On a crisp November afternoon in 2005, the Pennsylvania countryside blurred past Caleb Bruner’s windshield as he navigated the winding roads toward Lancaster.

His 2003 Honda Accord hummed steadily beneath the hood, the engine running smoothly after an hour-long drive from his solitary home outside the county.

The air was sharp and clear, typical of autumn in that region.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed on the passenger seat.

The caller ID displayed Detective Marissa Keane’s number—a sequence of digits Caleb had memorized over the past six years.

He flipped it open, keeping his eyes on the road, and answered calmly, “Detective Keane.”

Her voice was professional but carried an urgency that made his pulse quicken.

“Caleb, where are you now?”

“I just entered Lancaster. About 15 minutes from the station.”

He slowed as he passed the welcome sign, its painted letters cheerfully declaring Lancaster the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country.

“Change of plans,” she said. “Can you meet me at the Lancaster Pines Motel instead? It’s not far from the station, maybe ten minutes. Take Route 30 east, then turn north on Centerville Road. You’ll see it on your right—can’t miss the neon sign.”

Caleb’s grip tightened on the steering wheel.

“What’s this about, Detective?”

“I’ll explain when you get here. I’ll be waiting at the entrance.”

The line went dead.

Caleb closed the phone and set it back on the seat, his mind racing.

It had been six years since his younger brother, Ethan, vanished after closing time at a Pennsylvania pub.

The disappearance had left a void so deep it consumed everyone who knew him.

Now, after all this time, the past was catching up in the most unexpected way.

Following the detective’s directions, Caleb found the Lancaster Pines Motel easily enough.

It was a typical roadside establishment—two stories of faded blue doors facing a cracked parking lot.

The neon sign flickered intermittently; the “Pines” part struggled to stay lit.

Several police cruisers were parked haphazardly near one of the ground-floor units, drawing a crowd of curious onlookers.

Caleb parked his Honda away from the commotion and stepped out, scanning for Detective Keane.

He spotted her immediately.

Marissa hadn’t changed much in four years.

Her auburn hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, and her navy blazer was as crisp as ever.

She was speaking with a uniformed officer but looked up as he approached.

“Caleb,” she said, extending her hand.

“Thanks for coming so quickly.”

He shook it, noting the firm grip.

“What’s going on here?”

“Follow me.”

She led him through the gathering crowd.

Motel guests in various states of dress clustered in the corridor, craning their necks to see inside room six.

Staff members in burgundy uniforms whispered among themselves.

Detective Keane’s presence parted them like a ship through water.

Inside the unit, the scene was controlled chaos.

Crime scene technicians photographed every surface while uniformed officers maintained a perimeter.

The room itself was standard motel fair—dated floral bedspreads, particleboard furniture, and the lingering scent of industrial cleaner failing to mask years of transient occupation.

“Can you explain what you found?” Detective Keane asked a woman in a maid’s uniform standing near the door with a nervous-looking man wearing a manager’s name tag.

The maid, whose tag read Maria, wrung her hands as she spoke.

“I was deep cleaning the room. We do it every few months when we have vacancies.

I noticed moths coming from under the carpet near the window.

Lots of them.”

“Mr. Davidson here called the exterminator company,” the manager added.

When the exterminators started to roll back the carpet to check for infestation, they found something chilling.

Caleb moved closer and felt his stomach drop.

On the exposed wooden flooring, someone had drawn an elaborate symbol in what appeared to be black paint or marker.

It was a pentagram enclosed in a circle, with smaller symbols at each point.

Dark stains, unmistakably old blood, spotted other areas of the floor, though not directly near the symbol.

“What does this have to do with Ethan?” Caleb asked, his voice tight.

“My brother was a devout Christian. He would never—”

Detective Keane held up an evidence bag.

“We ran a preliminary DNA test on the blood.

The field test matched it to your brother’s profile from our database.

We had his DNA on file from personal items—his toothbrush and comb—that you provided six years ago.”

Caleb stared at the bag, trying to process the information.

“The blood is six years old, and you’re certain the test is accurate?”

“Field tests aren’t 100%, but they’re reliable enough for us to proceed.”

She held up another evidence bag, this one containing a black cord with a pendant.

Through the plastic, Caleb could see a simple Christian cross—the kind sold in religious bookstores throughout Pennsylvania.

It was tarnished with age but still recognizable.

Detective Keane turned the bag so he could see the back of the cross, etched into the metal in small, precise letters:

“Ethan Matthew Bruner, June 15th, 1999.”

“That’s his full name,” Caleb said slowly.

“But the date—that’s not his birthday, nor his baptism date.”

“I don’t know what that date means.”

“The necklace matches the description in our files.

You confirmed six years ago that he often wore a cross pendant.”

“Yes, but I never really looked at the back. Never saw this date.”

Caleb handed the evidence bag back, his hands unsteady.

“Is there anything else? Any other sign of him?”

“Not yet. We’re still processing the scene.”

Detective Keane studied him carefully.

“Caleb, what do you make of that symbol?”

He looked again at the pentagram on the floor.

“It’s obviously a cult symbol. Satanic, probably.”

“Are there groups like that around here?”

The detective exchanged glances with another officer.

“Pennsylvania is deeply religious, especially Lancaster.

We’ve had reports of some occult activity among college students—mostly harmless stuff.

Kids playing at being rebellious.

There are a few groups, but nothing we’ve been able to act on.

No criminal activity we could prove.”

“Did Ethan ever mention anything like this? Any strange groups or people who might have had a problem with him?”

“No, never. He kept to himself mostly. Just worked weekends at that pub.”

Caleb paused.

“What about his boss? The pub owner?”

“Out of town currently. We’re trying to reach him.”

Detective Keane turned to the motel manager.

“Mr. Davidson, I need this room sealed.

No one goes in or out without police authorization.

I strongly recommend you install security cameras.

The lack of surveillance footage is going to make this investigation much harder.”

Davidson nodded vigorously.

“Of course, Detective. Whatever you need.”

She turned back to Caleb.

“I need to coordinate with my team, reinterview all the staff who were working six years ago.

We’ll need to track down anyone who’s left employment here since then.”

She paused, her expression softening slightly.

“Why don’t you get some rest? We’ll handle the investigation from here.”

“I think I’ll stay in town for a few days,” Caleb said.

“See if I can help somehow.”

She handed him some paperwork.

“I’ll need you to sign these confirming the identification of the personal effects.

And Caleb, I’m sorry we’re meeting again under these circumstances.”

He signed where indicated and returned the forms.

As he left the room, he passed the manager calling his staff together for police questioning.

At the front desk, Caleb booked a room for the night, his mind still reeling from what he’d seen.

The desk clerk processed his credit card efficiently, then hurried off to join the other staff.

Alone in the lobby, Caleb noticed a rack of tourist brochures.

One caught his eye: Lancaster nightlife.

Among the listings was the Crossroads Pub, noting it opened at noon daily.

He checked his watch—2:30 p.m.—the pub where Ethan had worked, where he’d spent his last weekend before disappearing.

Caleb pocketed the brochure and headed for his car.

The Crossroads Pub sat on a corner lot, its weathered brick facade and neon beer signs marking it as a local institution.

Caleb pushed through the heavy wooden door, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness inside.

The interior was exactly what he’d expected: dark wood paneling, a long bar with brass fixtures, and the mingled scent of old beer and lemon cleaner.

A lone bartender stood behind the bar, polishing glasses with mechanical precision.

He was a thin man in his 40s with graying hair pulled back in a ponytail.

He looked up as Caleb approached, setting down his towel.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.

“Jack and Coke,” Caleb said, settling onto a bar stool.

As the bartender mixed his drink, Caleb studied the man’s movements—efficient, practiced—the hallmark of someone who had been doing this for years.

When the glass was set before him, Caleb took a sip before speaking.

“Is the owner around today?”

The bartender shook his head.

“Nah, Mr. Cordell’s been out of town for about a week. Business trip or something. Should be back soon, though.”

He picked up another glass to polish.

“Something I can help you with, maybe?”

Caleb rotated his glass on the bar.

“You hear about what’s going on at the Lancaster Pines Motel? Police investigation?”

The bartender’s hands stilled for just a moment before resuming their work.

“Heard something about it. Cops found something in one of the rooms.”

“Did you know Ethan Bruner? He used to work here.”

Now the bartender sat down the glass entirely, his expression guarded.

“Yeah, I knew Ethan. Worked some shifts with him back in the day. Good guy. Reliable.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Why you asking?”

“I’m his brother.”

The bartender’s demeanor shifted immediately, a wall coming up behind his eyes.

He picked up his towel again, movement suddenly jerky.

“Look, I already told the cops everything I knew six years ago.

If they need to talk to me again, they know where to find me.

They’ll probably be here tomorrow anyway.”

“I’m not trying to cause trouble,” Caleb said, confused by the reaction.

“Ethan always spoke well of the people here. Said you were all like family.”

“We were—until he disappeared.”

The bartender’s voice was flat.

“Changed everything.”

Caleb leaned forward.

“Can you help me understand this town better? The community?

I’ve heard there might be some unusual groups around.

Cults, maybe even satanic ones?”

The bartender’s laugh was humorless.

“Man, this is a college town. We get all types in here.

Goths, punks, philosophy majors who think they’re edgy.

Nothing wrong with any of them, far as I can see.”

He moved down the bar, creating distance.

“They drink, they pay, they don’t cause trouble. That’s all I care about.”

“But have you noticed any actual organized groups? Anyone who might have had a problem with Ethan?”

“I serve drinks. I don’t get involved in people’s business.”

The door chimed as new customers entered.

Two college students—a young man and woman, both dressed in black jeans and band t-shirts—approached the bar, pulling out their IDs before the bartender could ask.

He checked them carefully, then poured two draft beers.

Caleb finished his Jack and Coke, pulling out his wallet.

He laid a twenty on the bar—enough to cover the drink and a decent tip.

As he stood to leave, the bartender suddenly spoke.

“Look, I didn’t mean to be rude, just trying to be careful about what I say.

The owner, Mr. Cordell, he knew your brother better than any of us.

When he gets back, he might be able to tell you more.”

The bartender glanced at Caleb, then away.

“But if you really want to know about Ethan, you might try his church.

He went every Sunday morning, regular as clockwork.”

“Which church?”

“Don’t know exactly which one he attended, but there’s a big Protestant church over on King Street—Lancaster Community Presbyterian.

Most locals go there.”

He paused.

“Your brother was serious about his faith. Real serious.”

“Thank you,” Caleb said sincerely.

He glanced at the college students, who were deep in conversation over their beers.

Both wore unusual rings on their right hands—silver bands with what looked like some kind of design he couldn’t quite make out from this distance.

“Probably some band logo or fashion trend I’m too old to understand,” he thought.

He left an extra five on the bar and headed for the door.

The afternoon sunlight was harsh after the pub’s darkness.

Caleb climbed back into his Honda and pulled out his Garmin GPS unit, typing in Lancaster Community Presbyterian with the stylus.

The device calculated for a moment before displaying the route—a ten-minute drive through the historic district.

He pulled out of the pub’s parking lot and followed the electronic voice’s directions through Lancaster’s tree-lined streets.

The church came into view as he turned onto King Street.

Its white steeple rose above the surrounding buildings like a beacon.

But it was the activity across the street that first caught his attention.

Franklin and Marshall College students had set up what appeared to be some kind of fair or recruitment event in the park opposite the church.

Colorful banners fluttered between temporary stalls, and students in matching black t-shirts moved between the tables.

He recognized the same style of clothing the two students in the bar had worn.

Caleb parked along the curb and walked toward the church, deliberately ignoring the student gathering.

The Presbyterian Church was an impressive structure—red brick with white trim, tall windows with proper glazing, and heavy oak doors that spoke of permanence and tradition.

He pulled open one of the doors and stepped into the narthex.

The interior was quiet for a weekday afternoon but not empty.

From the sanctuary, he could hear voices raised in harmony—a choir rehearsing.

He followed the sound, his footsteps echoing on the polished floor.

In the sanctuary, about fifteen people stood in the choir loft, their voices blending in what sounded like a traditional hymn.

A man in his fifties stood before them, conducting with precise movements.

He wore a clerical collar and black shirt—clearly the pastor.

Caleb waited in a pew until the song ended, then approached as the pastor gave notes to his choir.

The man noticed him and excused himself, walking down to meet Caleb with an extended hand.

“Welcome to Lancaster Community Presbyterian. I’m Pastor David Hartley.”

“Caleb Bruner,” he replied, shaking the offered hand.

“Sorry to interrupt your rehearsal.”

“Not at all. The choir can practice on their own for a few minutes.”

Pastor Hartley’s eyes were kind but searching.

“What brings you to our church today?”

“I’m looking for information about my brother, Ethan Bruner.

He went missing six years ago.

Someone told me he might have been a member of your congregation.”

The pastor’s brow furrowed thoughtfully.

“Ethan Bruner? I’m afraid the name doesn’t immediately ring a bell.

You have to understand, we have over 700 members at each service, and we hold three services every Sunday.

I tend to remember those most active in church programs.”

But he paused.

“Do you have a photograph?”

Caleb pulled out his Motorola Razer flip phone, navigating to the saved photos.

He showed the pastor a picture of Ethan from his bartending days, proudly displaying two colorful cocktails he’d created.

The cross pendant was clearly visible against his white shirt.

“Ah,” Pastor Hartley said, pointing at the screen.

“I don’t recognize the young man, but I definitely recognize that cross.

We give those to members who complete our evangelism seminar—winning souls for Christ.

It’s an intensive twelve-week course on sharing the gospel and bringing new disciples to the Lord.

There’s a date engraved on the back?”

Caleb said, “June 15th, 1999. Would that mean anything?”

“That would be his graduation date from the seminar.

We always engrave them as a commemoration.”

The pastor’s expression grew more serious.

“If your brother completed that course, he was a dedicated Christian—baptized, committed to spreading God’s word.”

Caleb took a breath.

“Pastor, the police found something this morning at the Lancaster Pines Motel.

There was an occult symbol drawn on the floor and blood that matches my brother’s DNA.”

Pastor Hartley’s face darkened.

“I cannot believe anyone who wore that cross would willingly participate in occult practices.

It goes against everything we teach, everything the seminar represents.”

“I agree. I think someone else did this to him.

Someone who might be part of an occult group.”

Caleb leaned forward.

“Are there groups like that in Lancaster?”

The pastor sighed deeply, glancing toward the windows.

“I’m afraid so.

It’s actually why we started the evangelism seminar in the first place.

We’ve seen an alarming increase in occult fascination among young people, especially college students.

Witchcraft, magic circles, ritual practices.

What starts as rebellion or curiosity can lead to much darker places.”

“How organized are these groups?”

“More than you might think.

They don’t just meet in secret anymore.

They hold open festivals, recruit at student organizations.

They’re bold about it.”

Pastor Hartley gestured toward the window.

“That event across the street? I guarantee you’ll find at least one or two occult groups recruiting there.”

“And the police don’t do anything?”

“What can they do?

Freedom of religion, freedom of assembly.

Until there’s criminal activity they can prove, their hands are tied.”

The pastor’s voice carried frustration.

“But it’s very much the church’s concern.

The Lord forbid such practices, and we must protect our flock.”

Caleb stood.

“Maybe I should check out that student event.”

“If you do, be careful,” Pastor Hartley warned.

“Most of the students are just curious kids following trends.

But the leaders—the ones really running these groups—they must have agendas.”

“Why do you say that?”

“We’ve had reports from congregation members—stories of rituals, ceremonies—but no one’s ever brought forward real evidence of illegal activities.”

The pastor paused.

“Regarding your brother, I’ll cooperate fully with any investigation.

Now that you mention it, I do remember the police coming here six years ago asking questions.

I’ll help however I can.”

“Thank you, Pastor. I appreciate your time.”

“Remember,” Pastor Hartley said as Caleb turned to leave,

“If you do encounter these people, pray for God’s protection.

And if you see anything illegal, contact the police immediately.”

Caleb nodded, shook the pastor’s hand again, and walked back through the sanctuary.

The choir had resumed their rehearsal, their voices following him out into the afternoon sun.

Outside Lancaster Community Presbyterian, the afternoon sun cast long shadows across King Street.

The student event in the park was clearly winding down.

Several stalls had already been dismantled, and students were loading folding tables into vans.

It made sense—they’d probably been there since morning, and it was now pushing 3:30 p.m.

Caleb stood on the church steps, debating his approach.

He was 32, clearly not college-aged, and would stand out among the students.

As he weighed his options, a group of five students emerged from behind one of the remaining stalls.

They were impossible to miss.

Heavy black makeup rimmed their eyes, their hair styled in deliberately messy spikes and unnatural colors.

They moved as a pack, laughing at some private joke.

One of them, a young man with green-streaked hair, pointed directly at Caleb standing on the church steps.

The whole group turned to look, and their laughter grew louder.

They began making exaggerated signs of the cross mockingly in his direction.

“Bless you, church boy,” one of the girls called out, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Caleb noticed they all wore identical rings on their right hands—the same style he’d glimpsed at the bar.

Now he could see them more clearly: silver bands with what appeared to be a ram’s head design.

He chose to ignore their taunts, watching as they climbed into a beat-up Ford Taurus and peeled out of their parking spot.

Behind them, another group of similarly dressed students struggled with the remnants of their stall.

They carried rolled banners, a folding table, and boxes of what looked like flyers or promotional materials.

One student, a girl with jet black hair and purple streaks, was trying to manage a particularly unwieldy banner that must have been ten feet long.

She stepped backward into the street, the banner blocking her view of oncoming traffic.

Caleb saw the Chevy Silverado before she did—it was coming fast, the driver probably not expecting anyone to step into the road midblock.

Without thinking, Caleb sprinted forward, grabbing the girl around the waist and pulling her backward.

They both tumbled onto the asphalt as the truck roared past, its horn blaring angrily.

“Jesus!” the girl gasped, sprawled on the street.

“That was close.”

“Are you hurt?” Caleb asked, helping her to her feet.

His palms were scraped from the fall but nothing serious.

“No, I’m okay thanks to you,” she brushed off her black jeans, looking shaken.

“I didn’t even see it coming.”

Her friends had noticed the commotion and came running.

“Lily, what happened?”

“I’m fine,” she assured them.

“This guy saved me.”

Caleb helped gather her scattered materials—the banner advertising something called the Alternative Spirituality Society, a box of flyers with symbols he didn’t recognize, and what looked like incense bundles.

“Let me help you get this to your car,” he offered.

Lily nodded gratefully, and they walked to a Honda Civic parked down the block.

Her friends had gone back to loading their own vehicle.

As they loaded items into her back seat and trunk, Caleb couldn’t help but notice the trunk’s other contents—a box filled with what looked like hand-rolled cigarettes, probably marijuana given the distinct herbal smell; several cases of Keystone Light beer; and another sealed box he couldn’t identify.

Lily quickly closed the trunk.

“Thanks again. Really, I could have been killed.”

Her friends whistled from their car.

“Lily, come on, I gotta go,” she said, hurrying to the driver’s side.

“But seriously, thank you.”

She drove off, following her friend’s vehicle.

It wasn’t until her Honda was stopped at the intersection a block away that Caleb noticed something glinting in the street where they had fallen.

He waited for a break in traffic, then retrieved it.

It was one of those silver rings, clearly Lily’s, now bent and broken from being run over by multiple vehicles.

The design was clearer up close—definitely a goat’s head surrounded by a pentagram.

The band was cracked nearly in half.

Caleb looked up to see Lily’s car still waiting at the red light.

Without really thinking about it, he jogged to his own car.

She’d saved him from witnessing a tragedy; the least he could do was return her property.

Maybe she needed it for something.

He started his engine and pulled out, keeping her Honda in sight.

As the light turned green, Caleb maintained a careful distance behind Lily’s Honda Civic as it followed the other student’s car through Lancaster’s outskirts.

The buildings grew sparser, replaced by farmland and patches of forest.

After twenty minutes, they’d clearly left the town limits, and Caleb’s unease grew.

Where were these students heading?

The road wound through Pennsylvania’s rural landscape, past weathered barns and fields preparing for winter.

Traffic thinned until they were virtually alone on the two-lane highway.

After another ten minutes, Lily’s turn signal blinked, and she pulled onto the shoulder.

The lead car stopped a hundred yards ahead.

Caleb pulled over behind her, his hands slightly trembling as he turned off the engine.

Through his windshield, he watched Lily exit her car, her body language tense.

He stepped out to meet her.

“Why are you following me?”

Her voice was sharp, frightened.

“What do you want?”

Caleb raised his hands peacefully.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.

You dropped this back there.”

He pulled the broken ring from his pocket.

“I thought you might need it.”

Lily took the mangled silver band, examining the cracked goat’s head design.

“Oh, it’s destroyed.”

She looked up at him.

“It’s useless now, but thanks for trying, I guess.”

She turned back toward her car, but Caleb called after her.

“Wait. Where are you guys heading?

This is pretty far from Lancaster.”

“That’s none of your business.”

Her guard was back up.

“We’re just going on a road trip. College stuff.”

The other car’s doors opened, and three students approached—two guys and a girl, all wearing the same dark clothing and silver rings.

One of the males, tall with a shaved head, stepped protectively near Lily.

“This guy bothering you, Lil?”

“No, it’s fine.

He was just returning my ring—the one that got crushed when he saved me.”

The tall student looked Caleb up and down.

“Okay, well, you did your good deed.

Now stop following us, or we’ll call the cops.

Got it?”

“Sure, no problem,” Caleb said, backing toward his car.

“Just wanted to return her property.

I’ll head back to town now.”

He got into his Honda, watching as the group walked back to their vehicles.

But with his window cracked, their voices carried on the quiet country air.

“Damn, Lily, father’s gonna be pissed when he sees you broke your ring,” the tall one said, laughing.

“Screw it,” another voice chimed in.

“We’ll still get to party with those Jesus freaks tonight.

It’s gonna be lit.”

They all laughed, and one made a crude gesture that made Caleb’s stomach turn.

The casual mention of Christians combined with the occult rings and the supplies he’d seen in Lily’s trunk set off every alarm in his head.

He started his engine and pulled a U-turn, driving back toward Lancaster for about a quarter mile before pulling into a farm’s access road.

He waited five minutes, then turned around again.

If these students were planning something involving Christians—and given what had been found at the motel—he couldn’t just drive away.

Keeping his distance, he spotted their cars ahead and followed at a gap of nearly half a mile.

The route took them north, then west, following increasingly remote roads.

Signs indicated they were heading toward Perry County.

After an hour of driving, they entered Tuscarora State Forest.

The forest road was narrow, canopied by tall pines that blocked out much of the late afternoon sun.

It was past 5:00 p.m. now, and shadows lengthened between the trees.

Caleb hung back even further, catching only glimpses of the cars ahead on the winding road.

After another forty minutes of careful pursuit, he saw brake lights through the trees.

The cars had turned onto an even smaller dirt road.

Caleb slowed, then followed, his Honda’s suspension protesting the rutted surface.

Through the forest, he glimpsed a structure—an old barn, its red paint faded to brown—sitting in a clearing.

He pulled off the dirt road about two hundred yards from the barn, parking behind a thick stand of pines.

From here, he could see the students unloading their vehicles.

They carried the cases of beer, the boxes, and other supplies toward the barn’s entrance.

Once they’d all gone inside and the heavy door slid shut, Caleb crept closer.

Using the treeline for cover, he approached until he could see through one of the barn’s few windows.

The interior was dark except for flickering candlelight.

Shadowy figures moved about, and he could make out what looked like robes being pulled on over street clothes.

Caleb checked his phone—two bars of signal.

Not great, but enough for emergency calls.

He settled behind a large oak tree to watch, wondering if he was overreacting.

Maybe this was just some harmless college party—a bunch of kids playing at being occultists.

They all looked over 21.

The beer was legal.

He was about to head back to his car when a scream pierced the forest’s quiet.

It wasn’t a party scream or a laugh.

It was pure agony—raw and desperate.

Caleb’s blood went cold.

He fumbled for his phone, punching in 911.

Another scream echoed from the barn as the call connected.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“I’m at an old barn in Tuscarora State Forest off Route 274.

I heard screaming.”

The barn door suddenly flew open, crashing against its frame.

A figure burst out—a naked man, pale in the dying light, running with desperate, lurching strides toward the forest.

Caleb dropped his phone, pressing himself against the tree.

The man stumbled closer, and Caleb’s heart nearly stopped.

Even from thirty yards away, even after six years, he knew that gait, that build.

“Ethan,” he whispered.

Robed figures emerged from the barn but moved without urgency, spreading out in a casual search pattern.

They seemed confident their quarry wouldn’t get far.

Caleb darted between trees, intercepting his brother’s path.

“Ethan,” he hissed.

His brother spun wildly, eyes wide with terror, searching for the voice’s source.

“It’s me, Caleb—your brother.”

He stepped into view, and their eyes met.

Recognition dawned in Ethan’s haunted face.

“Caleb, what are you doing here?”

“No, no, you can’t be here.

It’s dangerous.

You have to leave.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

Caleb shrugged off his jacket, wrapping it around his brother’s trembling shoulders.

That’s when he saw Ethan’s hands—or what remained of them.

All ten fingers were gone, leaving scarred stumps.

His feet were the same—toes amputated.

“Dear God, Ethan, what did those devils do?”

Ethan sobbed.

“They torture us.

They’ll kill us slowly.

They took my fingers and toes one by one every time I tried to escape.

I don’t have any left, so God knows what they’ll take next.”

Rustling leaves announced the search party’s approach.

Caleb grabbed his brother’s arm, trying to guide him deeper into the forest.

But the robe-wearing students had already flanked them.

Strong hands seized both brothers, dragging them back toward the barn.

“Let us go,” Caleb shouted.

“What you’re doing here is illegal.

I called the police.”

One student pulled back his hood—the tall one from earlier.

“Hey, Father.

This one came out of the church earlier.

He must be Christian, too.”

A figure in a more elaborate robe stepped forward, his face hidden in shadow.

When he spoke, his voice carried a slight accent Caleb couldn’t place.

“Excellent.

Lucifer has blessed us with another lamb.”

He gestured to his followers.

“Bring them inside.

Prepare the crosses.”

“You’re insane.”

Caleb struggled against the hands holding him.

The leader stepped closer, his breath reeking of alcohol and something chemical.

“Your Bible says that whoever follows Christ must walk as He walked.

That means suffering.

That means crucifixion.

We’re simply helping you fulfill your own scripture.”

He turned to address his followers.

“Prepare the inverted cross for our reward, Ethan.

Since he has no more digits to offer, perhaps his eyes will suffice this time.”

“No! Ethan!”

He wailed.

“Please, no more!”

They were dragged into the barn’s interior, which reeked of incense, sweat, and fear.

By candlelight, Caleb could see crude symbols painted on the walls and several wooden crosses leaning against the far wall.

A silver tray sat on a makeshift altar, holding what looked like pills and an ornate goblet of red wine.

“Take two pills each,” one robed figure commanded.

“Drink the wine.

It’ll make things easier.”

Caleb and Ethan stood frozen.

Then, with desperate strength, Caleb swept his arm across the tray, sending pills scattering across the dirt floor and the wine splattering against the wall.

“Shit! Get those pills!”

The cultists dropped to their knees, frantically searching for the scattered drugs in the dim light.

In that moment of chaos, a sound cut through everything else—police sirens, growing louder, coming fast through the forest.

The wailing of police sirens shattered the barn’s oppressive atmosphere.

The sound electrified Caleb, flooding him with desperate courage.

As the robed figures scrambled for the scattered pills, he twisted violently away from the distracted hands holding him.

His eyes swept the barn’s interior and landed on an ornate wooden chair, almost thrown where the leader had been sitting.

Draped over one arm was a leather holster containing what looked like a .38 revolver.

Without thinking, Caleb lunged for it, his fingers closing around the grip.

“Everyone back!”

He swung the weapon in a wide arc, his hands shaking but his voice firm.

“Get away from my brother!”

The cultists froze.

One of them, still holding Ethan, pressed a knife against his throat.

“Drop the gun, or we’ll bleed him out right here.”

“You kill him, I start shooting,” Caleb said, surprised by his own steadiness.

“Starting with your father.”

The sirens were getting louder—multiple vehicles by the sound of it.

The leader pushed back his hood, revealing a weathered face with cold, dark eyes and graying hair.

He looked more like a businessman than a cult leader, except for the savage intelligence in his expression.

“You won’t shoot,” he said calmly.

“Christians don’t.”

A sudden commotion erupted from the barn’s shadowy corners.

Figures burst from behind stacked hay bales and farm equipment—naked, scarred, but very much alive.

The other Christian captives threw themselves at their captors with the desperate strength of people with nothing left to lose.

The barn exploded into chaos.

Robed figures grappled with their former victims.

The knife fell away from Ethan’s throat as his captor was tackled.

Someone knocked over a candelabra, sending shadows dancing wildly on the walls.

Caleb didn’t waste the opportunity.

He ran for the barn door, throwing it open and shouting,

“In here! We need help in here!”

State police cruisers screeched to a halt in the clearing, their lights painting the trees red and blue.

Officers poured out, weapons drawn, moving with trained precision.

“Drop the weapon!” one shouted at Caleb.

He immediately placed the revolver on the ground and raised his hands.

“There are victims inside. They need help.”

The officers swept past him into the barn.

What followed was swift and professional.

Commands rang out.

“On the ground! Hands where I can see them!”

The cultists, outnumbered and caught off guard, offered little resistance.

One by one, the robed figures were handcuffed and led outside.

Officers made them kneel in a line on the grass as more police vehicles arrived.

The EMTs were right behind them, wheeling gurneys and carrying medical supplies.

Caleb watched as an officer pulled the hood off the leader, revealing his face clearly in the flashing lights.

The officer’s eyes widened.

He spoke urgently into his radio, and Caleb caught fragments:

“Positive ID: Salvador Herrera, Mexican national, wanted list.”

More officers surrounded the kneeling leader, their manner shifting from routine arrest to high alert.

The victims