Chapter 17.1



Something shifted in the hallway between the attic door and the kitchen.

Not a footstep. Not a creak. Something quieter, heavier, like the air itself rearranging its weight. Roisin felt it before she heard it — a pressure behind her eyes, a faint tightening in her throat, the pressure inside her chest vibrating in recognition.

Steve froze halfway up the first step.

The assistant clutched at Paul’s arm, making him flinch. In a hushed voice, her breath shallow. she asked: “What is that?”

Steve didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Roisin whispered, “It’s the same presence. The one that was trying to get in.”

Steve turned his head slightly, just enough to look at her. “No. It’s not the same.”

Roisin felt her stomach drop. “Then what is it?”

Steve’s voice was low, controlled. “It’s what that presence was trying to reach.”

The assistant’s eyes widened. “You mean—”

“Yes,” Steve said. “It was already here. The same barrier that was protecting my artefacts from being detected prevented me from being aware of it.”

Roisin felt the pressure rise sharply, as though it was agreeing.

The assistant backed away. “You said your artefacts were safe.”

“They are,” Steve said. “At least, I thought they were. They were spaced and shrouded to prevent them from interacting with each other, but something must have amplified them enough to connect.”

Roisin swallowed. “Like what? The thing in the doorway?”

Steve shook his head. “I think it was you. Not deliberately, but I think you being here kicked all this off. The Artist, the presence, the amplification, and whatever’s in the hall.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Another shift on the landing — a soft, deliberate rearranging of space. Roisin felt the pressure inside her chest respond, a warm, insistent pull that made her lean forward without meaning to.

Paul suddenly took a firm hold of her waist. “Don’t even think about it.” His voice was a tone he hadn’t used with her before; it was the one he must use with difficult customers at the bar: a firm, commanding ‘take no bullshit’ tone that brooked no argument.

Steve saw it. “Roisin. Stay with us.”

“I’m trying,” she whispered.

The assistant moved closer to her, gripping her arm. “Don’t look up the stairs.”

Roisin tore her gaze away, but the pull didn’t lessen. It wasn’t visual. It wasn’t even physical. It was a compulsion, like the need for a cigarette when someone is a smoker.

Steve took another step up.

The air tightened.

Roisin gasped, clutching her chest. “Steve—”

He stopped instantly. “What did you see?”

Roisin shook her head, breath trembling. “Not see. Feel. It doesn’t want you to come closer.”

The assistant whispered, “Then why is it upstairs?”

Roisin exhaled slowly. “Because it’s waiting for me.” She felt a cold wave of fear wash through her. “Not for me, exactly. For the angel inside me.”

Steve didn’t deny it.

He didn’t have to.

The upward pull pulsed again — a deep, resonant thrum that spread through her ribs, her throat, the base of her skull. Her vision blurred. The room tilted. The shadows along the walls stretched upward, as though pointing the way. She felt like a tuning fork, attuned to the vibration of the presence above her.

The assistant squeezed her hand. “Stay with us. Stay with me, Roisin.”

Roisin tried.

She really tried.

But the imperative was stronger now, pulling her inward, upward, toward the visitor she couldn’t see but could feel with terrifying clarity.

Paul became as much of a barrier as a line of policemen in front of a closed pit. “I’m not going to let you up there until we know what it wants.”

Roisin pushed against him, forcing him inexorably backwards up the stairs; the immovable object meeting its match against the unstoppable force.  She looked up into his eyes. “It wants me.”

The assistant grabbed her wrist, a fish hook trying to stop an ocean liner. “No. No, that can’t be right.”

Roisin looked at her. “It followed me from the gallery. It came to the door. It pulled me toward the stairs. It’s been trying to align with me since the moment I saw the paintings in your gallery.”

The assistant’s face crumpled. “But why you?”

Roisin swallowed. “Because I recognised it.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “Recognition isn’t consent.”

Roisin felt another pulse pulling her upward — softer this time, almost gentle. “It doesn’t care.”

The assistant backed away, shaking her head. “This is wrong. This is all wrong. I shouldn’t have shown you the paintings. I shouldn’t have let you see the artist. I shouldn’t have—”

“You didn’t do this,” Steve said. “He did. The Artist.”

Roisin felt a tremor run through her. “No. The Artist didn’t do anything. The paintings did.” 

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