Crescent View

 Way up in the Irish hills, where sheep outnumber people and the fog never fully lifts, is the town of Crescent View. From a distance, it looks perfect. The kind of place you would photograph, believing it was proof that places like this still exist.

 

But if you stayed longer, you would begin to feel it. The quiet prickle on the back of your neck. The woods that seem to watch you wherever you go. A stranger’s smile that lingers uncomfortably.

 

And if you stayed longer, you’d hear the town’s whispers.

 

About a boy at St. Bernard’s, the prestigious all-boys Catholic school, who took his life. About how his absence left a shape no one knows how to explain. His name is spoken carefully, if at all. And sometimes, when the wind carries it just right, another name follows… Noah Vernont.

 

If you saw Noah, just like the town, you would think he was perfect. Blond hair, unforgettable blue eyes, and the St. Bernard’s uniform worn like a promise. The kind of boy you’d believe had it all. What you wouldn’t see is the grief scarred through him, his fractured family life, and his quiet confusion about his purpose.

 

And if you stayed even longer, if you could bear it, the whispers would grow even darker.

 

Two exorcists had just arrived from London. Three girls pulled quietly from St. Agnes. No one knows if these things are related. No one agrees on what it all means. In Crescent View, certainty is dangerous, and faith is always fragile.