Chapter 20 Evie #2
My wrist is still on fire.
My skull still aches with the pressure of the Chorus trying to pull me into rhythm.
But I’m not chanting.
I’m not kneeling.
I’m moving.
I catch one last glimpse of Kaia onstage, her head tilted, purple flaring too long, Mina braced in front of her like a shield.
And I make the choice that feels like ripping my own heart in half.
Hold on, I think at my grandma, wherever she is in that sea of bodies.
Hold on.
Then I turn and run for the sound.
Not toward the stage—that’s what the Chorus wants. That’s where the mouths are. That’s where Kaia is trapped in lights and sound and a crowd begging to be eaten.
I run sideways, cutting along the edges of the festival where the booths are dense and the tents make narrow corridors only locals know.
Because this is my town.
Because Harbor Lights is a maze I grew up inside.
Because if the demon is using sound, then I’m going to take away its teeth.
I duck behind the kettle corn tent as a surge of bodies pushes forward toward the stage.
Someone bumps my shoulder and snarls without looking at me.
I shove back and keep moving. Past the ring toss booth.
Past the overpriced lantern table. Past the “Hometown Heroes” photo wall that makes me want to vomit.
A staff gate sits behind the food trucks—cheap chain, padlock, a bored volunteer who usually waves locals through if they look like they belong.
Tonight the volunteer’s eyes are glassy. His mouth is moving with the chant.
I don’t slow down. I grab the gate and yank. It rattles.
Locked.
“Of course,” I hiss.
My wrist burns hot, warning me I’m doing something I’m not supposed to, like the binding thinks “don’t draw attention” is more important than “don’t let everyone die.”
I slam my palm against the latch edge hard.
Once.
Twice.
The latch pops and the lock drops, clattering onto the ground.
The volunteer doesn’t even blink. I squeeze through the gate and sprint down the narrow service corridor behind the tents. The noise changes back here, less crowd roar, more mechanical hum, more generators. The festival’s guts.
I know exactly where I’m going.
Main power junction is near the sound towers, behind the sponsor banners, by the maintenance shed with the “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL” sign that everyone ignores.
I used to sneak back here as a teenager to steal extra lanterns.
I can find it blind.
The pressure at the base of my skull pulses, stronger now that I’m away from the crowd. The Chorus doesn’t like losing its audience. The chant follows me anyway, ghosting through speakers and bodies, crawling down the corridors.
“One more song.”
I shove past a stack of coiled cables.
A tech stumbles into view ahead of me, holding a flashlight like it’s a weapon. He’s wearing a headset. His eyes are too wide, too unfocused. He’s chanting too, quietly, like he’s trying to harmonize with something he can’t see.
“One more—”
“Move,” I snap.
He doesn’t. He turns toward me with a smile that isn’t his own. His mouth opens and a wrong harmony slips out… soft, sweet, layered.
“Come back,” it whispers.
My skin crawls. For half a second, I see Kaia in my mind again—her mouth on mine in the Ferris wheel, her voice in my ear.
Don’t watch.
Be safe.
My throat tightens.
“I’m not in the mood,” I tell the tech, and slam my shoulder into him.
He stumbles sideways, hitting a crate. His flashlight clatters. I sprint past him. The maintenance shed is right there, half-hidden behind an Eon banner. I yank the door open. Inside is the power board—rows of labeled switches, breakers, and one big lever marked MAIN AUDIO FEED in thick sharpie.
Because Harbor Lights runs on prayers and duct tape.
My hands shake. The crowd noise booms through the walls like a heartbeat. Onstage, the Chorus is still feeding. The loop is still tight.
If I flip the wrong switch, I might plunge the whole festival into darkness and panic, and panic is also food.
But if I don’t try, the Chorus eats everyone.
I stare at the lever.
My wrist burns hotter, like the binding is screaming now.
I grit my teeth so hard it hurts.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
Then I grab the lever with both hands and yank it down.
The effect is immediate. The music drops mid-beat. The speakers go silent, not a gentle fade. A brutal stop, like a throat cut wide open.
For half a second, there’s a vacuum. The crowd’s chant stutters.
“One more—” a hundred voices start, then falter as the sound disappears.
The stage lights flicker. The big LED screens glitch. In the sudden silence, I hear something else, an ugly, furious sound overhead, like a thousand mouths inhaling at once and finding no song to ride.
The Chorus screams. It isn’t audible like a normal scream. It’s pressure in my head and vibration in my bones.
I stumble, hand gripping the shed doorframe as the soundless shock hits me.
Then the crowd reacts. People start to shout, confused, angry, afraid.
“What happened?”
“Is it a power outage?”
“Where’s my mom?”
Someone laughs nervously. Someone screams. The spell breaks in pieces, unevenly. Some people blink like they’re waking up. Others keep chanting without sound, mouths moving like fish.
I don’t wait. I bolt out of the shed and sprint toward the sound tower itself, because cutting the feed might not be enough if the Chorus is already inside the rigs.
The back corridor is chaos now—techs stumbling, security yelling into radios, a generator whining like it’s overworked.
I reach the base of the nearest sound tower and start climbing the metal stairs two at a time. A tech stands halfway up, hands on the console, eyes glassy. He’s humming the Harbor Lights jingle under his breath like a prayer.
“Hey,” I snap, grabbing his shoulder.
He turns his head slowly, too slow. His mouth opens. And that layered voice tries to slide out again, sweet as rot.
“Stay—”
I shove him. Hard. He stumbles back, catching himself on the railing with a startled, human sound.
His eyes blink, focus snapping in for half a second.
“What—”
“Go,” I bark. “Get down. Now.”
He looks like he wants to argue. Then the air ripples above us, and his face drains of color. He bolts down the stairs.
Good.
I slam my hands onto the console. It’s a mess of sliders and buttons and glowing indicators. I don’t know sound boards. I know coffee machines and cash drawers.
But I know one thing: If the demon is riding the speakers, I take away the speakers.
My gaze locks on the emergency shutoff switch—a red, plastic-covered button labeled SYSTEM KILL.
Of course it has one.
Because even Harbor Lights knows something could go wrong.
My wrist burns like fire.
I flip the plastic cover up. Then I slam my palm down on the button.
The tower goes dark. The stage lights flicker again. The big screens glitch harder.
A wave of murmurs rises from the crowd like a tide changing direction. And overhead, the Chorus’s mass convulses, faces stretching, mouths opening wide with no sound to carry them.
For the first time all night, it looks hurt.
For the first time, it looks like it can’t just feed and smile and pretend to be a pleasant memory.
My chest heaves.
I grip the railing, breathing hard.
Below, the crowd is starting to move—panic, confusion, people looking around like they just realized they’ve been chanting.
But the Chorus isn’t gone. It’s still there. Still hungry. And now it’s angry.
I look toward the stage, toward the lights, toward the center where Kaia is. She’s looking around, confused. Mina helps her up.
Thank god.
Now, she has to do her job. And I realize with a cold drop in my stomach: I just pulled the plug on the demon’s control loop.
Now they have to kill it before it finds a new way to sing.