Chapter 2: The Seven-Star Lamp’s Terrible Price

[Rule One: Calvin has already lost his mind. The fuel for the Seven-Star Lamp is rationality.]

The words echoed through my mind, warning bells ringing. I eyed Calvin, on guard.

“We’re almost out of lamp oil. I need you to help me top it off,” Calvin said, his smile sharp.

He looked young, clever—hard to see any hint of madness in him. But if even the best strategist here couldn’t be trusted, what chance did I have?

Still, I forced myself to answer, “I’ve been fighting all day. Just tell me where to get the lamp oil.”

Calvin tapped his feathered pen against his palm and pointed, “Go get it from Mrs. Myers.”

I froze. “Didn’t Mrs. Myers throw herself in a well?”

According to the story, after Derek Young rescued Adam from Mrs. Myers, she’d thrown herself into a well to avoid being a burden. Maybe Derek hadn’t had a chance to report it yet?

Calvin’s eyes narrowed, a strange chill in them: “It was Mrs. Grant who died. You forget already?”

The center of his brow writhed and split open like an overcooked sausage, eyes bursting through every inch, all staring me down. His skin cracked, oozing blood, as hundreds of eyes fixed on me. Calvin didn’t speak, but a cold voice echoed from behind his head.

“Or are you not Derek Young at all?”

My shirt clung to me, soaked in cold sweat. I gripped my weapon, not knowing what else to do. Calvin was no longer human—how could I possibly fight him?

His head twisted with a bone-crack, so the back of his head faced me. On his scholar’s cap was another identical face.

That face barked, “The Calvin you just mentioned—who did you mean?”

Shit. I’d made two mistakes in just a few sentences. I was as good as dead.

Calvin grinned strangely, his voice warped and distant, as if something else was speaking through him.

“The secret in your heart—I’ll take it myself.”

Calvin’s voice sounded like gravel and thunder, nothing like his face. Through the tent flap, I saw the battered American flag outside, limp and stained. My grip tightened on the baseball bat—this old leather handle my last thread to anything real. I tried to focus, to remember Friday nights at the ballpark, the smell of popcorn, the way my dad used to call me slugger. Anything to keep the nightmare from swallowing me whole.

[Rule Two: When someone becomes possessed, do not refuse any of their requests.]

Terror rooted me to the spot. I wanted to run, but my body moved forward, trembling, hands reaching for my shirt, ready to dig out my own heart. The rule couldn’t be denied. Was there any escape?

Suddenly, a desperate idea hit me and I rasped, “You told me to refill the lamp oil. Does that order still stand, or not?”

Calvin froze, caught between two commands, twitching like a busted robot.

I still couldn’t move, but as I watched him, doubt gnawed at me. Was this the genius strategist? He looked like a confused puppet.

While we were stuck, the feathered pen in his hand glimmered, faint letters flickering. I squinted, drawn in by some force, and read them aloud, barely aware I was doing it:

“Only… after… death…”

Calvin’s body jerked. A single, clear tear fell from the bloody eye on his forehead. Then, as if infected, every eye on his body began to weep.

In the next instant, all his monstrous features vanished, leaving only a young man’s face, full of sorrow.

“To give all in service… only after death…”

He whispered, then locked his eyes on mine.

“The light of the Seven-Star Lamp can drive away darkness and imprison the possessed. But after forty-nine days, the candle will burn out and the demons will sweep the world. Find the truth, save the world! You don’t have much time.”

His face twisted, and he staggered off, torn by two battling wills.

I just gripped my bat tighter, chest heaving, and made for Mrs. Myers’s tent.

My breath shuddered in my chest, sweat stinging my eyes. Outside, a dog barked—maybe lost, maybe crazed. A battered Ford pickup sat outside, caked with mud and blood. I told myself: Don’t let the madness in. Just focus on the mission. Move. I headed toward the lamp array, shivering despite the Texas summer heat.

Mrs. Myers’s quarters stood by the Seven-Star Lamp array. At its heart was a lamp as tall as a man, ringed by seven smaller lamps and forty-nine tiny ones, their glow slicing through the night. The place was spotless, a patch of calm in a world gone mad. Mrs. Myers leaned against the door, staring blankly at the lamps, not seeing me at all.

The soft hum of the generator faded as I approached. The air smelled faintly of lamp oil and scorched cotton. Mrs. Myers’s tent was decorated with faded family photos, a crocheted afghan, a jar of homemade pickles—homey touches from a life that seemed a million years ago. Her silhouette wavered in the lamplight, a ghost haunting her own home on a lonely night.