Episode 12 — “Crossroads of Destiny”

The sun began to dip below the tree line, casting long shadows across the town as the church choir harmonized from the tower—low, solemn, and heavy like the weight on everyone’s shoulders.

Inside, the mood had shifted.

The chaos from the morning, had melted away. In its place settled a quiet numbness, the kind that only comes after too much pain. The pews were full again, but now they held hushed prayers and soft weeping replacing yesterday’s panic. No one saw the other —only the weight of their own grief.

Candles flickered along the altar, shadows from its shape casting across the stained glass that no longer felt holy. Dozens of paper bags and tarps lined the front steps of the altar, each tagged and filled with pieces of someone no longer whole. Some were zipped in black tarps, names scrawled in thick marker. Others bore no names at all—just numbers. The living clung to the dead in whatever way they could.

The funeral rites were brief. No one could bear the weight of speeches. Pastor Mathers read a few verses. Someone tried to sing, but their voice broke on the first note. A few townsfolk tucked letters, photos, or worn tokens into the tarps before they were sealed for the last time.

At the back, Michael stood beside Sasha, both motionless. He reached for her hand once, but she pulled away—gently. Her eyes were fixed on the altar, but it wasn’t the dead she was seeing.

A figure of a child, but the shape of it felt off. The figure’s hair was long and winding, dragging along the floor.

Later, the seven town leaders quietly slipped down into the church basement—the same place they'd gathered the night before. There had been a decision, an agreement made in silence. Now came the time to act on it.

Clara arrived first, laying down her small, sleeping child she’d carried from the upper room. He didn’t cry as he placed him down on a chair on the far wall, close to the door. She took her seat, her arms folded, jaw locked tight.

Pastor Mathers followed more slowly, more heavily. He moved like an old tree—solid, heavy, but hollow in places. He dreaded what was coming.

To distract himself, his thoughts drifted backward to the beginning, to the first time he met the girl.

At first, it had been a duty. A holy burden. As head of the church, it was his responsibility to take her in. It had seemed simple enough: keep her safe, keep her hidden. He had tried to limit her contact with the townsfolk, drowning her in chores and distractions after classes. She swept the pulpit daily, distributed rations during mass. She had her own room but was told—sternly, always—to stay out of the basement.

Like most children her age, she didn’t listen.

He remembered vividly that day. He had come home one evening and found her sitting on the cool stone floor with a box of crayons. In the basement, he had forbidden her from entering. She had drawn a flower on the wall. A thirteen-petaled bloom—faintly familiar, unnervingly perfect. At first, he was furious with her.

Then he looked closer and she looked back.

“Isn’t it pretty daddy?”

That word—“daddy”—had pierced something inside him. But it was her smile, bright and innocent, that truly broke him open.

And he smiled back.

How had he not seen it before?

She was just a child.

He had spent decades teaching, guiding and mentoring young ones like her. The idea that she could be anything else—anything dangerous—felt laughable in that moment.

At that moment, he decided to protect her in more ways than just obedience.

Not as a caretaker.

But as a father.

He gave her a name that night, something he had been avoiding for too long.

Sasha.

Now, he stood at a crossroads, every prayer he’d ever spoken ringing hollow.

But he had try, falling on his knees as he had done so many times before.

Praying for the right answer to his dilemma.

Who should he sacrifice?

The town? Or the girl he had come to love more than anything.

That night, most of the townsfolk remained inside the church—except a few like Jacob DeWitt, the Scherbatskys and Kawasaki. There weren’t many people in town, but it was still more than the church could hold comfortably.

The fear of the Suits returning lingered like fog. Mothers clung to their children. Fathers held their families close.

Sasha barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes, the visions pressed in with such clarity that she wasn’t sure if they were dreams or something else.

The first vision struck as she passed a mirror near the altar.

She caught her reflection—except it wasn’t hers.

A pale woman stared back, face cracked like porcelain. Her eyes had been sewn shut with black threat, yet Sasha felt her stare pierce straight through.

“Wake up!” the reflection snarled, the sound vibrating inside her skull.

Sasha spun and saw nothing. When she turned back, her own face had returned, but the voice still echoed in her head.

Then the floor fell away.

She fell through thick darkness, she could touch and landed in a clearing.

A warm wind whipped her hair across her face. She glanced to her left, a wooden pyre stood in the center, a woman bound to it with rope.

A crowd encircled her, shouting, their faces twisted with hatred.

“Burn her!”

“Witch!”

“Hit her again!”

Sasha recognized faces—neighbors, elders, people she had seen at church. Then she saw him.

Her father.

“Pastor!” someone roared. “ Light up the stakes properly!”

Sasha tried to move toward him, but her feet were rooted to the ground. The torch flared, and the flames leapt high.

She felt the fire. Her own skin blister, her lungs filled with the acrid stench of burning flesh. It was like she was burning.

The bound woman didn’t scream. She only turned her head even as the flames consumed her, meeting Sasha’s eyes through the blaze. 

“Remember, my child,” the woman spoke, softer now, the words retreating into the corners of her mind.

She jolted awake with a sharp gasp, drenched in sweat. Her nightclothes clung to her body as though she had been submerged in water. Blood ran from her nose, soaking the pillow, mingling with the tears she hadn’t realized were falling.

By morning, things were back to usual.

The townsfolk knew the Suits rarely came during the day, though that rule was starting to bend. Still, they couldn’t live in fear forever. Not even here.

Jasmine found her grandfather alive that morning, and her joyful tears spilling out uncontrollably.

“Where were you, Grandpa? I was so worried.”

Arlon Griffin grunted, pretending to check the state of the generator cables to avoid hugging her back. But his hand trembled when it rested on her shoulder.

“I stayed at the Scherbatsky house until it was safe,” he replied.

The rebuilding had begun.

Fathers and mothers climbed onto rooftops. Children helped carry tools. Houses with busted walls were patched with scrap metal and wooden planks, everything salvaged from old vehicles or the storage sheds near the fence. The whole town moved like a hive trying to repair a cracked shell.

At the edge of town, Tania and Anya Scherbatsky worked with their parents—Kovac and Robin—replacing the torn roof panels. Their father, once an architect and carpenter, had designed most of the town’s landmarks: the gym, the library, even the church’s basement.

Their home had barely survived the attack. A Suit had clawed through the attic, leaving a gaping hole in the beams. But their parents had been safe—hidden in a panic room Kovac built five years ago.

It wasn’t just concrete and bolts. It was a fortress, reinforced with lead, layered insulation, and a hidden air filtration system. A bookshelf slid away to reveal the door disguised as an old freezer. Inside, the panic room had thick steel walls, a crank generator, emergency food stores, and a silent alarm system that vibrated a floor panel upstairs.

The sisters had spent more nights in that room than in their own beds.

Sasha sat alone, picking dried blood from her nose with trembling fingers. She stared into her mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed, not from tears—but from being awake all night, haunted by images that didn’t belong to her. Her hair was wild, like she’d walked through five storms.

She didn’t care.

All she could think about were the visions.

Memories that weren’t hers.
And voices she didn’t know.

She needed answers.

Her father had been there. That had to mean something.

She found Pastor Mathers outside the chapel, helping two elderly women down the front steps. He smiled politely, but his expression darkened when he saw her approaching.

“Dad, can we talk?” she asked.

Mathers’ jaw tightened. He looked at her like he was memorizing her face, taking one final glimpse.

“Not now,” he said softly. “I’ll call for you later.”