The sky above Glasgow bruised into deep purples and burnt oranges as the evening's chill spread across the streets. The city, once vibrant with summer’s warmth, felt cold, oppressive. Eleanor stood on the corner of Buchanan Street, her chest tight. She adjusted the strap of her worn leather bag, a reflexive action that did nothing to ease the ache inside her. Her gaze was fixed on Azazel's Embrace, a building once a quaint community center, now warped and twisted. The stonework was cracked, gnarly, as if alive, carved with dark symbols that pulsed faintly in the dying light. The air hummed with an unnatural energy, one that prickled her skin. It clung to her, ominous, suffocating.
Eleanor stepped forward, the sharp click of her shoes ringing against the cobblestones. The sounds of distant traffic hummed in the background, muted by the eerie stillness that surrounded the alley. She was here to uncover the truth, to expose the sinister force lurking beneath the charity’s façade. She had tried to warn the authorities, the council—no one listened. All dismissed her as paranoid, too consumed by the “dark thoughts” of a social worker with a penchant for conspiracy. But as she approached the entrance, a sense of unease twisted in her gut. They had all underestimated what was happening within these walls. They had no idea of the horrors brewing under the guise of salvation.
The door groaned as she pushed it open. The smell hit her immediately—incense, stale wood, and something else, something faintly metallic, sharp. The lobby was vast, empty, save for pictures of women, their eyes glazed, too vacant. Above them, the sign reading Hope and Healing seemed cruelly ironic. No warmth filled the space, no comfort. It felt wrong, the promises of redemption hollow.
“Ms. Sinclair,” a voice purred from the shadows, pulling her attention. Eleanor stiffened. The woman emerged from the hallway, her frame tall and angular. Her face was obscured by dimness, but her outline sharp and foreboding. She stepped into the light, revealing features chiseled, almost too perfect—a sharp jaw, high cheekbones, lips twisted into a smile that felt predatory. Her eyes were unnaturally wide, gleaming in the dark.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she said, her voice smooth, a silky threat underlying every word.
Eleanor’s throat tightened. “I’m here to see the women. I need to speak with them.”
The woman’s smile widened. “Of course. But you must understand, Ms. Sinclair, not everyone is ready to face the truth. Some prefer the comfort of illusion.”
Eleanor nodded but said nothing. She followed the woman down a long hallway, the air thick, dense with something unnatural. The walls were lined with grotesque images—twisted depictions of women bound, their faces frozen in agony, their bodies bent in unnatural poses. Every inch of the building felt foreign, sickening. The deeper they ventured, the colder it grew, the shadows pressing closer.
They stopped before a door, and the woman turned to face Eleanor, expression unreadable. “This is where they are kept,” she murmured. “The lost. The broken. The ones touched by darkness.”
Eleanor’s hands clenched at her sides. Her heart thundered in her chest. She stepped forward, the chill in the air biting into her skin. The door creaked open, and a wave of cold hit her face, sweeping in with an undeniable sense of decay.
Inside, the room was dim, lit by flickering candles casting long, tremulous shadows on the walls. In the center, a circle of women sat, their heads bent low, murmuring softly to one another in a language Eleanor couldn’t place. The words were too soft, barely audible, but the tone… it was wrong. An unsettling chant filled the air, and the hairs on her arms stood on end.
One woman lifted her head, her pale face gaunt, eyes sunken and wide with fear. “They told me I was chosen,” she whispered, voice trembling. “They said the spirits would cleanse me.”
A chill washed over Eleanor as her stomach twisted. This wasn’t healing. It wasn’t salvation. It was manipulation—exploiting their trauma to pull them deeper into Azazel’s grip.
The woman at Eleanor’s side stepped forward, eyes gleaming with a cold, distant light. “You should leave, Ms. Sinclair. These women are beyond saving. They’ve made their choice.”
Eleanor’s throat burned with fury, but she steadied her voice. “Not all of them have,” she said, stepping closer to the group. “They don’t have to make this choice. They don’t belong to you.”
The woman’s smile faltered, then returned—colder, more menacing. “You’re a fool, Ms. Sinclair. These women belong to the dark now. They always have. They always will.”
Before Eleanor could respond, the room grew darker, as though the very shadows were alive, shifting, breathing around them. The whispers of the women grew louder, layering over one another in a chant. The walls seemed to close in. The air thickened with something suffocating, pressing against her chest, stealing her strength.
No, she thought. I won’t let them win.
With all the strength she could muster, Eleanor turned to run. Her feet hammered against the floor as the whispers followed, twisting in the air around her, pressing her, suffocating her. She reached for the door, but it wouldn’t open. Panic seized her chest. She was trapped.
The woman appeared before her, blocking her escape. Her eyes glowed faintly now, an eerie light reflecting from within. "You cannot escape," she whispered. "You’ve already chosen. Just like them."
“No,” Eleanor rasped, her fists clenched. "I won’t let you destroy them. I will expose you."
For a moment, the woman’s face softened, pity flickering across her features. Then, without a word, she stepped aside. “Go then. But remember—you cannot fight what has already been set in motion.”
Eleanor stumbled out into the street, gasping for air, the night wrapped around her like a cloak. The city around her stood still, as if waiting. She had failed, at least for now. The power of Azazel’s Embrace was insidious, all-consuming. But Eleanor’s resolve didn’t waver. She would fight, even if it meant walking through this darkness again and again.
As she walked into the night, the shadows trailed behind her, watching, waiting, knowing this was far from over.
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