The mansion sits above the colony.

Pretty, in all its southern charm and old plantation glory during the day. In the night, however, it casts nothing but a dark reminder over Richmond Hill. Over the powers that were, over the powers that will be.

Though the curfew hours of Russell have obviously, been lifted, Hannah couldn't feel the absence. Not a soul roamed the paths. Not the road she took, anyway. She could hear them. The people of the colony, having their own little parties. Some, gathered at the school, the town hall, or dared to stand outside the jails where Russell and Ana Maria stayed locked away. Taunting, as if the two inside could do nothing about it now. Even former members of The Guard acted as if, they'd never been one of Russell's bullies.

They weren't Hannah's concern, but there was one tied to Russell she didn't see.

Ethan didn't come home.

Her own house, empty. The one next to hers, Ethan's, longed for his return too. Yet, he didn't relieve their anticipation. She waited. She waited for hours. By herself.

A shallow bottle of cheap bourbon clutched in her right hand, it sways to the forceful stride she takes up the hill.

That shadowy beacon, beckoning her from her window and now, in her purposeful walk to get to him. Taking another gluttonous swig, her path staggers underneath her feet.

Why, Ethan chose to stay in the mansion with these strange new yahoos, is now her greatest mystery of all. Dalton's mystery kindness, had been solved. He needed her to get the rest of their people in the colony. Dalton knew Ana Maria, Hannah's enemy, but kept her in the dark all this time. She trusted him. That, was her first mistake. But for Ethan to abandon her...what had she done to deserve that?

At the plantation's door, she lingers. Staggering in her own stillness and managing to splash some of what's left in her bottle on her chilled fingers. Wiping it on her jeans, she hides the bottle the best she can next to a neglected planter on the porch.

From inside, she hears nothing. Not hushed chatter, not a laugh, nor the distant shuffle of feet.

Finally, she knocks. Softer than she meant to, but it's enough to ache at her already burning hand. Her injuries, still fresh and needing a good rest over the poisonous bourbon to heal.

When the door unlocks, then opens, Hannah's faced with one of those creepy men. Not their ring-leader whose face burned in her memory, but one of his lackeys that blended in with the others.

"Hi. I'm looking for Ethan. It's important." Hannah sharpens her words, trying to dull down the smooth coating in her throat from burning liquor.

The stranger's eyes narrow on her as he replies, "You are not allowed here. Go home, girl."

He goes to shut the door, but Hannah's hand, her boot, and half of her body is there to stop him.

"Listen, buddy, I'm not lookin' for a problem, but if you want to have me out on your porch all night singing 'She'll Be Comin' Round The Mountain' at the top of my lungs, then by all means, shut the door!"

"Ethan doesn't want you here. He is busy preparing."

A cold sets in her bones. One, that bourbon can shield her from. If he's right about Ethan not wanting her here, that is something she wants to hear from the horse's mouth. Yet, it's that eerie grin this man holds that gives Hannah an unexpected shudder. Preparing for what, exactly, wouldn't be a question she'd ask. Not to this guy, anyway.

Brushing past him, then dodging the hand that goes to grab her arm, Hannah is running down the hallways of the familiar mansion. Russell had a room for his nephew here, a living space that Ethan hadn't took up in quite some time. Not since, Russell started to lose his mind.

"Ethan!" She shouts for him. Again, then again, her panic rising when none other than their weird priest with his swaying cross blocks her path. The one, that left an awful impression of energy that seeped deep into her pores.

"There is no need for this. I will bring you to him." He whispers faintly into her reddened ear.

Adjusting the open flap of her coat that went askew from all her eluding of the other male's grip, she glares to him over her shoulder as she continues on. His head is bowed with this...pastor of sorts...who looked anything but the part. If it weren't for the cross around his neck, Hannah would have pegged their lead creeper for some hardened inmate fresh out of prison.

When he opens the door for her, Hannah enters—what used to be—the parlor. All that dated, yet expensive furniture gone. The room is lit by the small chandelier, dimmed, to its lowest point. In the darkness, wax candles in the hundreds are lit to try and chase it away. White, tall, uneven, Hannah knows that the candlestick maker was cleaned out with this groups arrival.

The thousands of questions, of judgements she carries, line up on her contorted face as she tries to adjust to the low lighting.

Among the shapes of people that sit, that stand, that read from aged bibles, Hannah sees him.

"Ethan." Stating his name, rather than calling for him, she waits in the shock, the disappointment, as the eldritch vibe brings her hairs to stand on end. At Ethan's back, she stares, watching his head rise from what he's reading in the light that surely, strained his eyes.

When he turns, she sees that beaten face again. A face, that looks a lot like her own misery since his absence.

"Hannah, you shouldn't be here." He says calmly enough, but his own fright catches in the amber flickers behind her.

"Why not? Ethan, come home with me." Hannah takes a step forward as Ethan takes one back. The book in his hand, clutched, held in the spot where he reads by one scabbed finger.

"Hannah, I am home. You need to go. Don't come here looking for me. I've taken up a new life. You need to understand and go. Just go." His eyes flicker away for a moment to where she believes that man to be standing, where the swaying cross dances in the corner of her vision.

"That all sounds fun, Ethan. Why don't we at least go to your house, or my house for the night and talk things over. You can bring your...book. You just got back. We have a lot to talk about."

Ethan's head shakes as he says, "No. We don't," as he turns his back and opens up that cruddy bible again, Ethan utters, "Goodbye, Hannah."

She goes to take another step, to force Ethan to turn around and face her, but all the lights disappear from her right side as a hand presses to her bicep.

"It's time to go." The religious man whispers to her again, sending that shockwave down into the pit of her stomach.

His energy was one thing to sit and weigh on her. His voice, so close to give her chills, even left a foul taste in her mouth, similar to saline.

Obeying against what she'd normally protest, there's a survival instinct triggered within Hannah to wage this war on another day. All eyes plaster on her. The men that could destroy her with a single strike, seem to close in when she hesitates. With his hand wrapped over her arm to lead her out, it's not in the vice of his hold that leads her, but in the weight of his darkness alone. A threat looms. One, that follows her out as men continue to slowly swarm in from the side and from behind her.

At the door and never happier to see one, Hannah doesn't dare look back till she's kissing the cool night air again. Alone, released and thankful for it, any thoughts Hannah can conjure up disappear till the door separates them. The locks twist and hold and she continues to listen, hearing nothing but his steps quieting beyond.

She leaves the mansion grounds as quickly as she can without running. Forgetting the liquor bottle, forgetting most everything other than the paranoia that rises within her. If they took all those candles, what else have they taken?

Although there might be a mask of false safety over the colony in the belief that Doyle was in charge now, Hannah learned quickly that they had a greater danger to worry about.

If Russell could overthrow the military here with only a dozen or so of his own, then this church could accomplish more with that man and his own madness to rival Russell's.

They've already taken advantage of resources. And, if they had all of Russel's and The Guard's stashed weaponry in there, what chance did they have if they chose to take whatever else they wanted by force?

She had to check her own stash. What was hidden, should they ever need it. Something, that only Ethan shared in this knowledge with. And, she hoped, that he wasn't ever going to be far enough gone with those people to reveal it.

Behind the farmhouse and beyond the barn, the fields, the gardens, Hannah didn't stop till she met the familiar tree. Between the two boulders, underneath the fake grass, she lifted it all up till she saw the metal casing. The same door, that Ana Maria trapped her behind to torture her, only with a far better surprise underneath.

Giving the combination passed onto her and Ethan from the murdered soldiers, it takes the last of Hannah's drunken strength to lift the rusted door. Descending into the bunker, she can see little beyond the opening. Not having a flashlight, nor a match to light the hanging lantern, Hannah takes in what she can. Assessing in the dim light, if the newcomers have raided their last military defense.

Seeing the shine of ammunition, of high-power rifles, Hannah exhales the breath that held in with so much tension. Rising up, locking it, then returning it back to hiding, Hannah felt some comfort, if any, in knowing they still stood a chance, should the weight of the church threaten to crush her home into rubble.

☠☠☠☠

The trailer for the next book "His Eve", will be released within the next week! PLEASE leave comments/reviews and you might be incorporated into the trailer with a shout out to your name!

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We're almost at the end with "Alive". What do you think of Abel's group and why is Ethan one of them now? Theories welcomed! :)