Chapter 9: Family Under Siege

At last, the whole story became clear.

It was like fitting the last piece into a jigsaw puzzle. Everything snapped into focus, the pattern too obvious to ignore.

Daniel’s illness obviously had nothing to do with encountering evil aura.

Logic and intuition agreed: the real danger was something much more human—and much more sinister.

If a vengeful spirit wanted your life, it wouldn’t stop until you were dead. If Daniel was haunted, they wouldn’t have needed to persuade Rachel to bring him to the church and poison him—he’d have died on his own.

Supernatural explanations made for good stories, but they didn’t hold up under scrutiny. This was calculated, deliberate—a warning to anyone else thinking of stepping out of line.

So, that funeral procession wasn’t about sending wreaths, but was some sort of curse.

It was a show, a smokescreen. The real ritual was manipulation, and everyone in town was a potential victim.

Daniel was tainted by the curse, his body weakened, but it wasn’t fatal.

It kept him just sick enough to be desperate, just desperate enough to come crawling back to the church.

They had Rachel bring Daniel to the basement, probably to question him. When he refused, they poisoned him.

The truth was ugly, but undeniable. I wrapped an arm around Rachel, silently promising she’d never have to face that nightmare again.

Just as I suspected, the Madonna and her followers are anything but simple.

They were wolves in sheep’s clothing, their smiles hiding razor-sharp teeth. I’d have to stay on guard.

I need to distance myself from them as soon as possible.

The sooner, the better. I’d seen enough cults to know that leaving was never as easy as it seemed.

And I can’t let them get close to Rachel either. "Rachel, I’m truly grateful for your care and everything you’ve done for me, but as for the Madonna—"

I hesitated, searching for the right words. Honesty was the only option left.

"It’s alright, Daniel," Rachel interrupted, surprisingly direct. "Just tell me—did the Madonna really bring you back? I trust you."

Her eyes searched mine, wide and unwavering. I felt my resolve harden. She deserved nothing but the truth.

I shook my head.

A weight lifted from my shoulders. No more secrets.

"Don’t worry about hurting my feelings. I already felt guilty when I took you to the Madonna, but I had no other choice… Now, I just want to apologize."

Her voice trembled, but she held my gaze. I squeezed her hand, overwhelmed by gratitude.

Once again, Rachel warmed my heart in a way I’d never known.

She was my anchor, the one thing I could count on. I made a silent vow to protect her, no matter the cost.

"Daniel, I believe you. If you dislike the Madonna, we’ll never go to that church again."

The finality in her tone stunned me. For the first time, I truly believed we could start fresh.

I was so moved, I could hardly speak.

My throat tightened, and I blinked back tears. Happiness, I realized, was a fragile, precious thing.

And when we got home, Heaven gave me another surprise.

The door creaked open, and a small figure barreled toward me with reckless abandon.

A cute little girl rushed into my arms, sobbing with joy: She smelled like peanut butter and grape jelly, her hair still damp from a bath. I’d never felt so needed.

She was all wild hair and flailing limbs, her face streaked with tears and snot. I laughed, scooping her up as she clung to my neck.

"Daddy’s back! Daddy didn’t abandon Ellie!"

Her words hit me like a freight train. For a second, I forgot everything but the warmth of her embrace.

"Daddy, I missed you so much!"

She buried her face in my shirt, and I held her tight, promising myself I’d never let go.

I lived the life I’d always dreamed of—a gentle wife, a sweet daughter, days as calm and beautiful as a windless lake.

We settled into a new routine: pancake breakfasts on Saturdays, movie nights snuggled under a patchwork quilt, lazy afternoons spent chasing Ellie through the backyard sprinkler. The peace was real, and for the first time, I let myself hope it would last.

But the Madonna wasn’t about to let me go.

Old habits die hard, and power never gives up its grip easily. I kept my guard up, knowing trouble could come knocking at any moment.

There was always a hidden danger lurking around me.

Paranoia became second nature—I double-checked locks, varied my route to work, and taught Ellie not to talk to strangers, just in case.

If I ever let my guard down, they’d bare their fangs and try to take my life.

It was a cold comfort, knowing I’d been marked. Every shadow felt like a threat, every friendly face a potential spy.

In just one month, I encountered several runaway cars, countless heavy objects falling from above, and manhole covers that were suddenly loose for no reason.

It started small—a flowerpot crashing down just after I passed, a truck swerving out of control on Main Street. I pretended not to notice, but I kept a mental tally.

It wasn’t hard to avoid these dangers; the hard part was doing so without revealing I was a swordmaster.

I made a game of it, dodging disaster with casual ease. But I knew, if I ever slipped, the consequences would be dire.

Otherwise, they’d send someone of higher rank, maybe even alert the Madonna herself.

That was the real danger. I couldn’t afford to draw that kind of attention—not if I wanted to keep my family safe.

That would be real trouble.

I’d seen what the Madonna was capable of. I wasn’t eager for a rematch.

Once, after work, I took a shortcut and carelessly walked right into a ghost trap.

The air turned cold, and the streetlights flickered overhead. I felt the telltale prickle of danger, but it was already too late.

Not only that, but as soon as I was trapped, several female ghosts with wild hair surrounded me, baring their teeth and lunging as if they wanted to tear me apart.

They came out of nowhere—screaming banshees, their hair floating like seaweed in a murky pond. I forced myself to act scared, hoping to sell the performance.

I could tell at a glance they were just minor spirits, but I still feigned panic.

I stumbled, shrieked, and bolted, drawing on my best community theater skills. Ellie would’ve been proud.

I turned and ran, appearing to stumble, but every step landed precisely on the key points of the formation.

To anyone watching, it looked like blind luck. In reality, it was years of training and a map burned into my brain.

A so-called ghost trap is essentially a magical snare.

They’re rare these days, but I recognized the signs—chalk runes, scattered salt, the faint whiff of burnt sage.

In my previous life, I wasn’t a formation expert, but I had a sharp mind and remembered everything at a glance.

You pick up a few tricks after a thousand years. I made a mental note to teach Ellie how to spot danger signs, just in case.

With a few deft moves, the formation soon reversed, trapping the female ghosts instead of me.

They howled in outrage, clawing at invisible walls. I slipped away, heart pounding, but my secret still safe.

I escaped unscathed, without revealing my true strength.

It was a close call—a reminder that I couldn’t afford to relax, not even for a second.

After that, I became even more cautious, giving the Madonna’s church no more chances.

I changed up my routines, avoided old haunts, and kept a close eye on anyone wearing black.

The accidents around me sharply decreased.

For a while, things seemed almost normal again. I let myself hope that maybe, just maybe, the danger had passed.

But just when I thought the believers would finally give up, they came straight to my door.

I opened the front door one evening to find them waiting—smiles fixed, eyes cold. Rachel pulled Ellie behind her, and I stepped in front, ready for whatever came next.

"Believer Daniel, though you may have forgotten the Madonna who granted you new life, the Madonna has never forgotten you."

Their leader spoke with the smug assurance of someone who always gets his way. I clenched my fists, jaw tight.

"The Madonna is merciful and loves every lost soul who refuses to turn back."

He looked at Rachel, then at Ellie, as if daring me to defy him. My blood boiled, but I forced myself to stay calm.

"Since you won’t come to the church to see her, then let her come to your home."

Before I could react, the men behind him surged forward.

The leader smiled as he spoke.

It was the kind of smile you see on politicians during election season—wide, empty, and full of hidden knives.

As soon as he finished, several strong men carried a statue of the Madonna into my house.

They muscled the heavy thing through the doorway, scraping the paint and knocking over Rachel’s favorite plant. The statue’s blank eyes seemed to follow me, and I felt a chill settle over our little home. I squared my shoulders, ready for the fight I knew was coming—this time, I wouldn’t run. I wouldn’t let them take another piece of my family. The Madonna’s statue stared me down, its painted eyes promising war. Let them come.