The clouds hung low over the sleepy neighborhood of Redwood Avenue, casting long shadows across the cul-de-sac. A single home at the end of the block stood out—not because of how it looked, but how it felt. The air around it pulsed faintly, like an invisible heartbeat thudding with unease. Jack Crow stepped out of a black sedan and took a long drag from his cigarette, eyeing the modest two-story house with casual suspicion.
"Number forty-one," he muttered, exhaling a lazy stream of smoke. "Let's see what kind of freak is throwing furniture around this time."
As he approached the porch, a man in his late thirties stepped out to meet him. His eyes were red and hollow from lack of sleep, his shirt wrinkled and half-tucked into his jeans. Behind him, a woman clutched a little girl protectively, both peeking from behind the front door.
"You Jack Crow?" the man asked, extending a hand. "I'm Henry Holmes. This is my wife Mary, and our daughter Irina."
Jack shook his hand, noting the faint tremble in the man's grip.
"You said you've been having… disturbances?"
Mary nodded quickly. "We moved in about three months ago. At first it was just little things—lights flickering, small objects out of place."
Henry chimed in, "We figured it was just the wiring or maybe we were tired and seeing things. But Irina started talking to someone we couldn't see. She'd wake up at night, whispering strange things."
"Like what?" Jack asked, narrowing his eyes.
"She kept saying, 'He's not asleep. He's watching from the wall.' And last night—" Mary's voice broke slightly. "Last night, Henry was working late. I was in the living room reading and... I saw something. A figure. Just standing there in the shadows. It rushed me. Grabbed my throat. I couldn't scream. I thought I was going to die until Henry got home and it just... vanished."
Henry held her shoulders, his own jaw clenched with guilt and fear. "She's still got bruises on her neck. Please... we just want this house to be normal."
Jack took another puff from his cigarette, then flicked the ash to the side.
"Oh, I see," he muttered. "Take me inside."
Mary hesitated. Her eyes flicked toward the house like it might swallow her whole. Jack didn't press. He waited, letting the silence press the weight of the situation into her. Finally, she nodded and turned the knob with a trembling hand.
The door creaked open, and as soon as Jack stepped inside, he felt it.
The air was thick—not physically, but spiritually. Like trying to breathe through oil. The kind of pressure that pushed against your chest, whispered in your ears, and clung to your skin.
Jack whistled low. "Well now... what do you know. Just my cup of tea—a damn evil spirit."
He turned around and gestured to the family. "Out. All of you. Stay on the porch. I'll handle this."
Before they could protest, he dug into his coat and pulled out three protective charms—thin talismans inscribed with crimson ink and folded neatly.
"Take these. Wear them on your person. Don't come back in until I say so."
Henry took his and guided Mary and Irina outside. Jack waited until the door shut behind them before getting to work.
He moved quickly, sealing off all exits with strips of talisman paper: the windows, vents, doors, even the fireplace. Each symbol glowed faintly when pressed against the surface, burning softly with protective light.
Once the perimeter was sealed, he stood in the center of the living room and cracked his neck.
"All right, you bastard," he muttered. "I know you're in here."
He waited. Nothing.
Then, in one smooth motion, he flung a vial of holy water into the far-right corner of the room. The liquid burst into steam on contact with seemingly nothing.
A shrill, ear-splitting scream echoed across the walls.
"How did you know I was there?" a voice rasped from the shadows.
Jack didn't flinch. "Because I'm Jack Crow."
He took another drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing red in the darkness.
"I'm an exorcist. And you picked the wrong house to haunt."
From the corner, a shape began to form—wisps of smoke gathering into something vaguely human. It had no face, just a hollow space where its eyes and mouth should've been. Black tendrils twisted around its form like chains made of shadow.
"I will not leave," it hissed. "This house is mine. They disturbed me. They—"
Jack didn't give it the chance to finish. He clapped his hands together and began chanting.
"O spirits unclean, bound by rage and rot—hear me. In the name of light, in the name of peace, be still. By soul and fire, be bound."
The spirit shrieked again as blue energy shot from Jack's palms, wrapping around its body like shackles. It struggled, twisting violently, its form flickering like a broken projector.
Jack strode forward, sloshed more holy water at its feet, and hissed through clenched teeth, "You don't get to hurt people. Not anymore."
The entity writhed, howling with a voice that shook the walls.
Then Jack reached into his coat again and pulled out a strange, silver medallion. He pressed it against the floor, and a circle of light exploded outward. In the middle, a dark hole opened.
From it emerged a being clad in a black robe, its face hidden behind a porcelain-white mask. In its hand: a long, curved scythe.
The Soul Reaper.
"Take him," Jack said simply.
The spirit screamed as the Reaper raised his weapon high and brought it down through its form. A flash of light. A final shriek.
And then, silence.
The spirit vanished into smoke, sucked into the void beneath the circle, which closed with a soft pop. The Reaper nodded once to Jack before fading from view.
Jack sighed heavily, wiping sweat from his brow. "Damn... that one had a mouth on him."
He looked around the now-quiet house. The oppressive pressure had lifted. The air was still. Peaceful.
"Yeah. That's more like it."
He gave the house one final sweep with his spirit lens, then extinguished his cigarette on the floor tile.
An hour passed before he finally opened the front door. The Holmes family stood up quickly, eyes wide and desperate.
"Well?" Henry asked.
Jack gave a small nod. "It's over. The house is clean. No more hauntings. No more attacks."
Mary covered her mouth in relief. Henry slumped with a breath he'd been holding too long. Irina peeked from behind her mother, eyes wide.
"Thank you," Mary whispered, her voice cracking. "Thank you so much."
"That's... uh, 150 dollars," Jack said flatly.
Henry blinked. "Oh. Right. Of course."
He reached for his wallet and handed over the cash. Jack stuffed it in his coat like it was an afterthought.
Irina stepped forward shyly. "Thank you, mister. You're so cool."
Jack actually smiled at that—barely. He knelt and handed her a small charm carved with a protective rune.
"Keep this on you, little miss. It'll keep the bad things away. You're strong. Don't forget that."
She nodded solemnly. "I won't."
Jack stood, turned back toward his car, and gave the house one last look.
"Another one down," he muttered. "Now maybe I can sleep, but first let me return this rented car."
His phone buzzed in his coat pocket. He checked the screen and groaned.
Ryner Calling.
"Not this kid again, well can't say I'm upset, he's an interesting one..." he muttered.