BELVEDERE, OHIO
Former Gumb Property - 4:23 AM
November 7th
Dawn was still an hour away when the helicopter touched down in a field three miles outside Belvedere. The kind of rural darkness that swallowed sound and light, where civilization felt like a distant memory.
Two FBI vehicles waited—local field office, already briefed, already skeptical. Rodriguez had called ahead, pulled strings, made promises he might not be able to keep.
Zale stepped out first, duffel bag in hand, and immediately felt it.
Wrong.
Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just a subtle wrongness in the air, like reality here had been bent slightly out of true and never quite snapped back.
The book manifested briefly against his chest, humming with recognition.
"Here."
"I know," Zale murmured, dismissing it.
Rodriguez and Chen climbed out behind him. The senior agent looked like he hadn't slept in days—suit rumpled, tie loosened, professional veneer cracking under exhaustion.
A local agent approached—fifties, weathered face, the kind of cop who'd seen rural Ohio's worst.
"Special Agent Rodriguez? I'm Agent Hartley, Cleveland field office." He shook hands, then glanced at Zale with barely concealed skepticism. "This is your consultant?"
"Mr. Akula," Rodriguez said, voice tight. "He's cleared for access."
Hartley pulled out a tablet, brought up satellite imagery. "The Gumb property has been abandoned since demolition in '95. Foundation and overgrowth. We've had patrol cars swing by twice a night since the Senator made her request. Nothing. No activity."
"You're looking for the wrong things," Zale said quietly, studying the image. "Show me the original basement location."
Hartley zoomed in. Concrete foundation, partially collapsed, surrounded by thirty years of vegetation.
"Basement was filled during demolition. Concrete and rebar. Six feet deep."
"What's below the fill?"
Hartley frowned. "Original basement structure, probably collapsed. Why?"
"Because that's where she is."
Silence.
"You're saying Emma Martin is in a basement that was filled with concrete thirty years ago?" Rodriguez asked carefully.
"I'm saying something created a space that doesn't care about concrete." Zale pulled Emma's jacket from his duffel, held it against his chest. "And I'm going to prove it."
He closed his eyes.
Activated Relentless Pursuit.
***
The power unfurled from somewhere deep in his chest—Michael Myers' gift, the unstoppable hunter's instinct that had let The Shape track victims for decades.
The connection snapped into place immediately.
West. Close. Very close.
And
weak. Barely a flicker. Like a candle flame in a hurricane, guttering but not quite extinguished.
Emma was dying.
But she was here.
Zale opened his eyes. "Two hundred yards. Straight ahead."
"How can you possibly—" Hartley started.
"I just can." Zale pulled the Glock, checked the chamber. Consecrated rounds. "Agent Rodriguez, establish a perimeter. Nothing gets in or out."
"We're not letting you go in alone," Rodriguez said.
"Yes, you are." Zale's voice was calm but absolute. "If this entity perceives armed agents approaching, it'll kill Emma immediately. I go in quiet. I locate her. Then I signal."
"And if it perceives you as a threat?"
Zale's lips curved slightly. "Then it tries to kill me, and we find out if wraiths bleed."
He started walking before Rodriguez could argue.
***
The forest was wrong.
Zale had spent two months in Universe-771 learning to read spiritual contamination, and this forest was saturated.
The trees grew twisted, bark blackened in patterns that weren't quite rot. The underbrush was too thick, too tangled, like the vegetation itself was trying to keep people out.
And it was quiet.
No birds. No insects. No small animals.
Just silence pressing against his eardrums like physical weight.
Behind him, he heard Rodriguez coordinating with Hartley, voices fading as he moved deeper into the trees. Good. They needed to stay back. Needed to stay away from what was about to happen.
Zale activated True Sight.
The forest lit up like a nightmare painted in cold fire.
Spectral traces everywhere. Not residue. Not fading. Active. Living darkness woven through the trees like a web, pulsing with malevolent intelligence that had festered here for thirty years.
And at the center, maybe fifty yards ahead—
A wound in reality.
Circular. Deliberate. Roughly ten feet in diameter, suspended three feet above the ruined foundation like a tear in the fabric of space itself.
To normal eyes, it would be invisible. Just empty air above broken concrete.
But through True Sight, Zale could see it clearly—a doorway between the physical world and somewhere else. Somewhere that existed in the spaces between, held open by obsession so strong it had survived death.
The pit.
Relentless Pursuit pulled him forward. Emma was on the other side. Close now. So close.
He deactivated TrueSight and kept walking.
***
THE FOUNDATION
The Gumb house foundation emerged from the forest like a broken tooth—concrete slabs cracked and tilted, rebar exposed and rusted, vegetation consuming everything.
Rodriguez's voice crackled through the radio earpiece Zale had been given. "We've got eyes on you. Foundation is clear. No movement."
"Copy," Zale said quietly.
He approached carefully, every sense screaming warnings. The RelentlessPursuit connection thrummed against his consciousness—Emma was here, just beyond the veil.
Thirty feet from the foundation, he stopped.
Activated TrueSight again.
The dimensional tear hung in the air before him, edges writhing like living things, darkness bleeding out into physical reality.
And standing at the threshold, as if waiting—
It.
Buffalo Bill's wraith.
Not fully manifested. Not yet. Just a presence. A shape that suggested human form but was fundamentally wrong in ways that made Zale's enhanced senses recoil.
It hadn't noticed him. Not yet.
Good.
Zale pulled the Firefighter's Axe from the book. It materialized in his grip, humming with barely contained energy, blade shimmering with spectral heat.
He took a breath.
Stepped forward.
And walked through the tear.
***
Reality lurched.
That was the only word for it. The world tilted sideways, gravity pulling in directions that shouldn't exist, and for one disorienting moment Zale felt like he was falling through space that had no up or down.
Then his boots hit solid ground and the world stabilized.
He was standing in a basement that shouldn't exist.
Concrete walls. Low ceiling. Single bare bulb hanging from a chain, casting sickly yellow light. And in the center of the floor—
The pit.
Exactly as described in the original case files. Circular. Maybe ten feet in diameter. Too deep to see the bottom from this angle.
And standing between Zale and the pit—
Him.
Buffalo Bill's wraith turned slowly, and Zale's jaw tightened.
It wore human skin like a suit—dozens of pieces stitched together in grotesque parody of femininity. But the stitches were moving, writhing like worms burrowing through flesh. Where pieces didn't quite match, Zale could see through to the voidbeneath—not darkness, not shadow, but absence. Like looking into a hole in reality where something fundamental had been torn away.
The face was worst of all.
Too pale. Features stretched and distorted. Multiple mouths stitched across the throat and chest, all moving independently, all forming words that came out as one layered voice.
"You," the wraith hissed. Not Buffalo Bill's voice from the recordings. Something worse. Dozens of voices screaming in unison. "You shouldn't be here. This is MINE. My place. My work. MINE."
It attacked.
No warning. No posturing.
The wraith lunged, moving in stop-motion—stuttering between positions like corrupted video footage. One moment at the pit's edge. Next moment right in front of Zale, clawed hands reaching for his throat.
Zale twisted, brought the axe up in a diagonal slash.
The blade caught the wraith's shoulder, spectral fire exploding outward.
The wraith shrieked—dozens of voices screaming in pain and rage—and stumbled back, smoking wound visible where the axe had carved through stitched skin and spectral form beneath.
It recovered instantly.
Came again, faster this time, claws extended into something that was too long, too many joints, fingers splitting into sub-fingers that spread like a spider's legs.
Zale blocked with the axe handle, was driven backward by the sheer force of the blow.
Strong. Stronger than the poltergeist. Stronger than the Threshold Walker. This was an Alpha-class threat that had spent three years rebuilding itself, growing stronger with each kill.
The wraith pressed the attack, claws raking toward Zale's face.
He ducked, rolled, came up swinging—
—and the wraith split apart.
Its torso separated from its legs, upper body floating independently, stitched skin suit trailing like grotesque ribbons. The mouths across its chest opened simultaneously, and from them poured darkness—not shadow, not smoke, but solid nothing that burned where it touched.
Zale raised his left arm instinctively.
The darkness caught him across the ribs.
Pain.
Not heat. Not cold. Just wrong. Like someone had reached inside his chest and squeezed his organs with frozen hands.
He stumbled, hit the wall hard, blood soaking through his shirt where claws had raked bone.
The Hercules Method kicked in immediately—flesh knitting, bones grinding back into alignment, skin crawling as it regenerated.
Not fast. Not instant. But enough.
The wraith reformed, all pieces flowing back together, and laughed.
That sound—layered voices screaming with laughter that held no joy, only madness—echoed through the impossible space.
"You bleed," it said, tilting its head at an angle that suggested broken vertebrae. "You hurt. You DIE. Just like all the others."
Zale looked down at the wound. Watched his flesh sealing itself. Felt blood dripping down his side.
Then looked back up at the wraith.
And smiled.
Not a grimace. Not a wince.
A genuine, darkly amused, delighted smile.
"You're the first thing to injure me since I came to this world," Zale said quietly, voice carrying that lazy, dangerous edge. "Thank you for reminding me I'm not invincible."
He raised the axe, still smiling.
"Now please accept my gratitude."
The expression on his face promised anything but gratitude. It was the face of a predator that had just found rare prey. Something that could actually fight back.
The wraith hesitated. Just for a moment.
That was enough.
Zale activated Flame Ward.
Fire erupted around him in a perfect circle—hostile, hungry, burning with heat that had nothing to do with combustion and everything to do with spiritual annihilation.
The wraith shrieked, recoiled, stitched skin smoking where the flames licked close.
Zale stepped forward. The flames moved with him, a barrier that burned anything spectral that got too close.
The wraith tried to circle, looking for an opening.
Found none.
Attacked anyway, desperation overriding caution.
Zale moved.
Not stepped. Not walked.
Ember Step.
Reality folded. He teleported through his own flames, appearing directly behind the wraith, axe already mid-swing.
The blade caught the wraith across the back, cleaving through stitched skin and spectral infrastructure beneath.
The wraith's scream shattered the single light bulb. Darkness flooded the space.
But Zale didn't need light.
He had the flames.
He teleported again—EmberStep—appearing to the wraith's left. Slashed. Teleported. Right side. Slashed. Above. Below. Everywhere, using the fire as anchor points, moving faster than the wraith could track.
Each strike carved deeper. Each hit burned hotter.
The wraith was coming apart.
Pieces of the suit fell away, dissolving into smoke and screaming. The spectral form beneath flickered, destabilized, barely holding cohesion.
It tried to flee toward the pit.
Zale threw the axe.
The blade spun through air trailing fire, moving with supernatural accuracy.
It caught the wraith center mass, pinning it to the far wall above the pit.
The wraith hung there, impaled, all its mouths opening in simultaneous agony.
Zale walked forward slowly, flames still burning around him, face painted in orange and red light.
The wraith thrashed, clawed at the axe, tried desperately to pull itself free.
"No," it whispered, voice breaking. "No no no—I was so close—I need the last skin—I need PERFECTION—I NEED HER!"
It looked down at the pit where Emma lay dying.
"I AM SO CLOSE TO BECOMING BEAUTIFUL!"
"You're done," Zale said quietly.
He placed his hand on the wraith's chest. Cut his palm with a utility knife. Let blood drip onto the spectral flesh.
"No—please—I just wanted to be—"
The book manifested.
Fell open.
And the chains erupted.
They burst from the pages like striking serpents—crimson light and writhing shadow, each link inscribed with runes that burned with ancient hunger.
The wraith screamed.
All its mouths. All its stolen voices. Every victim it had taken, every life it had consumed, every soul it had violated—all of them screaming at once.
The chains wrapped around spectral flesh, burrowing deep, hooks catching the wraith's essence and pulling.
"NO! NOT AGAIN! NOT—"
The wraith was torn from the wall, torn from the stitched-skin suit, torn from the physical anchor it had spent three years building.
Dragged toward the book's open pages.
It fought. God, it fought. Clawed at the ground, at the walls, at reality itself, trying to find anything to hold onto.
Found nothing.
The chains retracted with terrible speed, hauling the writhing mass of screaming darkness toward the parchment.
For one moment, the wraith expanded—trying to grow large enough that the book couldn't contain it, form swelling to fill the entire basement.
"Hungry," the book whispered.
And ate.
The wraith was pulled into the pages like water down a drain, like smoke into a vacuum, like a soul being devoured by something infinitely more ancient and infinitely more patient.
One final scream—layered, broken, terminated—
Then silence.
The book snapped shut with a sound like breaking bones.
The stitched-skin suit collapsed into ash.
And Buffalo Bill—the man, the monster, the wraith that had refused to die—was gone.
Permanently.
Finally.
Archived.
The book tried to open, tried to show Zale the new entry.
He closed it firmly. "Not now."
Dismissed it.
The dimensional space shuddered.
Zale's head snapped up.
The walls were cracking.
Not physically. Spiritually. The tears spreading like fractures in glass, reality bleeding through the gaps.
The wraith had been the anchor. The thing holding this pocket dimension stable.
Without him—
Collapse.
Zale ran for the pit.
Behind him, the basement began to unravel, pieces of it dissolving into nothing, the dimensional pocket eating itself as the spiritual architecture failed.
He had maybe three minutes before this entire space ceased to exist.
And Emma was at the bottom.
Zale jumped.
[END CHAPTER 6]