Chapter 9: Gangs in Desperation
The paranoia in the air had turned thick and hostile. Tensions within the gang were nearing a boiling point, and every shadow seemed to crawl with hidden threats. Word had spread fast—something dark had taken root, marking them like prey. For every mark that appeared on their skin, a ripple of fear tore through their ranks.
Desperate for answers, some of the gang members took matters into their own hands. They rolled up on a local psychic's storefront, a faded "Spiritual Readings" sign barely visible under the harsh fluorescent lights of the strip mall. The psychic, an elderly woman with bracelets clinking along her bony arms, looked up as they entered, her face a mask of practiced calm. But she could see the desperation in their eyes.
"¿Qué quieren?" she asked, voice wavering only slightly. "What do you want?"
One of the gang members, Miguel, stepped forward, his fists clenched. "We want answers. These… these marks," he pulled up his sleeve, revealing the dark symbols burned into his skin, "What the hell are they?"
The psychic took a step back, her face ashen. She muttered something under her breath, fingers tracing protective symbols in the air. "No se metan con esto… You don't know what you're dealing with."
Miguel's patience snapped. "Don't give us that mystic crap. You know what this is. These marks, the things we're seeing, it's no coincidence. What did Jesse get us into?"
The woman's eyes darted to the symbols, fear creeping into her voice. "Es una maldición antigua…an ancient curse. Those marks tie you to something dark. It's not something I can fix."
"Then why are you here, huh? Selling all this mystical stuff if you can't even help us!" Another member, Johnny, spat out, his voice laced with anger.
She shook her head. "I only protect. I don't interfere with curses as old as this. There's nothing I can do for you."
Miguel's expression darkened. "Waste of time," he growled, storming out, his frustration evident. Johnny and the others lingered for a moment, giving the woman a hard, accusing stare before following him.
As they stepped outside, Miguel looked at Johnny, his eyes cold. "I've had it with these so-called 'spiritual guides.' If they can't help, they're just part of the problem. I say we make it clear—no one messes with us."
While others sought answers in the realm of the mystical, some of the gang members turned back to the church, a last resort for any kind of protection. A few of them weren't strangers to it, having grown up sitting through Sunday services with their abuelas. But now, as they stepped through the heavy wooden doors, the familiar, comforting aura of the place seemed to repel them, an invisible wall pressing down on their souls.
The priest, an older man with a gentle demeanor, looked up as they walked in, immediately sensing their distress. "You boys look troubled. Is there something you're seeking here?"
One of the younger gang members, Luis, pulled off his hoodie, showing the symbols burned into his forearms. "Padre, we… we don't know what's happening to us. These marks… they're messing with our heads. We're seeing things, hearing voices…"
The priest stepped back, crossing himself as he looked at the markings. "These… these are not symbols of God. You have brought darkness into this holy place."
Luis felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. He tried to reach out toward the altar, but his hand burned, forcing him to pull back. One of the other gang members, Alex, tried to grab a crucifix from the wall, only to recoil, screaming as blisters formed on his palms.
The priest's eyes widened, horror mingling with pity. "This is beyond me," he whispered. "Whatever curse you carry, it won't be absolved by simply coming here. You need to make amends with what you've done."
"Padre, please," Luis whispered, his voice desperate. But he could feel it—the church itself was rejecting them, the very air thickening with hostility, the light from the stained-glass windows dimming as shadows crept along the walls.
The priest made the sign of the cross in the air, his hand shaking. "May God be with you," he said, voice cracking. "But I fear only you can lift this curse."
The group stumbled out of the church, the weight of their rejection hanging over them. They were lost, each one feeling the edges of reality beginning to fray.
As they left the church, an uneasy silence settled over the group. Luis was breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat coating his face as he glanced back at the church doors.
"Did you feel that?" he muttered, rubbing his hands, still red and sore from the crucifix.
Johnny shrugged but didn't look him in the eye. "Yeah. Place felt wrong. Like it knew we didn't belong."
Miguel's expression hardened as he clenched his fists, a bitter edge in his voice. "So, that's it? We got no help from the bruja, no help from the church. We're on our own?"
Johnny's laughter was dark and humorless. "Man, what'd you think was gonna happen? Church doesn't mess with curses, with darkness. This thing we're wrapped up in, it doesn't belong in no house of God."
Luis glanced around, making sure no one else was listening. "What about Ali? She's seen more than we have. Maybe she knows how to deal with this."
Miguel scoffed. "Ali? She's been marked as long as we have. Probably worse. You think she's got it figured out?"
Luis sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I don't know, man. We're running out of options."
"Running out?" Miguel's voice rose, frustration bubbling over. "I'm not running anywhere. We're going to make this right. I don't care who I gotta deal with, even if it's that witch aunt of hers."
The group fell silent, their anger a fragile shield against the creeping fear that had taken hold of them. They could feel it—something in the air, the heaviness pressing down on them, like eyes in the dark, watching and waiting.
Just then, a piercing scream shattered the quiet, echoing from a nearby alley. They all spun around, their nerves already frayed.
"Did you hear that?" Alex whispered, his voice shaking.
Another scream, closer this time. The gang members exchanged uneasy glances, adrenaline spiking as they crept forward toward the source. Turning the corner, they found a young woman, her eyes wide with terror, backing away from an empty spot in the alley as if something unseen was advancing on her.
Miguel stepped forward. "Hey! What's going on?"
The woman's gaze snapped toward them, her eyes filled with something wild, frantic. "They're here… they're coming… the shadows…"
Luis took a step back, his face pale. "What the hell's she talking about?"
But before anyone could respond, the shadows in the alley seemed to move, creeping toward them, swirling as if they were alive. The gang watched, frozen, as dark shapes coalesced into the form of a woman, her face obscured by the darkness.
The woman in the alley scrambled backward, and Luis felt his heart pound as the figure turned its head, staring directly at them.
"Bruja…" she hissed, her voice a low, guttural whisper that seemed to come from everywhere at once.
Miguel pulled out his knife, hands shaking as he pointed it at the shadow. "Get back! I swear I'll—"
But the figure only laughed, the sound echoing, chilling, filling their minds with whispers they couldn't understand. Luis felt his head pounding, his vision blurring as the whispers grew louder, drowning out all thought.
Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the shadow vanished, leaving only silence in its wake. The woman in the alley lay motionless, her eyes open, staring into nothingness.
Johnny shook his head, muttering in a shaky voice, "Nah… no way we're gonna beat this. We're cursed. Straight up."
Miguel grit his teeth, his face contorted in anger and fear. "I don't care if it's a curse. I don't care what we gotta do. This thing, whatever it is, it's going down. We'll find that damn ritual book of Katie's if that's what it takes."
With that, the gang turned back toward the streets, each of them knowing that there was no turning back now.
The Funhouse had been a haunted shell for years, but tonight, it felt different. The air was thick, damp with something foul and unsettling. Shadows clung to every corner, stretched unnaturally in the flickering light. The gang could feel the weight of something heavy in the air, something… hungry.
The gang moved cautiously, their footsteps echoing off the cracked mirrors and peeling wallpaper. Whispers seemed to chase them, disembodied voices just at the edge of hearing, slipping into Spanglish curses and cryptic chants that none of them could quite understand.
Miguel led the way, knife clenched tight in his hand, his knuckles white. "What the hell are we doing here, man?" Johnny muttered behind him, his voice barely a whisper. "This place feels wrong."
"Quiet," Miguel snapped, his voice tense. "We're here for answers."
As they rounded a corner, Luis gasped, freezing in place. There, sprawled in the middle of the room, was a body. Blood pooled beneath it, dark and viscous, spreading like a stain on the cracked floorboards. Symbols were carved into the victim's skin, strange and chaotic, like someone had written a twisted language into their flesh.
It was fresh. The blood was still glistening.
Miguel's eyes widened, his breath coming short. "Dios mío… what is this?"
Before they could react, a shadow shifted in the corner of the room. Slowly, a group of figures emerged, dressed in dark robes, their faces obscured by hoods. Their hands were stained red, slick with fresh blood.
One of them—a woman—stepped forward, pulling her hood back. Her face was cold, eyes dark and lifeless. "You're trespassing," she said, her voice low and venomous.
"What the—who the hell are you?" Miguel barked, holding his knife up defensively.
She smirked, her gaze drifting to the body on the floor. "He was the first. The ritual demands sacrifice. And now…" Her eyes swept over the group, calculating, predatory. "…it demands more."
Luis took a step back, his face pale. "Nah, man. Nah. We're not staying for this. I'm out."
But as he turned to leave, the doors slammed shut, as if the Funhouse itself was alive, determined to keep them in. The robed figures began to close in, their chants growing louder, echoing off the walls.
Miguel tightened his grip on his knife, glancing at the others. "Fight or die, ese. We're not going down without a fight."
The woman laughed, her voice dripping with disdain. "You think that little blade will save you? You have no idea what you're dealing with." She lifted her hands, revealing blood-stained talismans clutched in her fingers. "This is beyond your street fights. This is power you can't even begin to understand."
The gang members steeled themselves, forming a loose circle, backs to each other. But the witches were fast. They lunged, knives gleaming in the dim light, catching the gang off-guard.
Miguel took a swing at one of the witches, his knife slicing through the air, but it was like they weren't even human. One of them grabbed his arm, twisting it with inhuman strength until the knife clattered to the floor.
"Please, man," Johnny pleaded, his voice a desperate whisper. "We didn't sign up for this."
But there was no mercy in the witches' eyes. They chanted louder, the words thick and ancient, reverberating in the Funhouse as though the walls themselves were joining in. One of them moved forward, a glint of satisfaction in her eyes as she plunged a knife into Johnny's chest, twisting it slowly, savoring every second.
The others fought, but it was useless. One by one, they were overpowered, dragged to the center of the room, where the witches began a brutal, calculated ritual, sacrificing each of them one by one.
Miguel's vision blurred as he lay on the cold floor, bleeding out, the sounds of chanting filling his ears. Just before the darkness took him, he saw it—a shadow with eyes, watching from the corner, smiling at the carnage.
And then, silence.
Ali sat hunched on her couch, the flickering TV casting an eerie blue glow across her face. She'd barely slept in days, plagued by visions of her family, haunted by that sense of impending doom tightening around her. The noise from the television had become a kind of static background, a white noise she could lose herself in to avoid the silence, the shadows, and the creeping sense of dread.
Just as she was reaching for the remote to turn it off, the newscaster's tone shifted, his voice becoming tense.
"Breaking news: a brutal, unexplained crime scene has been discovered in Carlsbad. Police were called late last night to an abandoned property known locally as 'the Funhouse,' where authorities have reported a series of violent deaths involving multiple gang members."
Ali's hand froze mid-air. Her pulse quickened as she leaned forward, eyes locked on the screen.
"Sources say the bodies were found arranged in what authorities are calling a 'ritualistic display.' The victims—believed to be connected to local gangs—were each marked with strange symbols carved into their skin. These symbols…"
The screen briefly flashed a blurry photograph of one of the symbols, and Ali's stomach twisted. It was one of the markings she'd seen in her nightmares—sharp, jagged, almost ancient-looking. Her mind raced, piecing together fragments of memories, visions, and whispers that had haunted her over the past weeks.
"At this time, no suspects have been identified, though authorities are investigating possible connections to other recent cases involving similar symbols and unexplained disturbances. The site itself…" The reporter paused, as if hesitating. "...has been associated with rumors of occult activity."
Ali pressed a hand to her mouth, feeling bile rise in her throat. She recognized some of those faces flashing on the screen—the young men she'd seen with Quico and the others, some of the very ones who had come to her apartment that night, demanding to know about Jesse. They were dead. All of them.
She knew it wasn't random. The symbols, the location, the violence—it was all connected. The dark presence she felt clawing at her, the dreams, the bruises, the flashes of her family's deaths. It was like the curse had spread, reaching anyone in proximity, anyone with even a hint of involvement.
Suddenly, her phone buzzed on the table, snapping her out of her trance. She grabbed it, her fingers trembling.
A message from Martine: "You need to leave. NOW. Get out, Ali. Before it's too late."
Ali's heart hammered in her chest as she read the text. Her mind was spinning. Where would she even go? How could she outrun something that had already reached deep into her life, into her very bloodline?
The television droned on in the background, the news segment moving on to another story. But Ali barely heard it. Her gaze drifted to the shadows in the corners of her living room, the familiar sense of being watched pressing down on her again.
Another text came through. This one simply read: "If you don't end it, it will end you."
With a shaky breath, Ali stood up, her eyes darting around the room. She could feel it now more than ever—the weight of something sinister pressing against her, waiting, watching. Her fingers tightened around her phone as she whispered to herself, "I'm not running anymore."
With one last look at the twisted symbol on the TV screen, Ali knew what she had to do. It was time to confront the darkness that had been haunting her. She couldn't keep hiding; she needed answers, and she needed them now.
Whatever lay ahead, she'd face it head-on—even if it killed her.