Chapter 4 - The Raid on Blackwood Ridge
The moon hung high and blood-red over the jagged tree line of Blackwood Ridge, casting eerie, dancing shadows across the overgrown gravel driveway that led up to the rotting, Victorian-style estate house.
Marcus’s truck crept up the winding mountain road without its headlights on, rolling silently in the pitch blackness, guided only by the faint glow of the dashboard instruments.
In the backseat, my niece was sleeping peacefully in her portable carrier, strapped securely into her car seat. I sat in the passenger seat, my hand resting protectively over her while my other hand gripped the heavy steel tire iron Marcus had handed me before we left the house.
My cheek still throbbed where my mother-in-law had struck me, and my collarbone ached with every bump in the road, but the pain had long since been replaced by pure, crystallized adrenaline.
We had stopped by a local precinct first thing in the evening to brief a trusted detective friend of Marcus’s—Detective Vance—who had immediately mobilized a tactical backup unit to surround the Blackwood property. But due to jurisdictional red tape and the need for an ironclad search warrant, the official police raid wasn't scheduled until dawn.
Marcus and I couldn't wait until dawn. Not when my niece's life was on the line.
The truck rolled to a stop behind a thick clump of pine trees fifty yards away from the sprawling, dilapidated mansion. The windows of the old house glowed with the eerie, flickering light of dozens of burning candles, and a low, rhythmic chanting drifted faintly through the damp midnight air.
"They're inside the main parlor," Marcus whispered, killing the engine entirely. He reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a heavy-duty tactical flashlight and a loaded hunting rifle he had kept locked in his safe for emergencies. "Stay here in the truck with the baby. Lock all the doors. If I'm not back out in twenty minutes, drive down the mountain and flag down Vance's backup unit."
"Like hell I'm staying in the truck," I hissed back, opening my door and stepping out onto the cold gravel before he could argue. "I took a blow to the face and a fractured collarbone for this little girl today, Marcus. You think I'm going to sit in a parked car while you storm a cultist stronghold alone? Think again."
Marcus stared at me in the dim moonlight, a brief, tight smile touching the corners of his mouth. He nodded slowly. "Alright. Stick close to my six. And whatever you do, don't make a sound."
We moved across the dead grass like ghosts, hugging the rotting wooden walls of the porch until we reached the large bay window of the main parlor.
Peering cautiously over the wooden sill, the scene inside made my blood run cold.
The room was cleared of all furniture. A massive, chalk-drawn occult symbol was scrawled across the center of the wooden floorboards, surrounded by dozens of flickering white candles. Standing in the center of the circle in heavy black robes were my mother-in-law, my sister-in-law, and a tall, gaunt man holding an antique silver dagger that gleamed menacingly in the candlelight.
"...and as the blood of the innocent seals the covenant, our power shall be restored tenfold!" the gaunt man chanted in a booming, theatrical voice, raising the dagger high above his head.
"We are ready, Master," my mother-in-law replied, stepping forward with a shallow wicker basket lined with white silk, designed specifically to cradle an infant. "We will retrieve the child before the hour strikes one. The bloodline must be cleansed!"
Marcus didn't wait another second.
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With a ferocious roar, he slammed his boot against the heavy oak parlor door, shattering the antique lock and sending the wooden panels crashing inward across the floor.
"The only thing getting cleansed tonight is your trash cult!" Marcus bellowed, leveling the hunting rifle straight at the center of the room as he charged inside.
