The Exorcist's Pact

The salt wind whips your coat as you climb the cliff path, the Ashworth estate looming above like a clenched fist. The iron gate groans open before you touch it—no one stands on the other side. Inside, the foyer swallows the afternoon light. Dust motes hang suspended in the gloom, and the air tastes of copper and old roses.

Julian Ashworth waits at the foot of the grand staircase, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his smile precise as a scalpel. "You're late, exorcist. I was beginning to think the house had eaten you."

You don't smile back. Your mentor's silver athame is cold against your palm, the weight of her death still fresh. "Where is she?"

"The east wing." He gestures, and the corridor behind him seems to lengthen, breathing. "She's been screaming all week. I'd appreciate silence by morning."

As he speaks, a woman's voice—low, furious, unmistakably human—whispers from the walls: Ask him about the cliff.