Chapter 2 — The Things He Brought With Him
Cid met the team in a church basement that smelled faintly of old coffee, floor wax, and radiator heat.
The room itself looked ordinary.
Folding chairs circled a long wooden table worn smooth by years of meetings. Boxes of donated clothes stood against one wall. A crucifix hung above a bulletin board crowded with parish notices and handwritten phone numbers.
It was the kind of room where people discussed rent problems, funerals, and which families needed groceries.
Normal rooms made strange conversations feel permanent.
Pastor Elias was already there.
Daniel leaned against the far wall with his arms folded. Three other men sat around the table.
Mike was the easiest to read. Early thirties. Tired eyes. A camera bag rested at his feet, and he handled it the way some men handled weapons—checking straps, zippers, and weight without seeming to think about it.
Dave was broader and quieter. His chair faced the only door, though he never looked like he had arranged it deliberately.
The other two were older than Cid expected.
Ruben had a legal pad open in front of him.
Tomas had already sketched the outline of a floor plan on a blank sheet of paper, even though no address had been mentioned yet.
Men who prepared for facts before they were given any.
Pastor Elias looked up.
“You came.”
Cid nodded.
“You said Saturday.”
A faint smile touched the priest’s mouth. He motioned toward an empty chair.
“Sit.”
Cid pulled the chair out and sat down. The legs scraped across the concrete floor louder than he intended.
No one spoke at first.
Then Pastor Elias said quietly, “Before you step into a house with us, they should understand why you’re here.”
Cid frowned.
“I’m here for sound.”
“Partly,” the priest replied.
Daniel remained silent.
That unsettled Cid more than if he had spoken.
Mike leaned back slightly.
“We don’t need a confession,” he said. “But we do need to know whether your curiosity is clean.”
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“Or reckless,” Dave added.
Cid looked toward Pastor Elias.
The priest didn’t answer for him.
Good.
That meant the question mattered.
Cid drew a breath.
“I grew up in Nicaragua,” he said.
No one interrupted.
“My mother believed in things.”
Ruben glanced up from his notes.
“What kind of things?”
“Cards. Candles. Names. The sort of practices people call spiritual until they become frightened enough to call them something else.”
The room remained quiet.
“When I was young, I was sent to live with my grandmother on my mother’s side,” Cid continued.
The memory returned clearly as he spoke.
A narrow hallway.
A closed room at the end of it.
The strange heaviness that filled the house after dark.
“My aunt lived there too,” he said. “People came to see her. Readings. Prayers. Advice. Things they didn’t bring to church.”
Tomas looked up from the page.
“And you saw something?”
“Not at first.”
Cid shook his head.
“At first it was just the feeling of the place. One hallway always felt occupied after dark. I used to hold it in rather than walk to the bathroom.”
Mike stopped adjusting the strap on his camera bag.
That detail caught his attention.
Cid continued.
“Then my aunt died.”
The mood in the room shifted slightly.
“How?” Pastor Elias asked.
“Bus accident,” Cid said. “Sudden.”
The priest folded his hands.
“And after that?”
“The house changed.”
Cid spoke plainly.
“The room she kept closed stayed closed. No one wanted to touch her things. Then the dreams started.”
He paused.
“And the scratches.”
Dave looked up immediately.
“On you?”
Cid nodded once.
“Three lines. Not deep, but enough.”
No one wrote anything for a moment.
“There was also a clock,” Cid said.
Mike frowned.
“A clock?”
“In the hallway outside that room. An old wall clock.”
Cid looked toward Tomas.
“It stopped at three.”
“Once?” Tomas asked.
Cid met his eyes.
“No.”
The radiator hissed softly behind them.
For a moment the basement held only the sound of old pipes and men thinking carefully.
Pastor Elias spoke again.
“And then?”
“My father’s family took me back.”
That part came easier.
“I went to live with my other grandmother. Different house. Different rules. Church. School. Friends.”
He paused.
“Normal.”
Daniel shifted slightly against the wall.
Cid noticed but kept going.
“For a while things were good.”
Then he said quietly,
“That was when the family next door brought out the board.”
No one moved.
“There was a brother and a sister,” Cid said. “Kids moved in and out of each other’s houses all the time.”
“How old were you?” Ruben asked.
“Ten. Maybe eleven.”
Cid lowered his eyes to the table.
“One evening they brought out a board.”
He could still see it clearly.
Cheap cardboard.
Plastic pointer.
A joke. That’s what everyone called it.
“What kind of board?” Tomas asked.
“A spirit board.”
Mike’s hand stopped on the camera strap.
Cid nodded.
“We started outside. Then the brother said the light was better in the living room.”
He paused.
“There were too many of us around it. People kept laughing and asking stupid questions.”
A faint, humorless smile crossed his face.
“That’s how it started.”
Pastor Elias leaned forward slightly.
“And then?”
Cid stared at a scratch in the wood of the table.
“Before anyone touched it, the brother explained the rules.”
“What rules?” Dave asked.
“Two fingers only. Lightly. No pushing. No lifting your hand unless everyone does. Ask politely. Don’t mock. And before you stop, you say goodbye.”
No one interrupted.
“He also said something else.”
Pastor Elias watched him carefully.
“What?”
Cid swallowed.
“He said if the board spelled someone’s name, it meant it wanted that person.”
The room went still.
Cid continued.
“At one point the pointer started moving faster. Too fast. Everyone thought someone was pushing harder. People started accusing each other.”
He paused.
“Then it stopped.”
The table waited.
“It spelled my name.”
No one moved.
Dave spoke first.
“Your full name?”
“No. Just Cid.”
“Nickname?”
“Yes.”
“Did everyone see it?”
“Enough of them.”
“What did you do?” Pastor Elias asked.
“I took my hand off.”
The answer came quickly.
“I stood up and walked away. They laughed. Said I was acting like a child.”
He paused again.
“I went home.”
Tomas tapped his pen once against the paper.
“And the others kept playing?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
Fear crept into his voice now.
“But after that… things started changing.”
