
In his study, Jonathan Harrington sat alone, his desk cluttered with papers—bank statements, legal notices, and the appraisal report that had shaken him to his core.
The words stared back at him like a curse, unraveling the legacy he had worked so hard to build. His hand trembled as he traced the appraisal with his fingers, his chest tightening with shame.
The fire in the hearth suddenly dimmed, a chill sweeping through the room. Jonathan stiffened, his eyes darting toward the shadows in the corner.
“Who’s there?” he called, his voice shaking.
The shadows coalesced, forming into a dark, cloaked figure. Its presence sucked the warmth from the air, its gnarled fingers extending as it stepped closer.
Jonathan stumbled back, clutching his chest as pain rushed through him. “No... please...”
The figure’s twisted face loomed closer, its eyes gleaming with malicious delight.
Jonathan’s vision blurred as he fell to his knees, gasping for breath. The last thing he heard was the creature’s low, guttural laugh as darkness consumed him.
Later that night, Brian sat in his living room sipping tea, the soft light of a desk lamp casting long shadows across the walls. He stared at the museum plans in front of him, the words blurring as his thoughts drifted.
The air grew lighter, carrying with it a faint warmth, as though the room itself had begun to glow. The scent of lilies wafted faintly, subtle yet unmistakable.
“Obadiah,” a familiar voice called.
Brian looked up as Gabriel and Michael stepped through the far wall, their forms radiant with divine energy.
“Good to see you, my friend,” Gabriel said warmly.
Brian set down his tea, smiling faintly despite himself. He strolled around the desk. “If you’re here, it must mean trouble.”
Michael’s stern expression softened—barely. “Trouble is an understatement.”
Gabriel stepped forward. “Jonathan Harrington is dead. A demon took his soul, and his wife will soon seek your help.”
Brian’s jaw tightened. “Antioch?”
Gabriel nodded gravely. “One of his underlings.”
Michael crossed his arms. “The enemy is moving fast, and Raguel’s doubts about you remain. But Heaven believes in your purpose.”
Brian sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Raguel never trusted me. And you’re asking me to deal with Antioch again?”
“You’re the only one who can,” Gabriel said. “You have all the help you’ll ever need.”
The faint hum of celestial energy filled the room as a golden staircase materialized. Gabriel placed a hand on Brian’s shoulder.
“Jonathan’s soul isn’t the only one at stake. Stay vigilant, Obadiah.”
The angels ascended the staircase, their glowing forms dissolving into the light. Moments later, the staircase faded, leaving Brian alone in the quiet room.
For a long moment, he sat in the silence, the warmth lingering in the air. Finally, he murmured, “Antioch again. This is far from over.”
___
The Harrington estate was alive with music and laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses echoing through the grand ballroom. Evelyn Harrington drifted through the crowd, her polite smile a thin veil over the heavy ache in her chest. Tonight’s fundraiser, planned months ago by her late husband Jonathan, was in full swing. Yet the weight of his absence dulled everything around her.
Everywhere she turned, whispers followed.
“Jonathan would have loved this,” one guest murmured.
“A shame about the scandal,” said another.
Her husband’s death, paired with the revelation that his prized artifact—the Psalms scroll—might be a forgery, had tarnished his reputation and left her drowning in debts. Their legacy was unraveling, and the pitying glances of the guests only deepened her humiliation.
The walls of the ballroom seemed to close in around her. She excused herself, slipping through a side door into the quiet sanctuary of the powder room.
Evelyn gripped the edge of the sink, staring at her reflection. Her pale face, lined with grief and exhaustion, stared back.
“Get it together,” she whispered, her voice cracking.
As she reached into her purse for a compact, the lights above the mirror flickered.
She froze, her breath hitching. The muffled music and chatter from the ballroom faded into an eerie silence. The air felt charged, as if a storm was building. She turned toward the mirror, watching in horror as the glass began to fog over—not with heat but with something unseen.
Letters appeared, traced by an invisible hand.
BRIAN
Her heart pounded. She stumbled back, her purse falling to the floor.
“Jonathan?” she whispered, barely able to force out the word.
The writing continued, slow and deliberate, until another word emerged beneath the name.
ARKLOW
Evelyn pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. The message was clear: Jonathan was reaching out to her from beyond, urging her to find someone named Brian.
The lights flickered once more, and the letters vanished as if they’d never been there. But Evelyn knew what she had seen.
Her husband’s voice whispered faintly in her mind: “Find him, Evelyn. Brian. Arklow.”
___
The halls of the Arklow Bible Museum were quiet as the last visitors departed for the day. Obadiah—stood in the Psalms exhibit, his hands clasped behind his back. The warm glow of the lights bathed the artifacts in a golden hue, but an uneasy tension lingered in the air.
Gabriel and Michael’s visit weighed heavily on him. Their warning about Jonathan Harrington’s death—and the prophecy that Evelyn would seek him out—had left him restless.
He gazed at the ancient manuscript in the display case, the golden light casting shadows over its worn surface. The Book of the Law, uncovered in Josiah's time, a reminder of a king who had reignited faith in a people who had nearly forgotten it. Jonathan Harrington, taken by a demon, he thought grimly. Antioch again. How far has his reach spread this time?
His reflection rippled faintly in the glass, a momentary distortion as if the weight of the past had brushed against the present. This scroll had been hidden for generations before its rediscovery transformed a kingdom. Now, another scroll, Jonathan’s scroll, had become the center of a mission to restore a family’s shattered legacy.
Obadiah straightened, the echoes of purpose stirring within him. The work of the faithful, past and present, carried on.
“Brian,” called Cole, breaking the silence. His hurried footsteps echoed as he approached, clipboard in hand.
Obadiah turned, his focus shifting from the scroll to his colleague.
“Mrs. Harrington is here,” Cole said, his tone low. “She asked for you specifically. She’s waiting in the lobby.”
Obadiah nodded, his thoughts racing. So it begins, he thought to himself.
Making his way to the lobby, Obadiah spotted Evelyn near a glass display case. She was a petite woman in her sixties, her silver hair neatly pinned back, but her eyes betrayed the turmoil she carried.
“Mrs. Harrington,” Obadiah greeted, his voice calm and soothing. “How can I help?”
Evelyn turned toward him, clutching her purse tightly. “Mr. Sessions... I—” She faltered, then took a deep breath. “My husband sent me to you.”
Obadiah tilted his head slightly. “Sent you to me?”
Tears welled in her eyes. “He’s gone, but... he’s not gone. At the fundraiser, he wrote your name on the mirror. He whispered: ‘Find him, Evelyn. Brian. Arklow.’ Why would he send me to you?”
Obadiah gestured toward a nearby bench. “Let’s sit. Tell me everything.”
But before she moved, the air shifted. Evelyn stiffened. Obadiah glanced toward the corner.
A ghostly silhouette hovered — faint, flickering.
Jonathan.
Obadiah met the spirit’s eyes.
And understood.
TO BE CONTINUED…
A widow haunted by grief. A relic thought lost. And the revelation that sometimes, the truest legacies are the ones forged in truth, not reputation.
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