Harrison woke face down in the dirt, his cheek pressed to cold earth.
The fog was gone.
But only because night had fallen.
The chapel loomed behind him like a crooked tooth jutting from the earth. Its windows were black voids, its door sealed tight.
Every part of his body ached. His ribs throbbed like they'd been kicked. His head felt packed with static.
The first thing he noticed was his revolver. Gone.
His suitcase too.
The second thing he noticed was the burning.
When he touched his chest, he felt something carved into his skin beneath the shirt.
Harrison yanked the buttons open, breath catching.
Three jagged sigils glimmered faintly against his ribs, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
The lines weren't just scars—they were alive, golden light flickering through them like fireflies caught under glass.
You are his, whispered a voice that wasn't his own.
Harrison staggered back and nearly retched. His legs gave out and he sat hard in the mud.
It took three tries before he forced himself upright.
⸻
The streets of Arkham were empty.
Too empty.
Harrison's trench coat clung to him, damp with sweat and fog. Each step down the cobblestones felt heavier than the last, as though the town itself wanted to pin him in place.
He walked for blocks without seeing a single living soul.
No wind. No rats. No sound of his shoes on the stones.
It was as if Arkham were holding its breath.
He turned a corner and stopped cold.
A stray cat perched on a fencepost ahead, its black fur bristling.
It stared straight at him with eyes too large, too round, and burning faintly red.
"Prophet," it hissed in a child's voice. "We've been waiting for you."
Harrison's stomach lurched. He took a step back.
The cat's jaw cracked open wider than it should have, splitting from chin to chest. Inside, no tongue or teeth—just a swirling darkness that sucked in the pale light around it.
Then it leapt from the fence, vanishing before it hit the ground.
⸻
The Arkham Boarding House was just as he'd left it—or so it seemed.
The landlady was gone.
The clock in the lobby had stopped at 3:03.
On the counter lay his room key—and a folded scrap of paper with his name written in spidery ink.
If you want to live, meet me at the lighthouse. Midnight.
No signature.
⸻
Harrison's room smelled of mildew and wet plaster. He sat on the lumpy mattress, staring at the cracked mirror across from him.
The blue eyes staring back weren't his.
They glimmered faintly gold.
He's already inside you, whispered the voice again.
The air turned colder.
The mirror's surface rippled.
And then a face leaned out—smooth, faceless, its surface rippling like tar.
"Prophet," it said in a thousand voices at once. "You've finally come home."
Harrison lurched forward, sending the chair skidding across the floor. He grabbed the ashtray and hurled it.
The mirror shattered.
But in every broken shard, the face still stared.
⸻
The lighthouse stood on the cliff's edge, its beam slicing the night like a blade.
Harrison kept one hand on his hip, where his revolver should have been.
With every step closer, his sixth sense flared hotter.
A low hum vibrated in his skull, almost musical—an endless chord that tightened his chest.
The fog thickened as he climbed the path, curling around his legs like living fingers.
⸻
Inside, the spiral stairs wound upward in a tight coil.
His boots scraped against the iron steps, the sound swallowed before it could echo.
He reached the lantern room and froze.
A figure stood silhouetted against the revolving light.
Tall. Cloaked. Wide-brimmed hat pulled low.
"Mr. Love," the figure said softly, voice sharp as glass.
"Who the hell are you?" Harrison growled.
"A friend. One of the last you'll find in this cursed place."
The figure pushed back the hat slightly. A woman's face. Sharp features. Storm-gray eyes.
"Call me Evelyn."
"I didn't ask for help."
"You don't have a choice anymore."
⸻
Evelyn moved like a predator—controlled, deliberate. She knelt on the wooden floor and unrolled a yellowed map marked with strange symbols.
"The girl isn't missing," she said. "She's been taken—marked for a ritual. The same one they tried on you years ago."
Harrison stiffened. "What do you know about that?"
"Everything. The Black Pharaoh doesn't just want the girl. He wants you. You're his vessel, Harrison. You've always been."
"That's insane."
"Is it? Do you even remember how you survived Arkham as a boy?"
Harrison's stomach twisted.
Images flickered in his mind—blood, chanting figures, alien stars above.
And a boy's screaming face, wide-eyed as the darkness swallowed him whole.
Ethan.
His best friend.
Gone.
⸻
"They didn't finish the ritual back then," Evelyn said. "But now they will. Unless we stop them."
Harrison rubbed his temples. "Why me?"
"Because you're different. You're touched. The Pharaoh likes to wear human faces, but he likes yours best."
"Why are you helping me?"
"Because if he takes you, it's over. Arkham, Boston… the whole world. He won't stop with you."
⸻
Evelyn tossed him a dagger. Its blade was etched with curling runes that seemed to writhe in the lantern light.
"Carve the sigils off your skin. Tonight. Or he'll come through you before dawn."
Harrison stared at the blade.
"And if I don't?"
Evelyn's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Then you won't be you anymore."
⸻
From far below, in the fog-wrapped streets, a voice rose in a singsong whisper:
"Prophet… prophet… prophet…"
Harrison gripped the knife tighter.
For the first time in years, he felt afraid.
Truly afraid.
⸻
End of Chapter 4