The car rolled to a stop in front of a heavy iron gate.
Soren stepped out. A tall brick wall surrounded the old Southern plantation, thick trees pressing in on every side. The air felt cool but heavy, like the whole place had been cut off from the rest of the world for decades. Beyond the gate sat a weathered antebellum house, the kind that looked like it had seen too many secrets.
He pressed the buzzer. Nothing. No voice on the intercom, no footsteps. A circle of red brick dust ringed the gate and ran along the base of the wall — voodoo wards meant to keep out anything nasty.
Soren didn't wait. He vaulted the wall and landed softly on the grass inside.
A red Beetle sat in the driveway. A young woman in a thin camisole and slippers came hurrying from the house, probably rushing to answer the bell she'd finally heard.
She froze when she saw him.
"Who the hell are you?"
Soren didn't answer. The deer-antler blade flashed out in a clean arc, stopping a hair's breadth from her throat. A thin line of blood welled up on her skin.
Movement behind her made him pause.
An old woman with a deeply lined face pushed open the screen door and stepped onto the porch. Mrs. Violet. The real target.
The young woman — Caroline — was just the fresh body they'd picked for the next soul swap.
"Fuck! What's wrong with you?!" Caroline shouted, jerking back.
Soren vanished.
She spun around, ready to scream for the old woman to call the police — and the words died in her throat.
Mrs. Violet's head was gone. Blood sprayed in a high, arterial arc across the ceiling and rained back down. The body stood for one ridiculous second before it toppled.
Soren stood beside the corpse, silver hair catching the light, the blade clean in his hand.
Caroline's legs almost gave out.
She bolted for her car.
Soren sighed and appeared in front of her, catching her by the collar and lifting her off her feet like she weighed nothing.
"Help—!"
"Shut up," he said, voice flat. "One more scream and I'll make sure you never make another sound in your life."
She choked on the rest of it, tears cutting through her makeup.
"I ask. You answer. Do it right and you walk away."
She nodded fast.
Soren set her down. "You were hired to take care of a stroke patient, right? Old guy in a wheelchair?"
Another quick nod.
"And there's a lawyer involved."
She nodded again.
Good. The pieces matched.
"Go call him. Tell him to get over here."
Caroline glanced at the headless body and stayed frozen.
Soren's eyes narrowed. "Once he shows up, you're free to go. Or you can die for him. Your choice."
She fumbled for her phone with shaking hands.
While she made the call, Soren walked into the house. The second floor smelled like old medicine and dying people. One door stood half-open. Inside, a paralyzed old man lay on the bed, eyes wide with silent pleading.
Soren ignored him. That body belonged to the lawyer now.
He headed for the attic.
In America, attics were basically the last stall in a public bathroom — if something nasty wasn't hiding up there, it felt like wasted potential.
He pushed the door open. Animal bones, strange bundles, half-finished voodoo workings. A stack of old vinyl records sat in a box. He swept everything into the Silent Hill domain. Patty could practice on the materials later.
Nothing useful.
He took Caroline downstairs and found the basement. The door was chained shut. She started to offer the universal key the old woman had given her, but Soren simply kicked the door off its hinges.
The basement was full of mirrors — every shape and size — arranged in a perfect circle around an empty space in the center. This was where they did the swaps.
No black-magic notebook with an eyeball on the cover. Marie Laveau had been clear about what it looked like.
Soren turned back to Caroline. "What did the old woman do all day?"
"I… I just got here a few days ago," she stammered. "But she spent a lot of time in the big greenhouse out back. Wouldn't let me near it."
Soren nodded and headed outside.
The garden behind the house was neatly divided by wooden fences. At the far end stood a white plastic greenhouse. It was warm inside, strangely free of bugs. A shovel with fresh dirt on it leaned by the door.
He moved some plants aside. One patch of soil had clearly been dug up and replaced — darker, looser, nothing growing on it.
He grabbed the shovel and started digging.
A few feet down, wood appeared.
He kept going until a full coffin sat exposed. It looked almost new, like it had been waxed recently. No nails.
Soren pried the lid open.
Inside, the sight made him frown.