Page 47 of Where The Devil Kneels

“Episodes?” The word explodes from me like acid, burning my throat raw. My hands curl into claws, nails biting half-moons into my palms. “I watched my parents’ caskets lowered into the ground and cried myself sick every night formonths. That’s called GRIEF, Maeve, not some clinical fucking episode! And I AM NOT ALONE HERE!” My words echo across the scorched lawn, desperate and feral.

I hear footsteps behind me, the soft clink of metal. Maeve’s eyes track whoever approaches, her fingers tightening almost imperceptibly on my face.

“We need to have you examined,” she says, her professional voice taking over. “Smoke inhalation can be serious. And these injuries need documentation if we’re going to press charges against whoever’s responsible.”

“The only person you should be charging is Lyle GARROW!” My voice breaks into a feral scream as I twist violently against the hands suddenly clamping down on my biceps from behind. Blood pounds in my ears as I thrash, kicking backward, feeling my heel connect with someone’s shin. “GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF ME! This is MY HOUSE! MY PROPERTY!” Spit flies from my lips as I wrench so hard I feel something in my shoulder pop.

“It’s for your own protection,” Maeve says, stepping back as a county officer moves into view, something glinting in his hand. A syringe. My blood turns to ice water.

“No,” I gasp, real terror flooding me as I struggle against the hands holding me. “No, you don’t understand, he was helping me! Silas is protecting the house, protecting me—”

“There’s no one here, Elara,” Maeve says softly, nodding to the officer. “Just you, alone in this burned wreck of a house, talking about imaginary guardians.”

“He’s not imaginary!” I’m screaming again,wrenching against the hands holding me. “Look behind the walls! There are hidden rooms! Silas and his family have been living here for decades, helping people disappear when they need to—when Garrow comes for them—”

A sharp sting in my upper arm cuts the rest of my words short. Almost immediately, the world begins to tilt, blurring around the edges. Sounds are stretching and distorting like I’m hearing them from underwater. My knees buckle, my weight suddenly supported entirely by the officers surrounding me.

“No,” I slur, the word thick and useless on my tongue. “Please…”

My vision dims as Maeve barks orders at the officers hauling me to the sedan. My head rolls onto somebody’s shoulder, giving me one last look at the estate while they stuff me into the car like unwanted luggage. The house just stands there, all proud against the scorched grounds, with smoke still twisting from spots here and there. And then, just for a split second, something shifts behind one of the upstairs windows. A shadow. Watching me. Waiting.

I float to consciousness like a drowning victim rising through murky water, disoriented, desperate for air, limbs heavy and unresponsive. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and I try to lift my hand to shield my face, only to discover I can’t. Soft restraints tether my wrists to the narrow cot where I lie. Panic surges, temporarily burning through the sedative still clouding my brain. I test the restraints, not tight enough to cut off circulation but secure enough to prevent any meaningful movement. Great. Perfect. Nothing says “having a normal Tuesday” quite like waking up tied to a hospital bed with no recollection of how you got there.

Except that’s a lie. It comes back in pieces, breaking through the drug fog: Maeve’s fingers on my cheeks, sunlight catching metal, the sound tearing from my throat as they dragged me away from my home. My stomach twists, acid rising. Someone I trusted had me sedated and restrained like an animal, and called it protection.

I force my eyes fully open, taking inventory of my surroundings. Not a hospital, Dr. Rao’s clinic. The small examination room with its outdated anatomical charts and perpetually wilting peace lily on the windowsill. I remember sitting in this same room weeks ago, Dr. Rao’s fingers as she slid a folder across her desk. “Private research,” she’d called it, eyes darting to the door as I leafed through yellowed newspaper clippings and handwritten case notes about the estate. “Not something I share lightly.”

Now her secrecy makes perfect sense—she wasn’t just sharing local history; she was testing whether I could be trusted with the truth.

Low voices filter through the partially closed door, Dr. Rao’s measured tones interwoven with Maeve’s sharper cadence. I strain to hear, fighting against whatever sedative still clouds my system.

“—showing classic signs of paranoid ideation,” Dr. Rao is saying, her clinical tone at odds with the woman I saw tenderly treating Rebecca in the underground chamber. “The isolation of the estate, combined with her history of trauma following her parents’ deaths, creates fertile ground for delusional thinking.”

“She mentioned someone named Silas,” Maeve responds, her voice tight with controlled concern. “Claimed he’s been living in the house, helping people ‘escape’ something. Is this the same delusion she had after the accident? The invisible friend who protected her?”

My breath catches painfully in my chest. I’d forgotten that, how after my parents died, eight-year-old me had created an imaginary guardian who watched over me at night. A coping mechanism, the therapists explained. A way to feel safe when my world had shattered.

“Similar patterns,” Dr. Rao confirms. “The mind often returns to comfortable delusions under stress. The fire likely triggered her previous trauma responses.”

I struggle against the restraints, frustration burning through the sedative fog. “I’m awake,” I call, my voice emerging as a hoarse croak rather than the forceful declaration I intended. “I can fucking hear you.”

Footsteps approach, and the door swings fully open. Dr. Rao enters first, clipboard in hand, professional mask firmly in place. No trace remains of the woman I saw underground, the one working alongside Silas to protect those in danger. Behind her, Maeve looks exhausted beneath her perfect makeup, the shadows under her eyes suggesting she’s been here all night.

“Elara,” Dr. Rao says with practised warmth, moving to check the IV in my arm. “How are you feeling? Any dizziness or nausea?”

I jerk my wrists against the restraints, making the metal bed frame rattle. “Love the hospitality, Doc. What’s next on the menu, a straitjacket appetizer before the lobotomy main course? Or did you skip the medical ethics class where they covered ‘kidnapping’ as a no-no?”

“The restraints are precautionary,” she explains smoothly. “You were quite agitated when they brought you in. We were concerned you might hurt yourself.”

“I wasn’t ‘agitated,’” I snap. “I was trying to explain what’s happening at the estate. Silas is real. He’s been living there for decades, protecting people who need to escape Garrow’s influence. He helped me fight the fires.”

Dr. Rao makes a note on her clipboard, her expression neutral. “When did you first start seeing Silas?”

I let my head fall back against the pillow with a thud. “Oh, for God’s sake, I didn’t ‘start seeing’ him like he’s some hallucination.” My voice cracks as I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “He showed himself to me. On purpose. After I inherited the estate.” I enunciate each word like I’m explaining physics to a toddler. “He’s been guarding it for years. Helping people escape.” I fix my gaze directly on Dr. Rao, jaw tight. “And you know this. I saw you with him, treating Rebecca in that underground chamber.”

Dr. Rao’s pen pauses before continuing its movement across the page. To anyone else, the hesitation would be invisible, but I catch it, that fractional moment of calculation.

“Elara believes I’m part of her delusion now,” she tells Maeve, her voice gentle with manufactured concern. “This is consistent with paranoid progression, incorporating anyone who challenges the narrative into the conspiracy framework.”