Whisper In The Ashes

The wind whispered through the cracked windows of Madison Lane’s apartment, tugging at the edges of an old, half-curtained photo on her wall — a photo she hadn’t dared look at in years. Her fingers tightened around the phone in her hand. Still no response.

She had tried calling Dylan, Logan--three times already. Nothing.

It wasn’t like them to go dark. Not after what just happened.

The news hadn’t said much — just enough to freeze her blood.

Jason Reed, dead. Ritual killing. Candles. Circle.

Madison stared out into the rain-soaked street below. The city looked blurry, distant. Her reflection in the glass — pale, anxious — stared back at her like a stranger.

She turned and opened her old keepsake box, the one she had sworn to never touch again. Inside lay the remnants of a memory she wished she could erase: a torn photograph of five college kids — herself, Jason, Logan, Dylan — and in the middle, grinning with quiet intensity… Ethan Carter.

And beside them… Benjamin Walker.

The boy they had killed.

Her hands trembled as she picked up the photo. The edges were curled and stained from years of guilt.

Ten Years Ago – Kingstown University

It was a humid October night.

The old abandoned faculty hall, deep behind the chemistry building, smelled of wet stone and burnt wax. Madison remembered the sound of dripping water from a broken pipe above. The flickering candlelight made shadows dance like ghosts around them.

Benjamin stood blindfolded in the middle of a chalk-drawn circle. “This is a prank, right?” he laughed nervously. “Some kind of frat dare?”

Tyler was pacing behind him. Dylan clutched the corner of his hoodie. Logan stood too still.

And Ethan…

Ethan had the book.

The ritual book they found in the back of the forbidden archives, bound in cracked leather and written in strange ink that bled when wet.

Ethan didn’t speak that night. He didn’t flinch. He just began reading from the text. Madison could still hear the syllables — they didn’t sound like words, but something more primal. Older.

Benjamin’s laughter turned to confusion. Then pain.

A scream.

Then blood.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.

But the circle held. And the boy inside it fell.

Present Day

Madison blinked hard, pushing the memory back down. The guilt had faded over the years — but it had never truly left her. She still remembered the trial. The fear. The lies.

They all pointed fingers at Ethan. Said he orchestrated it. Said they were pawns. That they didn’t know the ritual was real.

And Ethan had stayed silent.

He never defended himself. Never fought back.

Ten years in prison for a murder they all committed.

And now, Jason was dead. Killed in the same pattern. Madison’s heart pounded as she opened her phone again.

Still no replies.

She tried Dylan. Straight to voicemail.

Logan. The call rang once, then dropped.

Something was happening.

And Ethan… Ethan hadn’t been seen since the day he was released. No public record. No social media. No news coverage. He had simply vanished.

Or someone had made him vanish.

Downtown Kingstown – 11:48 PM

Detective Marcus Hale lit a cigarette he wouldn’t smoke. Just something to keep his hands busy as he stared at the taped-off area where Jason Reed’s body had been found.

The body was gone now, but the image lingered.

The candles. The circle. The message: "Et tu, Judas?"

He had seen the photos from the old case. He had studied the reports during his early years on the force. He even remembered the courtroom sketches of Ethan Carter — young, intense, silent.

Everyone said he was dangerous. A manipulator.

But Marcus had always felt something was off. The details were too clean. Too orchestrated.

And now, ten years later, the same pattern had returned — precise and purposeful.

He knelt near the bloodstain, brushing the ground gently with gloved fingers. The rain had mostly washed everything away, but something caught his eye — a faint carving beneath the blood’s edge.

A symbol.

He pulled out his notebook and quickly sketched it: a circle enclosing an eye, slashed with a cross. It looked like something out of a cult archive.

He stood, unease crawling under his skin.

This wasn’t copycat work.

This was ritual.

And this time, it wasn’t about guilt — it was about vengeance.

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