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Fourteen doors have been opened. Fourteen horrors have been unleashed upon Marshport. And now, for the first time, the calendar has changed its pattern.Behind door fourteen, Matthew Klein found something he hadn't encountered before — a second door. Locked. Immovable. And behind it, the unmistakable drone of flies, buzzing in the darkness, waiting for whatever comes next.The calendar has never withheld before. Every door has delivered its grim prophecy on schedule, each trinket a harbinger of tragedy to follow. But now the entity seems to be holding something back, building toward something larger. The flies from door twelve. The maggots. The sound of buzzing once again behind the locked second door. These horrors have accumulated without resolution, stacking like kindling before a flame.Pastor Hart's words echo in Matthew's mind: You have a demon. Not a haunting. Not a curse. A demon — ancient, deliberate, and patient. The pastor promised to call a friend, a priest with experience in matters most clergy never face. Demonology. The word itself feels like an admission that ordinary faith may not be enough.Ten doors remain until Christmas Eve. Ten days until the anniversary of the fire that consumed Matthew's family and birthed this nightmare. The calendar was built from the ashes of that night — from the charred remains of the spirit board that released something unspeakable into the world. Wilbur Ward's hands may have shaped the wood, but the intelligence behind it is far older and far darker than any man.Lewis Chambers is dead. Ren Nguyen is dead. Bridgett Carr, Gwen Martin — the calendar's body count grows with each passing day, and Matthew remains powerless to stop it. Compliance brings death to innocents. Defiance brings suffering to his family. The demon has engineered a perfect trap, and every door Matthew opens tightens the noose.The hooded figure continues to appear at the edges of tragedy, glimpsed in security footage, spotted by witnesses, standing motionless in the road as Lewis's patrol car swerved to its doom. Is it Wilbur Ward, still serving the entity after thirty years? Or something else entirely — something that wears human shape the way the calendar wears the facade of holiday tradition?December 15th arrives cold and gray over Marshport. The locked door waits. The flies continue to buzz.And somewhere, a priest prepares to face what dwells within.

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