Christian recalled lessons from the old ghost that had mentored him—one of the few spirits that hadn't tried to kill him on sight.
Their conversations often veered into forbidden corners of history, half-erased by time and the Church's fire.
"Back during the so-called Divine Rebellion," Christian had once mused, "they claimed to speak in the name of the Heavenly Father. But their miracles weren't heaven-sent. They came from the earth, a place older than angels."
The name the movement had used was divine, but their power source was anything but.
Not angels. Not saints. Something primal.
"They turned to the old gods," the ghost had said.
"Specifically, to one of the last still clinging to the rocks and deep forest shadows. The Hollow Beast."
The Hollow Beast—sometimes called a forest warden, sometimes a demon—was once revered by pagan tribes who worshipped power, not beauty.
Enormous and misshapen, it had been a force of nature before civilization pushed it into legend.
With time, its name was erased, its worship forgotten, and it devolved into a lurking spirit-a predator of souls.
Christian had always treated the stories as folklore. Until now.
"I used to think those were just campfire tales," he said aloud, glancing into the darkness where two yellow eyes blinked.
"But it seems they weren't."
"You're not wrong," the voice replied with a casual menace.
"The Rebellion did channel the Hollow Beast. But civil wars burn hot, and in the ashes, the old god was buried again. Or so we thought."
Christian narrowed his eyes. "Buried? Or stolen?"
The voice chuckled, deflecting. "We're drifting from the point."
"And you're surprisingly well-informed for someone so young," the yellow-eyed entity replied, a sliver of respect slipping into its tone.
Charlize, who had been quietly enduring the heavy silence, finally broke in.
"Sorry, but—could someone explain what the hell is going on?"
Though they were speaking in what sounded like Latin-rooted incantations and words from dead tongues, it wasn't anything Charlize could parse—even after a few years bouncing between modeling gigs in Japan and Europe.
The creature must have understood her confusion, because it offered politely, "Go ahead. Enlighten the lady. We have all night."
Christian translated and offered the summary she craved.
"In simple terms, this guy is likely a relic from a forgotten war, around a hundred and fifty years ago. One of the last priests or avatars of an ancient, predatory force. The kind that used to be worshipped before civilization got in the way."
Charlize frowned. "Okay… and the ghosts outside?"
Christian exhaled slowly and met her eyes. "Those aren't just spirits. They're the leftovers—souls consumed by the Wraith-Tiger."
He pointed toward the cave's mouth, his voice steady.
"In some legends—Celtic, Norse, even Roman—it was believed that when certain beasts devour the living, they don't just take flesh. They trap the soul, bending it into their service. These aren't your average wandering dead. They're part of a predator's echo. It's a hunting lure."
"So, the ghosts are… bait?" she asked.
"And shields. And tools," Christian said.
"But mostly, they're a sign that the Hollow Beast's children still walk."
Christian shifted his gaze to the yellow-eyed entity—what the man had called a Wrath Tiger.
"Your clarity is... unusual for something like you," Christian said aloud.
"You're not rabid. You're not unraveling. So... are you human?"
The yellow-eyed figure let out a breathy chuckle, a sound like wind through rotting leaves.
"Once," he said.
"Long ago. During a time of blood and fire, when kings fell and chaos reigned. Some of us were chosen—not because we were gifted, but because we were brutal. They needed monsters, and I... I fit the mold."
He stepped forward into the half-light. The shape of him was still human, but wrong—too still, too stretched.
"I was bound to a dying god's avatar, twisted into a vessel. A Wraith-Tiger. But when I woke from the ritual, I wasn't in the war-torn land where it began. I was here. Alone. Forgotten."
His voice had the weariness of centuries, but as he continued, it sharpened with menace.
"You know what I am. You saw the ghosts outside. Hundreds. All mine. Consumed over decades. Their fear, their souls—they feed me. And knowing that, you still walked into my den."
He paused, eyes gleaming like coals.
"So why, little exorcist, did you come?"
Christian opened his mouth, but the creature wasn't finished.
"You're clever. Skilled, even. But your energy is nearly spent. Alone, maybe you'd stand a chance of running. But you're not alone, are you?"
Christian didn't respond. He didn't need to. The implication was obvious. With Charlize at his side, escape was a fantasy.
"Annika?" Charlize suddenly called out.
They turned to the cave entrance. Annika—one of the crew's makeup artists—stood there barefoot in her pajamas, skin pale and eyes vacant.
She didn't shiver despite the chill. The mark of possession hung on her like a shroud.
"She never woke up," Christian murmured.
"The ghosts got her before she saw anything. No trauma response. No defense. She's still dreaming…"
And in that dream, the Wrath Tiger had her.
Christian felt the weight of it then. The whole game had changed.
"I can't run," he admitted to himself.
"Not with both of them. And if I don't do something, this creature's going to keep feeding."
He watched the ghosts shift and stir at the edges of the cave, more specters than there should ever be in one place.
All echoes of the Tiger's hunger. All bound to him.
He exhaled, then raised his voice, steady and cold.
"Tiger, maybe there's another way."