Turtlecrow @turtle-crow - Tumblr Blog

Jun 10

As Above, So Below

pairing: eddie x you (female! reader)

description: The house was supposed to be perfect for your family’s mortuary business: old, untouched, full of “energy.” What they don’t tell you is that the spirits inside aren’t quiet, they aren’t kind, and they definitely don’t want you there. When your first night ends in a nightmare that feels too real to be a dream, you start to understand: this house doesn’t just hold the dead, it keeps them.

tags: dark romance, ghost!eddie, witch!reader, coven dynamics, haunted house, mortician family, supernatural horror, forbidden relationship, dead dove (proceed with caution), slow corruption, power awakening, “the house chose you”, morally gray love, obsession but make it romantic, american horror story vibes, chilling adventures of sabrina core, blood ritual, dark baptism, occult themes, religious horror undertones.

TW: graphic gore, blood (heavy), ritual sacrifice imagery, occult practices, religious themes (satanic/anti-christian imagery), dark magic, possession themes, death, suicide (referenced), “dead dove adjacent” themes

WC: 17.2k

A/N: where do i even start... i started rewatching AHS to prepare for the new season and immediately started drafting an eddie fic in my head. a lot of references to both AHS & CAOS. i say this everytime but i feel like this one is my favorite lol. reblogs are always appreciated. much love, always. enjoy <3

You don’t find the house, the house finds you.

It’s what your aunt says, anyway, standing at the edge of the gravel drive like she’s greeting something instead of looking at it. Your mother doesn’t correct her. She never does.

They stand side by side, black coats brushing at their calves despite the heat, staring up at the place like it’s already theirs in a way that has nothing to do with paperwork or keys or the realtor fidgeting nervously behind them.

You linger a few steps back, arms crossed, taking it in for what it is to you: a house too big for three people, too old to feel safe, all gray stone and creeping ivy that claws its way up the sides like it’s trying to get in as much as it’s trying to get out. It’s beautiful, in a way that feels intentional. Designed. Like something meant to be admired from a distance, not lived in.

“Tell me again why we’re moving to the middle of nowhere,” you mutter, not really expecting an answer.

Your aunt hums, almost amused. “Energy,” she says simply, like that explains anything at all.

“It’s a strong point,” your mother adds, softer, eyes still fixed on the house. “Older than most of the structures around it. It’s untouched.”

Untouched is not the word you would use. The place looks like it’s been held onto. Preserved in the way something is when people are too afraid to tear it down.

The realtor clears his throat, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite land. “It’s been vacant for a while,” he says. “But structurally, it’s sound. The previous owners…well, the business downstairs closed years ago, but everything’s still intact. If you’re planning to renovate—”

“We’re not,” your aunt cuts in, finally stepping forward, gravel crunching beneath her heel. “We prefer it as it is.”

You’ve always known what they are.

There was no big reveal, no moment where everything changed. It was just normal. Sitting at the kitchen table while your aunt labeled jars you weren’t supposed to touch.

Being asked to hold something steady while your mother murmured under her breath, words you understood just enough to follow along with, never quite enough to repeat.

They included you. That’s the thing. They never pushed you out of it.

You were allowed to watch, to help, to ask questions that they actually answered. You know what herbs do what. You know how to set a circle, how to recognize when something feels wrong. You’ve seen enough not to flinch at things most people would run from.

You just can’t do any of it yourself. And that’s where it starts to feel like a joke that’s gone on too long.

You follow them up the path, the air shifting the closer you get, like stepping into a room where someone’s just stopped talking. The front door is heavy, dark wood worn smooth at the handle, and when your mother pushes it open, it doesn’t creak. It just gives, like it’s been waiting.

Inside, the house is cooler than it should be.

Not air-conditioned, cool. Something deeper. The kind that settles into your bones and stays there. High ceilings, narrow hallways, dark floors that echo just a little too much under your shoes. There’s a smell you can’t quite place: clean, but not fresh. Preserved. Like something meant to last longer than it should.

Your aunt moves through it like she already knows the layout, fingers trailing along the walls, pausing at doorways like she’s listening for something on the other side. Your mother lingers in the foyer, eyes half-lidded, breathing in slowly.

“Do you feel that?” she asks.

You don’t want to answer. Because you do. It’s faint. Easy to ignore if you try hard enough. A pressure just beneath your skin, like static before a storm.

“Yeah,” you admit this time, quieter. “It’s weird.”

Your aunt glances back at you, pleased. “Good.” You roll your eyes a little, but it doesn’t quite stick.

You make it halfway up the stairs before it comes up. It always does.

“So,” your aunt calls lightly from below, “anything yet?”

You stop, already annoyed. “You ask me that like it’s going to change between breakfast and now.”

“Things shift,” she says easily. “Especially in places like this.”

You glance back down at them, leaning against the banister. “No. Still tragically human. Sorry to disappoint.”

Your aunt laughs. Your mother doesn’t.

“You haven’t awakened yet,” she says, calm, certain. “That doesn’t mean you won’t.”

“Yeah,” you mutter. “I’ve heard that one before.”

“Because it’s true.”

You don’t argue, not really. Because part of the problem isn’t that you don’t believe them. It’s that you do. And you’re still here. Still waiting. Still watching everyone else do things you’re supposed to be able to do, like you’re just slightly out of sync with something you can’t quite reach.

The upstairs is worse, somehow. Quieter. The kind of quiet that feels like it’s listening back. You push open the first door you find, claiming it without really thinking, dropping your bag onto the bed, and moving straight to the window. Outside, the yard stretches wide and uneven, bordered by trees that feel a little too close despite the distance.

You crack the window open, letting in air that feels warmer, more normal, and lean out just enough to breathe.

Down below, your aunt’s voice drifts faintly through the open front door, something low and pleased. Your mother answers, softer, almost reverent.

“…it’s still here,” your aunt is saying. “You can feel it.”

“We should greet them,” your mother replies.

You don’t even pretend not to go back down. They’re already in place when you return. Your aunt is in the center of the foyer, and your mother is just beside her. No candles. No theatrics. They’ve never needed them. You hover near the stairs, arms crossed again, trying for casual even as the air shifts.

“You’re really doing this right now?” you ask.

Your aunt glances at you. “Do you want to help?”

You hesitate, just for a second. Because you always do. Then you step forward anyway, taking the place your mother gestures to without comment. Not in the center. Not leading. But not excluded either. Never excluded.

“Focus,” your mother murmurs.

You try, you really do. You know what this is supposed to feel like. You’ve watched them enough times to recognize the rhythm of it, the way the air should respond, the way something should click into place. You just never feel that part.

“We acknowledge this place,” your aunt says.

The words settle, heavy.

“We acknowledge what remains,” your mother follows.

The floor creaks beneath your feet. Slow. Deliberate. Something is shifting deep within the structure of the house. Your breath catches.

“We come with respect,” your aunt continues. “And with purpose.” The lights flicker. Once, then twice.

It hits you first as pressure, thick and sudden, like the air’s been compressed around you. Your chest tightens, your skin prickling as the temperature drops sharply, colder than before, biting now. The house reacts. Not subtly. Not quietly.

The front door rattles violently in its frame. Something slams upstairs: loud, deliberate, unmistakable. The walls groan, low and strained, like something deep inside them is shifting all at once.

You flinch. “Okay—” you breathe. “That’s—”

“Don’t break focus,” your mother says, calm but firm. Easy for her to say.

The pressure builds, heavier now, pressing in from all sides. The air feels wrong in your lungs, too thick, too cold, too aware. And then, something sharp.

The lights flicker violently, plunging the room into near-dark for a split second before snapping back. The floor shudders beneath you, just enough to feel like something is recoiling.

Your aunt exhales softly. Not alarmed, but interested.

“They don’t like us,” she murmurs.

“No,” your mother agrees quietly. “They don’t.”

Your aunt tilts her head slightly, like she’s listening to something just beneath the noise. Then, calmly, “Show yourselves.” The words don’t echo; they settle.

For a moment, nothing happens. The kind of nothing that stretches just long enough to make your chest tighten, your breath shallow, your body bracing without knowing what for. The air stays heavy, the silence too thick, the house too still, like everything has paused in expectation.

And then it changes. Not suddenly. Not violently. Just, enough.

There’s a shift in the hallway, subtle enough that you almost miss it, like the light bending at the edge of your vision, like something stepping into a space that was already occupied. Your eyes catch on it, focus tightening, and then he’s just there.

A man. Not flickering. Not translucent. Not anything like what you expected. He looks normal.

Mid-thirties, maybe. Dark hair, slightly disheveled, a plain button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled like he’d been in the middle of something before being interrupted. He stands at the threshold of the hallway as if he belongs there, like he’s been standing there the entire time, and you just didn’t notice him until now.

There’s weight to him, presence, something solid enough that your brain tries to slot him into reality before it can catch up with what’s actually happening.

He doesn’t move right away. He just watches. Not you, not at first, but your mother, your aunt, his expression unreadable in a way that feels deliberate, controlled, like he’s deciding something without letting you see what.

Your aunt’s lips curve faintly, satisfied, like this is exactly what she was waiting for. Your mother inclines her head, not submissive, not challenging, something measured in between.

“You called,” the man says. His voice is even. Calm. Entirely human.

Your aunt steps forward just slightly, not enough to close the distance, just enough to acknowledge him. “We did,” she says. “We thought it would be better to introduce ourselves properly.”

The man’s gaze flicks between them, slow, assessing, then drifts briefly toward you before returning just as quickly, like you’re not the focus of this yet. “Most of them won’t come,” he says after a moment, tone unchanged. “Not like this.”

Your mother’s brow lifts faintly. “No?”

“They can’t,” he replies. “Or they won’t. Some are… less stable. Some are bound in ways that don’t allow it. And some simply don’t care to be seen.” There’s the faintest pause, something almost like amusement, though it doesn’t reach his expression.

“You’re speaking to the one who does.”

Your aunt seems pleased by that; if anything, her interest is sharpening instead of fading. “Then we’re glad you answered.”

The man’s attention sharpens slightly, something beneath the surface shifting in a way you can’t quite name. “You shouldn’t be,” he says, still calm, still level, but there’s something else under it now. Not anger, not yet. Something closer to a warning.

“This house has been quiet for a long time.”

“We didn’t come to disturb it,” your mother says, her voice steady, controlled in a way you’ve heard before, in the middle of things you weren’t meant to interrupt. “We came to live.”

Then, more clearly, more deliberately, “As equals.”

The man studies her for a long moment, his expression unreadable in a way that feels intentional, like he’s choosing exactly how much to give away and nothing more. “You say that,” he replies, “but I know what you are.”

Your aunt doesn’t deny it. She doesn’t soften it, doesn’t dress it up into something more palatable. “Then you know we understand what balance requires,” she says lightly, though there’s weight behind it, something more deliberate than her tone suggests. “We take nothing that isn’t already offered.”

Something shifts in his expression then. Small. Subtle. But it’s the first real crack in that careful neutrality. “That’s not how it feels,” he says.

For a second, you get the distinct, unmistakable sense that he’s not speaking alone, that whatever stands behind him, whatever fills the rest of this house, is pressing forward just enough to be heard through him.

Your mother doesn’t flinch. “Then we will adjust,” she says, calm, even. “We’re not here to make enemies.”

The man tilts his head slightly, considering, and for the first time, his gaze lingers on you longer than a passing glance. It’s not curiosity exactly. Not interested in the way you might expect. It’s recognition, and something else layered beneath it. Something you don’t like.

“You’ve already complicated things,” he says quietly.

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It hums, low and heavy, filled with something unseen shifting just beyond your reach, something listening, something waiting. The house doesn’t feel quiet anymore.

You watch the shift happen in real time, subtle but unmistakable, the way his attention pulls back from the room, from your mother and your aunt, from you. Like something unseen has reached its limit, like whatever allows him to stand there, to be there, is thinning.

“They won’t like this,” he says finally, quieter now, though the weight behind it hasn’t changed. “But they’ll tolerate it. For now.”

Your aunt inclines her head, accepting that, like it’s a negotiation instead of a warning. Your mother doesn’t respond, but there’s something measured in her expression, something that says she understands exactly what that means.

The man’s gaze flicks to you one last time. It lingers. Just for a second longer than it should. Then, he’s gone. One second, he occupies the space, solid, present, real enough to mistake for living—and the next, the hallway is empty again, the air settling back into something that almost resembles stillness.

You exhale slowly, only then realizing you’d been holding your breath.

“Okay,” you mutter under your breath, dragging a hand down your face. “That was—”

“A good start,” your aunt finishes for you, sounding entirely too pleased.

You stare at her. “A good—did we just have the same experience?”

Your mother gives you a look, calm but pointed. “You felt it,” she says.

“That’s not the issue,” you shoot back. “The issue is that he just stood there and basically told you everything here hates you, and you’re acting like we just made new neighbors.”

“Not neighbors,” your aunt corrects lightly. “Co-inhabitants.”

“That’s worse.”

Neither of them argues that. Which is somehow more concerning.

You don’t want to think about what just happened, or what almost happened, or the way he looked at you at the end, like he knew something you didn’t.

“I’m getting some air,” you say, already turning toward the door before they can respond. Your aunt hums something approvingly. Your mother doesn’t stop you.

The air is warmer, lighter, easier to breathe as you step out onto the front porch, the door closing behind you with a soft, final click that makes the house feel… contained again, at least for now.

You linger there for a second, shoulders dropping just slightly as the tension bleeds out of you in slow increments.

“Jesus,” you mutter under your breath, reaching into your bag.

Your fingers find the pack easily, a familiar motion grounding you in a way nothing else has since you stepped inside.

You pull one free, flick your lighter, and the small flame feels ridiculously comforting compared to everything you just left behind.

You take a slow drag, exhaling into the quiet, watching the smoke curl upward into the late afternoon air.

“Rough first day?”

Your head snaps up. He’s been leaning against the side of the porch long enough that you should’ve noticed him sooner.

Close enough that you would’ve seen him if he’d been there before. Close enough that he definitely shouldn’t have been able to walk up without you noticing.

A boy. No, a guy, maybe a year or two older than you.

Dark curls, a little wild, a little too intentional to be accidental. Lean, relaxed posture like he’s got nowhere else to be, one hand shoved into the pocket of his jeans, the other resting loosely at his side.

There’s something easy about the way he stands there, as if he belongs in the space without trying to claim it.

And he’s—hot. Not in a polished way. Not clean-cut or put-together. Something sharper. Rougher around the edges. The kind of face you notice before you realize you’re looking.

Your grip tightens slightly around the cigarette.

“Jesus,” you repeat, a little quieter this time, more to yourself than anything else. Because you definitely would’ve noticed him

You straighten a little, trying to play it off, like you’re not already thrown off by the fact that he just appeared out of nowhere.

“Something like that,” you say, eyeing him carefully. “You always sneak up on people, or am I just lucky?”

His mouth quirks, amused. “Wasn’t sneaking,” he says easily. “Just didn’t think you’d jump.”

“I didn’t jump.”

“Right,” he nods, like he doesn’t believe you at all. “Not even a little.”

You roll your eyes, taking another drag just to give yourself something to do. “Can I help you, or are you just here to critique my reaction time?”

He huffs a quiet laugh at that, shifting his weight slightly but not stepping any closer.

“I saw the trucks earlier,” he says, nodding vaguely toward the road behind him. “Figured someone new was moving in.”

Your gaze flicks in that direction automatically, then back to him. “Yeah. That obvious?”

“Kinda hard to miss,” he shrugs. “Place hasn’t had people in it for a while.” Something in his tone catches.

You study him for a second longer, narrowing your eyes slightly. “So what, are you the welcoming committee, or—?”

He smiles again, a little crooked this time. “Something like that,” he says. “Figured I’d come see who was brave enough to take it.” Brave.

You let out a quiet breath, smoke curling between you as you glance back at the house behind you. “Yeah,” you mutter. “Still deciding if that was a good idea.”

“Probably not,” he says lightly.

You blink, looking back at him. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” he says, just as easily. “Just honest.”

You shift your weight slightly, crossing one arm over your chest as you hold the cigarette between your fingers, tilting your head at him. “You live around here?”

It’s a simple question. Normal. Easy. He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he says, nodding once. “Next door.”

Something about the way he says it. Too smooth. Too practiced. Like the answer’s been sitting there waiting to be used. Your eyes narrow just slightly, but you don’t call it out. Not yet.

Instead, you take another slow drag, watching him through the smoke as it drifts between you. “Good to know,” you say lightly. And you’re not sure why, but something in your chest settles just a little.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been standing there until the front door opens behind you.

“Already making friends?”

Your aunt’s voice is light, amused in that way that makes it impossible to tell if she’s teasing you or genuinely pleased. You turn slightly, exhaling smoke off to the side as she steps out onto the porch, your mother just behind her, quieter but no less observant.

You don’t miss the way their attention lands on him. Sharp. Quick. Measuring.

You roll your eyes a little. “He startled me,” you say, like that explains anything.

“Did I?” he asks, not sounding particularly apologetic.

Your aunt’s gaze lingers on him for half a second longer than it should, something thoughtful passing behind her eyes before she smiles, warm and effortless, like she hasn’t just come from calling on spirits inside a house that clearly resents her.

“And you are?” she asks.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Eddie,” he says, easy, like it’s a name he’s used a thousand times before. “I live next door.”

There it is again. That same answer. Your aunt tilts her head just slightly, like she’s turning it over, testing the shape of it, but if she notices anything off, she doesn’t say it.

Instead, she smiles wider.

“Well, Eddie,” she says, stepping fully onto the porch. “That’s perfect timing. We were just getting settled.”

You stiffen slightly. “Aunt—”

“You should come in,” she continues, as if you didn’t speak. “Get a proper look at the place. It’s always good to know your neighbors.”

You stare at her. What are you doing?

Your mother says nothing, but there’s a quiet agreement in the way she steps aside, the door still open behind her, like this was already decided. Eddie glances between them, then at you, something almost curious flickering in his expression.

“You sure?” he asks, but it’s casual, not hesitant. “Don’t wanna intrude.”

“You won’t,” your mother says, calm and certain. “We insist.”

You groan under your breath, dropping your head slightly. “This is how horror movies start,” you mutter.

Your aunt pats your shoulder as she passes you. “Don’t be dramatic.”

Inside, the air feels different again. Not as heavy as before, but not normal either. Like something has shifted just enough to notice, even if you can’t explain how.

You step in after them, shutting the door behind you as Eddie follows, and for a split second, you swear the house goes still. Not quiet. Still. Like it’s paying attention.

Your aunt doesn’t hesitate.

She moves through the foyer with the same confidence as before, gesturing lightly as she speaks. “We run a mortuary,” she says, like she’s telling him what you had for breakfast. “Family business.” You freeze.

“It’s been in our family for generations,” your mother adds smoothly, as if this is completely normal information to drop on a stranger within thirty seconds of meeting him.

You feel your face heat immediately. “Okay,” you cut in quickly, shooting them a look. “We don’t need to open with that.”

Your aunt glances at you, amused. “Why not? It’s what we do.”

“Yeah, I know,” you mutter. “That doesn’t mean we lead with it.”

You risk a glance at Eddie. He doesn’t react the way you expect. No awkward pause. No weird expression. No subtle shift backward like most people do when they hear it.

He just nods. “Cool,” he says simply.

You blink. “Cool?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs lightly, glancing around the space again like that’s the more interesting part of the conversation. “Makes sense, I guess. With a place like this.”

Your aunt watches him carefully for a second, something flickering behind her smile, but then she turns away, continuing her slow walk through the house.

Your mother follows, their voices drifting into something quieter, something you’re pretty sure isn’t meant to include you.

Which leaves you and him. “Well,” you say, dragging a hand through your hair. “Sorry about that.”

He glances back at you, brow lifting slightly. “About what?”

You gesture vaguely toward where your aunt disappeared. “The whole… mortician introduction. It’s not exactly normal.”

He huffs a quiet laugh at that. “You kidding? That was probably the least weird part of today.”

You stare at him for a second. “…you have a very concerning definition of normal.”

“Occupational hazard,” he says easily.

“So,” you say, stepping past him toward the boxes stacked in the corner of the living room. “Since you’re already here—”

He follows without question.

“—You wanna make yourself useful?”

His mouth quirks slightly. “Wow. Didn’t even buy me dinner first.”

“Help me unbox, and I’ll consider not kicking you out,” you shoot back, crouching down to pull open the nearest one.

“Tempting offer,” he says, dropping down across from you without hesitation.

It starts small. Simple. Normal. You hand him things, and he passes them off, setting them where you gesture without needing much direction. Books, mostly. A few random things. Nothing important. But the quiet doesn’t feel awkward; it settles easily.

He picks up a cassette from one of the boxes, turning it over in his hand. “You’ve got decent taste,” he says, glancing up at you. “Or at least someone in this house does.”

You snort. “Please. That’s all me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He studies you for a second, like he’s deciding something. Then, a small smile. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll believe you.”

And just like that, the conversation shifts. Music leads to more music. Bands, albums, things you didn’t expect him to know, things he definitely knows too much about.

You catch yourself laughing once, then again, the sound surprising even you as it cuts through the heaviness still lingering in the house.

For a while, everything feels normal. Except every now and then, you catch him looking at you. Not in a weird way. Like he’s paying attention to something you can’t see. And once, you swear his gaze drifts past you. Toward the hallway. Toward the part of the house that isn’t empty.

Then he looks back at you. Smiles. And keeps talking like nothing’s there at all.

You don’t notice how late it’s gotten until your aunt reappears in the doorway, arms crossed lightly as she leans against the frame.

“You’ve made yourself comfortable,” she observes, eyes flicking between the two of you.

You glance up, then toward the windows, the dimming light outside finally registering. “Didn’t realize it got dark already.”

“It does that,” she says dryly.

Eddie huffs a quiet laugh, pushing himself up from the floor, stretching slightly like he’s been there longer than he meant to.

“I should probably head out,” he says, glancing between you and the hallway behind you like he’s checking something before he leaves.

Something in your chest tightens just slightly at that. Weird. You ignore it.

“Yeah,” you say, brushing your hands off on your jeans as you stand. “Probably.”

He looks at you, like he’s deciding something again. “Hey,” he says, casual, like it doesn’t matter. “You wanna hang out tomorrow?”

You hesitate for half a second. Not because you don’t want to. Because you do. More than you expected to. “Yeah,” you say, shrugging lightly like it’s no big deal. “Yeah, okay.”

His mouth quirks, just a little, like he knew you’d say yes. “Cool,” he says. “I’ll—”

“I’ll find you,” he finishes instead.

Your aunt watches the exchange from the doorway, something unreadable in her expression, but she doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t comment as Eddie heads toward the front door.

Your mother appears just long enough to open it for him, her gaze lingering on him in a way that feels deliberate.

“Goodnight, Eddie,” she says.

He nods once. “Night.” Then he steps out. The house feels different again the second the front door clicks. You notice it immediately. The air heavier. Thicker. The quiet pressing in just a little too much, like whatever had eased while he was here has slipped right back into place.

You exhale slowly, rubbing at the back of your neck. “Okay,” you mutter. “That’s… not ominous at all.”

“Change is always felt,” your mother says simply. You don’t respond to that. You don’t want to unpack it. Not tonight.

“I’m going to bed,” you announce instead, already turning toward the stairs.

“Of course you are,” your aunt hums. “Big day.”

“Big weird day,” you correct. She smiles. That same knowing smile. You ignore it.

You change quickly, not bothering to fully unpack, just enough to feel like you can collapse into the bed without thinking too much about everything that’s happened today. The mattress dips beneath your weight, unfamiliar but not uncomfortable, the room still faintly smelling of something you can’t quite name.

You stare at the ceiling for a while, eyes adjusting slowly, the outlines of the room coming back in soft shadows. Your mind won’t shut up; running through everything, the house, your mom, your aunt, the thing in the hallway, Eddie—Your chest loosens just slightly at the thought of him. Which is also weird.

You close your eyes anyway. Eventually, sleep takes you.

Not gently. Not all at once. It pulls you under in pieces, your thoughts slowing, your body sinking into the unfamiliar weight of the mattress, the house settling around you in that quiet, watchful way that never quite feels like rest. The last thing you’re aware of is the silence: too deep, too complete, and then even that slips.

And then you’re awake. At least, it feels like you are.

You know something is wrong immediately, not because of where you are, but because of your body. You try to shift, to roll onto your side, to do something, but nothing responds.

Your limbs feel heavy, pinned, like they’ve been pressed into the floor beneath you and forgotten there. Even your breath feels restricted, shallow, and tight in your chest, like something is sitting on you, not enough to crush you, just enough to keep you there.

Your eyes are open. That’s the worst part. Because you can see.

You’re not in your room. The ceiling above you is too high, shadowed in a way that swallows the edges, and the air feels wrong: thick, damp, carrying something metallic that sticks to the back of your throat.

Your gaze shifts slowly, dragging across the space as if even that takes effort, and the realization settles in with a quiet, creeping dread.

You’re in the basement. You’ve never been down here, not really, not yet, but you know it. Something in you recognizes it immediately: the shape of the room, the coldness of it, the way the walls seem to hold onto something older than the rest of the house.

Metal tables line the space, old equipment half-hidden in shadow, surfaces that should be clean but aren’t, stained in ways that don’t come out.

And you’re on the floor. You can feel it beneath you now, slick and uneven, something damp soaking through your clothes, clinging to your skin in a way that makes your stomach twist even before you let yourself think about what it is.

You try to move again, harder this time, panic starting to claw its way up your chest, but your body doesn’t listen. It won’t listen. You’re stuck there, fully aware, fully present, and completely unable to do anything about it.

Then you hear it. Breathing. Not yours. Close. Too close. Your eyes shift again, inching to the side, and that’s when you see him.

He’s standing just a few feet away, pacing in tight, uneven steps like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. A man, maybe early forties, his shirt wrinkled and damp, sleeves pushed up like he’d been working, like he’d been doing something that required effort, something that required force.

His hands are shaking, hovering in front of him, flexing like he’s trying to get a grip on something that isn’t there anymore. His breathing is ragged, sharp, each inhale catching like it hurts.

He doesn’t see you. Or if he does, he doesn’t care. His attention is fixed somewhere else. You follow it, slowly. And that’s when the horror settles in fully, cold and absolute. There’s a woman on the table.

Her body is twisted at an angle that doesn’t look comfortable, one arm hanging slightly off the side, fingers slack and unmoving. Her clothes are soaked through, dark and heavy, clinging to her skin in a way that makes it impossible to ignore what’s underneath.

Your gaze catches at her throat, and your breath stutters, your stomach lurching hard enough that for a second you think you might actually be sick, even though your body won’t move.

There’s too much blood. Far too much.

It spills across the metal surface, drips in slow, uneven patterns onto the floor, pooling beneath her in a way that shouldn’t be possible. It’s fresh. It has to be. You can see it moving, thick and dark and real, and the smell hits you all at once: metallic, suffocating, coating the back of your tongue.

“No,” you try to say. It doesn’t come out.

Your throat tightens, your chest straining against whatever is holding you down, and panic surges harder now, sharper, because you understand what you’re looking at.

You understand it in a way that’s deeper than fear, something ingrained from years of being around death, around bodies, around the careful, respectful way things are supposed to be handled.

The man stumbles forward suddenly, his hands finally landing on the table, gripping the edge hard enough that his knuckles go white. “I didn’t mean to,” he says, voice cracking, breaking under the weight of something you can’t see but can feel pressing into the room. “I didn’t—I didn’t—”

He’s lying. You know it. You don’t know how, but you know it.

Something in the air shifts, colder now, heavier, like something else has entered the room without moving, without making a sound. The man feels it too. You can see it in the way his shoulders tense, the way his breathing stutters and then stills completely.

Slowly, like he’s afraid of what he’ll find, he lifts his head. And looks past the table. Past the woman. Toward something you can’t see. Your pulse spikes, terror flooding your chest as your eyes strain to follow his gaze, but the shadows there are too thick, too deep, swallowing whatever stands in them.

At first, you think there’s nothing there. And then, you realize the darkness is shaped. Too tall. Too still.

It doesn’t step forward. It doesn’t need to. The space around it bends, shifts, as if the room itself is reacting, as if the air is being pulled toward it instead of away.

You can’t see a face, not fully, but there’s something where it should be: something wrong, something that doesn’t hold together the way it should, like looking at it directly would break something in your head.

The man lets out a strangled sound, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No,” he whispers, shaking his head, backing up a step that gets him nowhere. “No, I did what you said—I did everything—”

Your stomach drops. Everything? Your breath catches, shallow and panicked, because you understand now. Not fully, not clearly, but enough. This wasn’t an accident. The woman on the table doesn’t move.

And you? You can’t do anything. You try again, forcing everything you have into it, your fingers straining, your throat burning as you try to scream, to move, to help, but your body stays locked in place, useless, trapped in this moment like it’s meant to witness and nothing else.

The man breaks first. You see it happen in real time, whatever fragile hold he had on himself snapping as he stumbles forward again, reaching for the table, for the woman, for anything that might undo what’s already been done. “Please,” he chokes out, voice raw, desperate. “Please, I can fix it—I can—”

The air shifts. Sharp. Violent. You don’t see what happens. Not fully. But you hear it. You feel it.

The wet, awful sound of something tearing, the sudden spray that hits the floor near you, warm and fresh and far too real.

The man’s voice cuts off abruptly, replaced by something else; something choking, something broken—and your vision blurs as panic spikes, your chest heaving uselessly against the weight holding you down.

“No—” you try again, louder this time, or at least it feels louder in your head. “Stop—stop—” The figure doesn’t. It doesn’t even hesitate. And for a split second, just before everything snaps, just before the room collapses in on itself, you feel it turn its attention fully on you.

You wake up with a violent gasp, your body finally jerking into motion as if whatever held you down has suddenly let go. You sit up too fast, your lungs dragging in air as if you’ve been underwater, your heart slamming hard enough it hurts as your eyes dart wildly around the room.

Dark. Quiet. Your room. You’re here. You’re here. But your hands feel wrong. You look down, breath catching, and for a split second, you swear you see it. Red. Slick. Covering your skin. And then it’s gone.

You sit there, frozen, your chest rising and falling too fast, your fingers curling into the sheets as the silence presses back in around you.

Morning comes too quickly.

You don’t remember falling back asleep, only that at some point the panic ebbed just enough for exhaustion to take over, dragging you under in a way that felt less like rest and more like surrender.

When you open your eyes again, the light filtering through the curtains is softer, paler, and steadier, grounding in a way the dark never did. For a moment, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for your body to catch up with the fact that you’re awake, that you can move, that nothing is holding you down anymore.

Your fingers flex against the sheets, slow at first, then tighter, testing. Dry. Clean. Normal. You turn your hands over, studying them like you expect something to still be there, some trace of what you saw, what you felt, but there’s nothing. No blood. No residue. Just skin, slightly clammy, your pulse still just a little too fast beneath it.

It should feel like relief, but it doesn’t. Because you remember everything.

Not in fragments, not like a dream that slips the more you try to hold onto it. It’s all there, sharp and intact, the smell, the weight, the way your body refused to move, the sound of his voice breaking, the shape in the dark that didn’t need to come closer to be felt.

The worst part isn’t even the violence. It’s the certainty that it wasn’t random. That it wasn’t just something your brain made up.

That it looked at you.

The kitchen smells like coffee. It hits you the second you step in, and for the first time since you woke up, something in your chest loosens just slightly.

Your aunt is already there, leaning against the counter with a mug in hand, flipping through something that looks like one of her notebooks.

Your mother stands at the stove, back to you, her movements calm and unhurried as she stirs something in a pan, as if nothing in this house could possibly be out of the ordinary.

For a second, you just stand there. Watching them. Waiting for something to feel off. Nothing does. It almost makes it worse. “Morning,” your aunt says without looking up.

You hesitate, then step further into the room. “Morning.” Your voice sounds normal. You don’t feel normal.

Your mother glances over her shoulder, offering you a small smile. “Sleep well?”

You let out a short, humorless breath, dragging a chair out at the table and dropping into it. “No,” you say honestly.

That gets their attention. Your aunt’s gaze lifts immediately, sharper now, more focused. Your mother turns fully this time, something measured settling into her expression as she studies you.

“I had a dream,” you start, then shake your head slightly. “No—not a dream. It didn’t feel like one.”

Neither of them interrupts. They just watch. Listening.

You swallow, your fingers curling slightly against the edge of the table as you try to find the words, to explain something that doesn’t want to be explained. “I couldn’t move,” you say, quieter now. “I was in the basement. I think. I’ve never been down there, but I knew it was the basement.”

Your aunt leans forward slightly. Interested.

“I was on the floor,” you continue, your voice tightening despite yourself. “And there was, uh, there was a man. And a woman. And he—” You stop, your throat going dry, the memory hitting harder now that you’re speaking it. “He killed her. Or he already had. I don’t know. There was so much blood, and I couldn’t—” Your breath stutters. “I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t say anything, I couldn’t stop it—”

Your hands are shaking now. You don’t notice until you see it. You force yourself to keep going anyway.

“And then there was something else,” you say, more quietly, your gaze dropping to the table like you’re not sure you want to see their reactions. “Behind him. In the dark. I couldn’t see it properly, but I could feel it. It was—”

You hesitate, struggling to put it into something that doesn’t sound insane. “It felt like it was controlling everything. Like it was the reason it was happening.”

You let out a slow breath, shaking your head slightly. “I know how it sounds,” you add quickly. “It was probably just—everything yesterday, the house, the—whatever that was in the foyer, my brain just—”

You finally look up and stop. Because they’re not concerned. They’re not confused. They’re not even surprised. They’re excited.

Your aunt’s lips have curved into something that’s almost a smile, her eyes bright in a way that makes your stomach drop.

Your mother’s expression is softer, but no less intent, something like quiet satisfaction settling into her features as she studies you more closely.

"Praise Satan," she whispers, looking towards the sky.

You blink. “…what?” you ask slowly.

Your aunt lets out a soft, pleased laugh, setting her mug down as she straightens. “Well,” she says, as you’ve just told her something wonderful. “That didn’t take long.”

Your chest tightens. “Didn’t take—what didn’t take long?”

Your mother steps closer, resting her hands lightly on the back of the chair across from you, her gaze steady, almost gentle in a way that doesn’t match the words that follow.

“You’re being visited,” she says.

You stare at her. “I’m being—what?”

Your aunt tilts her head, watching you carefully now, but there’s nothing soft about the interest in her eyes. “The dark lord,” she says, like it’s the most obvious explanation in the world. “He’s taken an interest in you.”

Your stomach drops so fast it almost makes you dizzy. “No,” you say immediately, the word coming out sharper than you mean it to. “No, that’s not—what? That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking,” she replies.

“I didn’t think you were,” you snap, pushing back slightly from the table. “That’s the problem.”

Your mother doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. “It’s a sign,” she says calmly. “A strong one.”

“A sign of what?” you demand, your pulse picking up again, unease twisting back into something sharper, something harder to ignore.

“That your powers are beginning to manifest,” she says.

You shake your head immediately. “No. No, that’s not—that was a nightmare. That was a bad dream. That wasn’t—” Your voice falters slightly. “That wasn’t anything else.”

Your aunt watches you for a moment, her expression shifting just slightly, not losing that interest but sharpening it, focusing it. “You said it didn’t feel like a dream,” she points out.

“That doesn’t mean it was real,” you argue, weaker now.

Your mother’s gaze doesn’t waver. “It means something reached you,” she says.

A chill runs down your spine. “Or something you’re connected to is trying to show you something,” your aunt adds, almost thoughtfully now. “Either way—this is good.”

You stare at her. “Someone died,” you say, your voice tight, incredulous. “I watched someone die, and you’re calling that good?”

Your mother’s expression softens, just slightly, but it doesn’t change her stance. “Not the death,” she says. “The connection.”

You sit there for a long moment, the weight of it settling slowly, uncomfortably, into something you don’t know how to process.

The dream—no, whatever it was—replays in flashes whether you want it to or not, the feeling of being trapped, of being watched, of something choosing to show you that specifically.

And now they’re telling you it wasn’t random. That it meant something. That it was meant for you. Your fingers tighten against the table.

“…it felt like it saw me,” you say quietly, almost to yourself.

Neither of them looks surprised. Your aunt leans back slightly, studying you with a new kind of interest now, something more focused, more deliberate. “Then it’s already started,” she says.

Your chest tightens. “Started what?”

Your mother meets your gaze. And for the first time since you came downstairs, there’s no softness in her expression at all.

“Your awakening.”

Your mother doesn’t look away from you when she says it, and that’s what makes it harder to dismiss, harder to laugh off, or brush aside like you usually do when they start talking like this.

“It aligns,” she adds, almost thoughtfully, like she’s placing pieces together in her head. “The timing.”

Your aunt nods, already there before your mother finishes the thought. “Of course it does. We’re close to the shift.”

You frown, your pulse still uneven, your mind trying and failing to catch up. “The shift of what?”

“The moon,” your aunt says simply, like it should be obvious. “You’ve always been more sensitive around certain phases. We’ve noticed it for years.”

Your stomach twists. “You’ve noticed it?”

“Subtle things,” your mother says, calm, measured, like she’s explaining something small. “Your sleep patterns. Your mood. The way you respond to certain spaces.”

You shake your head immediately. “That’s not, everyone has weird sleep patterns sometimes. That doesn’t mean I’m suddenly being visited by whatever the hell you just said.”

“The dark lord,” your aunt supplies, unhelpfully.

“Yeah, no, I heard you the first time,” you snap, pushing your chair back a little too hard as you stand. The legs scrape sharply against the floor, the sound cutting through the room, making everything feel tighter, louder. “I just don’t think that’s a normal explanation for anything.”

“It’s not meant to be normal,” your mother says. That doesn’t help.

You drag a hand down your face, your head starting to pound in that slow, creeping way that means you’re about to spiral if you stay here any longer, if you keep letting them talk like this is a good thing, like this is something to be excited about.

“I can’t do this right now,” you mutter, already turning toward the door before either of them can stop you.

You change without overthinking it, letting instinct take over more than anything else.

Black, of course—tight, worn-in jeans that sit just right, a soft, slightly oversized band tee you’ve had for years, the fabric thin in places from being washed too many times.

You tug a dark shawl over your shoulders without really thinking about it, the fringe brushing lightly against your arms, something between comfort and habit, something that makes you feel a little more put together than you actually are.

Rings slide onto your fingers, mismatched and familiar, silver catching the light just enough to feel intentional. You leave your hair mostly as it is, just running your fingers through it once, twice, letting it fall where it wants.

It’s not a costume. It’s not a statement. But it feels like armor anyway. You take one last look at yourself, not really seeing your reflection so much as checking that you’re still there, still solid, still you, and then you grab your cigarettes and head back downstairs before you can think too hard about anything else.

Outside hits differently this morning. The air is cooler, softer, the light not quite harsh yet, the world still waking up in a way that feels almost normal if you don’t look too closely.

You step onto the porch, moving automatically, pulling a cigarette from the pack and lighting it with hands that are steadier than you expected them to be.

The first drag helps. A little. You exhale slowly, watching the smoke curl and disappear into the air, your shoulders loosening just slightly as the tension bleeds out in small, manageable pieces.

“Yeah,” you mutter to yourself. “This is fine.”

“You know it’s like… eight in the morning, right?”

Your head turns immediately. He rounds the corner of the house, like he belongs there.

Eddie looks exactly the same as yesterday, which, for some reason, feels more reassuring than it should.

Same messy curls, same easy posture, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he’s got nowhere better to be. He glances at the cigarette between your fingers, then back at you, one brow lifting slightly.

“A bit early for stress smoking,” he adds, a hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

You let out a quiet breath through your nose, something almost like a laugh slipping out before you can stop it. “Bold of you to assume I’m not just incredibly committed to the aesthetic.”

He huffs at that, stepping a little closer, his gaze flicking over you in a way that’s quick but not dismissive, like he’s taking in the details without making it obvious. “Yeah,” he says after a second. “That tracks.”

You roll your eyes, taking another drag just to give yourself a second to think, to ground yourself in something simple and real.

“You okay?” he asks then, quieter this time, the teasing edge gone just enough to make it feel like a real question.

You hesitate. Just for a second. Because the honest answer is no. But explaining why would mean saying things out loud that you’re not ready to say again, things that sound worse the more you repeat them.

So you shrug instead. “Weird first night,” you settle on.

He nods like he understands more than you’ve actually said. “Yeah,” he says. “That’ll happen here.” Something about the way he says it makes your stomach twist again.

You flick ash off the end of your cigarette, your gaze drifting back toward the house, toward the door, toward everything waiting inside it.

Then, before you can talk yourself out of it, “I want to see the basement.” The words come out more certain than you feel.

Eddie stills. It’s subtle, barely there. But you catch it.

“The mortuary,” you clarify, glancing back at him. “They mentioned it yesterday. I haven’t actually been down there yet.”

His expression doesn’t change much, but something in his eyes shifts, something quieter. “You sure?” he asks.

You swallow, your grip tightening slightly around the cigarette. “No,” you admit. “Which is kind of the point.”

He studies you for a moment longer, like he’s weighing something you’re not part of, something that doesn’t quite reach the surface. Then he exhales, a quiet sound, almost like he expected this.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Okay.” Another small pause. “I’ll go with you.”

The door to the basement is heavier than it should be.

You feel it the second you step inside, the way the air shifts again, colder, denser, like it’s been sitting untouched for too long and doesn’t appreciate being disturbed now.

The stairs creak under your weight as you start down, slower than you meant to, your hand trailing along the wall without really thinking about it, grounding yourself in something solid as the light from upstairs fades behind you.

Eddie stays close.

The basement opens up gradually, the space widening as you reach the bottom, the air settling around you in that same preserved, untouched way the rest of the house carries, but stronger here, more concentrated.

The smell hits you faintly, not overwhelming, but unmistakable—clean, sterile, with something older layered beneath it, something metallic that never fully left.

Your stomach tightens. You don’t say anything. You just step off the last stair and take it in It’s exactly what they said it would be. A mortuary.

Old, but intact. Metal tables line the center of the room, dull with age but still solid, still functional. Cabinets along the walls, some open, some closed, revealing old tools, glass bottles, things you recognize and things you don’t.

There are papers scattered in places, records, forms, things left behind in a hurry or abandoned slowly over time; you can’t quite tell which.

You move slowly, your fingers brushing lightly over the edge of a table as you pass it, not quite touching, just close enough to feel the cold radiating off of it. Your eyes track everything, taking it in piece by piece, trying to reconcile what you’re seeing with what you remember.

Because you’ve seen this before.“You’ve been down here?” Eddie asks quietly behind you.

You shake your head immediately. “No.” The answer comes too fast. Your gaze catches on something in the center of the room. It’s just a table. One of many.

Same metal surface. Same structure. Same worn edges from years of use. There’s nothing special about it. Nothing that should make it stand out more than the others.

Your breath stutters, because you know this table. Not in a vague way. Not in a maybe-this-looks-familiar way. You know it. The angle of it. The slight dip in one corner. The way the overhead light hits the surface is just wrong, catching in places that make it look uneven even when it isn’t.

You’ve seen it. You’ve stood next to it.

“You good?”

Eddie’s voice comes from behind you, closer than before. You don’t turn around. “Yeah,” you say, too quickly. “Just—taking it in.”

There’s a pause. You can feel his eyes on you. “You don’t look like you’re just taking it in,” he says.

You huff quietly, more to deflect than anything else, crossing your arms like that might settle the unease creeping up your spine.

“What, I’m supposed to be super comfortable in a basement full of dead-people equipment?”

“Fair point.”

You glance around again, forcing your focus away from the center of the room, toward the walls, toward anything that feels less loaded.

“I’m gonna look around,” you say after a second, more casual than you feel. “You take that side, I’ll take this one.” It’s a weak excuse, you both know it. But he nods anyway.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.” You don’t wait for anything else.

You move toward the far side of the room, toward the workbench and cabinets, putting distance between yourself and the center without making it obvious.

Your pulse is still a little too fast, your thoughts still too loud, but it’s manageable now, contained enough that you can pretend you’re just curious instead of whatever that was.

You start going through things without thinking too hard about it, flipping through papers, opening drawers, scanning labels. It’s easier to focus on the physical, on the things you can touch, move, and understand.

Old records. Names you don’t recognize. Dates that stretch back further than you expected. Your fingers catch on something thicker, something bound, and you pull it free from the clutter without much thought. A yearbook.

You flip it open, curiosity cutting through the unease just enough to ground you. Hawkins High stares back at you in faded print, the pages worn at the edges, photos arranged neatly in rows. You turn a few pages, scanning faces, names, nothing really sticking until your hand stills. You blink, looking closer.

No.

Your stomach drops slowly, blood beginning to drain from your cheeks. Because there he is. Eddie. Same hair, same face, same everything. Your eyes drag down to the date. 1986. Ten fucking years ago.

You stare at it longer than you should. Like, if you look hard enough, it’ll change. Like it’ll make sense.

“Eddie.” Your voice cuts through the quiet of the room, sharper than you meant it to be. You hear him move. Footsteps, quick but not rushed, crossing the space between you.

“What?” he asks.

You don’t look at him right away. You just turn the book slightly, holding it out enough for him to see. Then you finally lift your eyes to his. “Why are you in a yearbook from ten years ago?”

He pauses, expression leaning somewhere between still and recognition.

“No, don’t do that,” you say immediately, your voice rising just slightly as you take a step back. “Don’t just stand there like that’s not a weird question.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” he replies, a little quieter now.

“That’s not an answer.”

You hold the book higher, your grip tightening on it without realizing it.

“You look exactly the same. Not similar. Not younger. The same. So either Hawkins has some kind of cloning problem nobody told me about, or—” you stop, your breath catching slightly. “Or you lied.”

“I didn’t lie.”

You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You said you live next door.”

“I do.”

“Oh my god,” you snap, running a hand through your hair. “Stop saying that like it makes sense.”

You start pacing without thinking about it, the energy in your chest too sharp to stay still, your thoughts tripping over each other too fast to keep up with.

“You show up out of nowhere, you know things about this house you shouldn’t, you’re way too comfortable in here, and now I find out you were apparently in high school a decade ago and didn’t age at all? Do you hear how that sounds?”

“Say something,” you demand, turning back to him.

“I’m trying to figure out how much to say,” he replies.

“All of it,” you fire back immediately. “You say all of it.”

Then he exhales, slow, like he’s already decided this wasn’t going to stay hidden much longer anyway.

“I meant what I said,” he starts, his voice steady now, grounded in a way that makes your stomach twist again. “I live here.”

You stare at him. “That is not what you said.”

“I said next door,” he corrects. “You assumed what that meant.”

Your jaw tightens. “Okay, then explain it.”

He hesitates, taking a deep breath and biting his lip. This isn’t easy for him. “I don’t leave.”

You blink. “What?”

His gaze holds yours, steady, serious in a way you haven’t seen yet. “I don’t leave this place,” he repeats.

He steps a little closer, not invading your space, just enough that you can’t pretend he’s not there, that this isn’t happening. “I can’t leave this place.”

You stare at him, your grip tightening around the yearbook, your pulse loud in your ears. “What does that even mean?”

He exhales slowly, like he’s said this before in his head a hundred times and none of the versions ever sounded right out loud. “It means this house doesn’t let people go,” he says, quieter now, his voice losing that easy edge it had upstairs.

Your stomach drops. “What?”

“There’s something here,” he continues, his gaze flicking briefly toward the center of the room, toward the space you’ve been avoiding since you walked in. “Something that keeps the dead from leaving. Holds them. Keeps them close.”

“You saw one of them yesterday,” he adds. “The one that showed himself.”

The man. The way he stood there was as if he belonged. The way he spoke was as if he wasn’t alone. Your chest tightens. “You’re saying that was—”

“Stuck?” Eddie finishes. “Yeah.”

“So what,” you say, your voice sharper now, pushing back against the rising panic. “You’re just—what, stuck here with them? That’s your explanation?”

His jaw tightens slightly. “Yeah,” he says.

You shake your head, pacing again, your thoughts tripping over each other too fast to keep up. “No, that’s not—people don’t just get stuck somewhere after they die. That’s not—”

“It is here.”

“How long?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

There’s a pause. Then, “Since my senior year.”

“You were in high school,” you say slowly, like you’re trying to piece it together out loud. “That yearbook—”

“Yeah.” Your chest tightens.

“What happened?”

He looks away for a second, like that part is harder to say than the rest. “There was a girl,” he starts, his voice quieter now, more controlled. “Same year as me. She died.”

Something in your chest clenches. Not unfamiliar. You’ve heard stories like that before. Small towns love tragedies like that.

“People started talking,” he continues. “You know how it goes. Small town, nothing better to do. They needed someone to blame.”

Your grip tightens on the book. “They blamed you.”

It’s not a question. He nods once. “Yeah.”

Your stomach drops. “Did you—”

“No.” The answer is immediate. Sharp. There’s no hesitation in it at all.

“I didn’t kill her,” he says, his gaze snapping back to yours, something stronger in it now, something that borders on anger. “I saw what happened, but I didn’t do it.”

Saw. The word lingers. “What happened?” you press.

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “Not to them. They made up their minds before anyone actually knew anything.”

The way he says it tells you everything you need to know. It mattered. Just not to the people who decided he was guilty anyway.

“They started coming after me,” he continues. “Looking for me, hunting me down.” Your stomach twists.

You shift your weight slightly, your pulse still too fast, your thoughts still catching on every word. “So you came here?”

He nods. “Some friends and I used to come here sometimes,” he says. “It was empty already. No one really came around here. We’d hang out, drink, smoke, get away from everything.”

You glance around the basement again, seeing it differently now. Not just as a place for work. But a place people used. A place people hid. “And then what?” you ask.

He doesn’t look away, but something in his expression shifts again, something heavier settling in behind his eyes.

“I got tired. Tired of hiding. Tired of feeling like the most hated fucker in this town,” he says finally.

“So you—”

His gaze flicks away again, just briefly, toward the far side of the room, then back to you.

“I came here,” he says. “Alone, that time.” The room feels smaller. “And I didn’t leave.”

Your stomach drops out completely. “You…” Your voice falters.

“You killed yourself.” He doesn’t deny it.

“And then you just—stayed?” you ask, quieter now, the anger bleeding into something else, something harder to name.

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t have a choice.”

You’re still trying to process it, still trying to reconcile the boy standing in front of you with the words he just said so plainly, so matter-of-fact, like he’s had to live with them long enough that they’ve stopped sounding shocking out loud.

The basement feels different now, smaller somehow, like the walls have closed in just enough to remind you that this isn’t just a room.

It’s a place where something ended. And didn’t stay that way.

You swallow, your grip loosening slightly on the yearbook as your thoughts scramble to catch up. “So you’ve just been here?” you ask, your voice quieter now, not as sharp as before. “This whole time?”

He watches you carefully, like he’s waiting for the part where you break, where you bolt, where you decide this is too much and leave him standing here alone again.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Then why—” you start, your brow furrowing slightly. “Why talk to me? Why show yourself at all?”

The question hangs there, heavier than you expect it to be. Because now that you’ve asked it, you already know the answer isn’t going to be simple.

Eddie exhales slowly, his gaze dropping for just a second before lifting back to yours, something tighter in it now, something more deliberate.

“I didn’t want to,” he admits. Its honesty catches you off guard.

“What?”

“I didn’t want to show myself to you,” he repeats, a little firmer this time. “Or to anyone, really.”

“Then why did you?”

“Because it’s not just me in here,” he says finally. “You already know that.”

The man from yesterday flashes in your mind. The way he stood there. The way he spoke was as if he weren’t alone.

You nod slightly. “Yeah.”

Eddie shifts his weight slightly, his jaw tightening just enough to show he’s not comfortable with where this is going. “The others…” he starts, then stops, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “They don’t like it when I get close to people. They don’t like it when someone else isn’t miserable while they all are.”

Your chest tightens. “What does that mean?”

His gaze flicks toward the center of the room again, toward the unseen parts of the house that feel like they’re always listening. “It means,” he says, quieter now, “if I show interest in someone, if I talk to them too much, if I…” He trails off slightly, then forces the rest out. “They go after them.”

Your stomach drops. “They what?”

“They don’t like attachments,” he says simply. “They don’t like anything that disrupts what this place is. And people like you—people who come in here, alive, not part of it—”

His jaw tightens again. “You don’t last long when they decide you’re a problem.”

“And you thought talking to me would make me a problem,” you say slowly.

“Yeah.”

“Then why didn’t you just leave me alone?” you ask, your voice sharper again, not quite anger, not quite fear, something tangled between the two. “If you knew that, why didn’t you just—what, ignore me? Pretend you didn’t see me?”

He lets out a quiet breath, something almost like frustration slipping through. “I tried,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“I tried to stay away,” he repeats. “When you first showed up, I felt it. The shift. Something changing in the house.” His gaze sharpens slightly, focused entirely on you now. “And when I saw you—”

“You weren’t like the others,” he finishes.

“What does that mean?”

“It means they noticed you,” he says. “But not the same way.”

Then, more clearly, “It means you didn’t feel like something they could just… take.”

The words send a sharp, uneasy feeling through your chest. Your mother’s voice from earlier echoes in your head. “You’re being visited. Your awakening.”

“You felt different,” Eddie continues, quieter now. “Not just alive. Something else. Like you already had one foot in it, even if you didn’t know how to use it yet.”

“So you decided to risk it anyway?” you ask.

His expression shifts again, something softer breaking through the tension for just a second. “I didn’t decide,” he says. “I just… couldn’t stay away.”

Before you can respond, a voice cuts through the room. “He’s telling the truth.” You snap your head towards the staircase, your Aunt closest, and your mother not too far behind.

“How long have you been standing there?” you demand, your voice tight.

“Long enough,” your aunt replies lightly, though there’s something sharper beneath it now, something more focused than usual.

Your gaze flicks between them, then back to Eddie, whose posture has shifted again, tension creeping back into his shoulders as he takes a small step back, like he’s bracing for something.

“I can explain—” he starts.

“You don’t need to,” your aunt cuts in. She steps further into the room, her gaze fixed on him now in a way that feels eerily similar to how she looked at the man in the foyer yesterday.

“I saw you yesterday,” she says.

“When we called them,” she continues, her tone calm, almost conversational. “You were there. You didn’t step forward, but you were there.”

Your chest tightens. “You saw him?” you ask, your voice quieter now.

Your aunt nods once. “I did.”

Your mother steps forward slightly, her gaze steady on Eddie, not wary, not threatened. Interested.

“You’re bound to this place,” she says. It’s not a question.

Eddie hesitates for half a second, then nods.

“And you’ve been avoiding interaction,” she continues. “Limiting it.”

His jaw tightens slightly. “For a reason.”

“We understand that,” your aunt says.

You look at her. “You understand that he just said the other spirits go after people he talks to?”

“Yes,” she says simply.

“And you’re just… okay with that?”

Your mother’s gaze shifts to you then, something softer returning for just a moment. “We’re not unaware of the risks,” she says. That’s not an answer.

You look back at Eddie, who still hasn’t moved, his attention split between you and them like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I wasn’t going to let anything happen to her,” he says, quieter now, like he’s trying to regain some control over the situation. “I just—”

“We know,” your aunt interrupts gently. She tilts her head slightly, studying him, something almost like approval flickering across her expression.

“You didn’t come forward last night,” she says. “You held back. You’ve been careful.”

“That tells me enough.” She finishes.

Your stomach twists. “What does that mean?”

Your aunt glances at you briefly, then back at him. “It means,” she says, “we trust him.”

“You shouldn’t,” he says immediately, something sharper creeping into his tone now. “You don’t know what’s in here, what they’ll do—”

“We do,” your mother says calmly. Her gaze doesn’t waver. “More than you think.”

The tension in the room doesn’t quite break, but it shifts.

It loosens just enough that you can breathe again, just enough that the edges of everything stop feeling so sharp.

Your aunt’s words are still hanging there—” we trust him”—and you’re not sure what to do with that, not sure how to reconcile it with everything he just told you, with everything you just learned.

You’re still standing in the place where he died. You’re still holding a yearbook that proves he shouldn’t be standing in front of you at all. And yet, you’re not running. That realization settles quietly into your chest, strange and steady.

The sharp jingle of the front door cuts through the basement. All four of you pause. It’s distant, muffled by the floors above, but unmistakable.

Your aunt straightens slightly, her attention shifting immediately. “That’ll be someone,” she says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, like there isn’t a dead boy standing in the room with you and a conversation that just changed everything still hanging in the air.

Your mother nods once, already turning toward the stairs. “We should go.”

Your aunt lingers for half a second longer, her gaze flicking between you and Eddie, something unreadable passing between them before she turns as well. “We’ll continue this later,” she says lightly.

You let out a slow breath, your shoulders dropping just slightly as the tension bleeds out in small increments. The yearbook is still in your hands. You close it without thinking, setting it back down on the table with more care than it probably deserves.

You huff out a quiet breath, running a hand through your hair. “Well,” you mutter. “That’s one way to start the morning.”

His mouth twitches slightly, something almost like a smile pulling at the corner of it. “Yeah. Not exactly subtle.”

You shake your head, letting out a short, quiet laugh despite yourself. It feels strange, laughing here, in this room, after everything that’s been said, but it comes easier than you expect. “Okay,” you say, exhaling slowly. “So. Hypothetically—”

He lifts a brow slightly.

“Hypothetically,” you repeat, more firmly this time, “can you… see me when I can’t see you?”

“Yeah,” he says. Simple. Honest.

You nod slowly, like you expected that answer, even if hearing it out loud still feels a little weird. “Cool,” you mutter.

Then, you glance at him again, something lighter creeping into your expression despite everything, the tension easing just a fraction more.

“You didn’t watch me shower, right?”

He blinks, then lets out a short, incredulous breath, shaking his head slightly. “Jesus, no.”

“Okay, good,” you say quickly, holding up a hand like that settles it.

“Just making sure. Bound to the house is one thing, but if we’re adding creepy voyeur ghost to the list, I’m out.”

He huffs a quiet laugh at that, the sound softer than anything you’ve heard from him yet. “Not part of the job description.”

“Great,” you nod. “Love that for me.”

The basement doesn’t feel as suffocating when you leave it. Or maybe it’s just that you’re not alone in it anymore.

You head for the stairs without overthinking it, not really asking, just expecting, and he follows like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like he’s done this a hundred times before.

The house shifts subtly as you move through it, the weight of it pressing in and then easing again in strange, uneven patterns, but it doesn’t stop you.

If anything, it makes you more aware of him. Of the fact that he’s still here. That he chose to be.

Your room feels different, too. Not lighter, not safer, just yours, in a way the rest of the house isn’t yet. The morning light filters in softer here, catching on the edges of things you haven’t fully unpacked yet, the space still in that in-between stage where it doesn’t quite feel settled.

You shut the door behind you out of habit.

Then you turn to him. He’s already looking around. Not curious, but familiar. You lean back against the desk, crossing your arms loosely, studying him the same way he’s been studying you since yesterday.

“So,” you say, tilting your head slightly. “What can you actually do?”

His brow lifts. “That’s your first question?”

“Yes,” you reply immediately. “I just found out a ghost has been helping me unpack. I feel like I’m allowed to be a little curious.”

That gets a small smirk out of him. “Fair,” he says.

You push off the desk, stepping a little closer, your interest overriding whatever lingering hesitation you had downstairs.

“No, seriously,” you continue. “Like—can you walk through walls? Move stuff? Possess people? What’s the range here?”

He huffs quietly, shaking his head. “Not as dramatic as you’re hoping.”

“Disappointing.”

“I can move,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “Obviously. I can interact with things if I focus. It’s easier in some parts of the house than others.”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “And the disappearing thing?”

His mouth quirks. “Yeah,” he says. “That one’s real.” You blink. Then, “Show me.”

He watches you for half a second, like he’s deciding if this is a good idea. Then he shrugs.

“Alright.” And just like that, he’s gone. No flickering or theatrics you’d seen in horror movies a million times. Just vanishes out of thin air, like he never occupied the space in the first place.

You straighten immediately, your eyes darting around the room, your pulse kicking up in a way that’s not quite fear, not quite excitement, something sharper than both. “Okay,” you say slowly. “That’s—”

“—impressive?” The voice is right behind you. You barely have time to react before hands land on your waist. Solid. Warm. Real. He spins you.

It’s quick, sudden, your breath catching as your body turns with the motion, your hands instinctively grabbing onto him for balance as he pulls you with him.

You let out a startled laugh, the sound slipping out before you can stop it, your heart racing for an entirely different reason now.

“Jesus—” you breathe, your grip tightening slightly. “What the hell—” He’s right there. Close. Closer than he’s been before.

“You said show you,” he says, his voice low, just a little rougher than before, like he’s enjoying this more than he’s letting on.

Your pulse spikes, but you don’t pull away. You probably should, but you don’t.

Instead, you look up at him, your breath still uneven, something charged settling into the space between you, something that has nothing to do with the house or the spirits or any of the things you were just talking about downstairs.

“You could’ve just—disappeared and reappeared,” you say, but there’s no real bite to it.

“Where’s the fun in that?” His hands are still on you; you’re very aware of that now.

“You’re enjoying this,” you point out, quieter now.

“A little,” he admits.

Then you let out a soft breath, something almost like a laugh, your fingers still curled lightly into his shirt like you forgot to let go.

“Okay,” you say. “That was… actually kind of cool.”

You don’t move, nor does he. Your hands are still caught in his shirt, his grip still firm at your waist, and for a second, neither of you seems all that interested in fixing that. It hits you a beat later. The contact. The weight of him.

Your brows knit slightly, your breath still uneven as you glance down, then back up at him.

“Wait,” you murmur, quieter now, something more curious slipping in under everything else. “How can I even… feel you?”

He tilts his head slightly, watching you, like he’s been waiting for that question. “You shouldn’t,” he says. That does not help.

You let out a soft breath, your fingers tightening slightly without meaning to, like you’re testing it, confirming that he’s actually there.

“No, seriously,” you continue. “You’re—” you gesture vaguely with one hand, not quite letting go of him entirely, “—not supposed to be solid. That’s like, the whole ghost thing.”

His mouth twitches faintly. “Not everything works the way it’s supposed to in this house,” he says.

“That’s… not reassuring.”

You glance at him again, something lighter creeping back in despite yourself, your curiosity clearly winning out over your caution now.

“So what—do you eat?” you ask, completely serious. “Sleep? Or is it just, like, eternal lurking and bad timing?”

He lets out a quiet breath that’s almost a laugh, his gaze dropping to your mouth for half a second before lifting again. “Eternal lurking,” he says. “Mostly.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

Then your eyes narrow slightly, something else clicking into place. “Okay, but that still doesn’t explain this,” you add, your voice softer now as you shift just slightly in his hold. “Like—you feel real.”

His gaze darkens just a fraction.

“You wanna know how?” he asks.

There’s something in his tone that makes your pulse spike again. You should probably say no. You don’t. “Yeah,” you say.

He leans in just slightly. Not enough to close the space completely. Just enough that you feel it. The shift in the air. The change in him.

His hand slides just a little higher along your side, steady, grounding, and then, he dips his head. Your breath catches as his lips brush just beneath your ear. Light, barely there.

“Can you feel that?” he murmurs.

Your fingers tighten in his shirt immediately, your body reacting before your brain can catch up, a sharp, involuntary inhale pulling into your chest. “Yeah,” you breathe.

He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he lets his mouth linger there for a second longer, like he’s testing it too, like he’s making sure you’re not imagining it. Then lower, just slightly. Another brush of his lips against your neck. Slow, deliberate.

“And that?” he asks, softer this time.

Your pulse is racing now. You nod before you can stop yourself. “Yeah.”

Your grip tightens again, your other hand coming up instinctively, not pushing him away, just holding on, anchoring yourself in something that suddenly feels a little too overwhelming and not nearly enough at the same time.

“That’s how,” he says quietly.

You let out a shaky breath, your head tilting just slightly without thinking, giving him more space, your thoughts slipping somewhere between curiosity and something far more dangerous.

“This house is—” you start, your voice catching slightly, “—really not normal.”

He huffs softly against your skin. “No,” he says. His hand presses a little firmer at your waist, not pulling you closer, just reminding you he can, that he’s still there, still solid, still very, very real despite everything you just learned.

His hand is still at your waist. Your fingers are still caught in his shirt. The air between you is thick with something you haven’t named yet, something that feels like it’s moving faster than it should, deeper than it should, like you skipped a dozen steps and landed somewhere you’re not supposed to be yet.

You’re still trying to catch your breath when—The door opens. It’s not loud. Not dramatic. Just the soft turn of the handle and the quiet shift of the door as it pushes inward. Eddie’s gone before you even register it.

One second he’s there: solid, warm, real, and the next the space in front of you is empty, your hands left hanging in the air as you grabbed for something that disappeared. Your breath stutters.

Your aunt leans casually against the doorway like she’s been there the whole time, like she didn’t just interrupt something she absolutely clocked from the second she stepped into the room. Her gaze flicks to you first. Then, slightly to the left of where you’re standing.

She smiles. “Eddie, darling,” she says lightly, “I can still see you.”

Your head turns instinctively toward where she’s looking, even though you don’t see anything at first, your pulse kicking up all over again for a completely different reason now.

“Of course you can,” his voice mutters from somewhere just behind you. And then, he’s there again. Not as close this time.

A step back. Like instinct kicked in before he could stop it. Your aunt hums softly, satisfied, like that proved something she already knew.

“No need for theatrics,” she adds, her tone warm but edged with something deliberate. “You’re welcome to stay.”

Eddie hesitates. Just slightly, like he’s not sure if that’s a trap.

“It’s alright,” your mother’s voice drifts faintly from down the hall, not entering the room, but present enough to be heard. “We meant what we said.”

Your aunt’s gaze returns to him, softer now, but no less aware. “We trust you,” she repeats, like she’s reinforcing it, like she expects him to understand the weight behind it.

He nods once, small. Still a little guarded.

Then her attention shifts back to you. And that softness? Gone.

“You,” she says, tilting her head slightly, eyeing you in a way that makes heat creep up the back of your neck immediately, “need to go to bed.”

You blink. “What?”

“It’s been a long day,” she continues, completely unbothered, like she didn’t just walk in on you practically wrapped around a ghost in your own bedroom.

“And you’ve already had quite enough… stimulation for one evening.”

Your face heats instantly. “Oh my god,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. “Can you not—”

“I can, but I won’t,” she replies easily.

Eddie lets out a quiet breath behind you that sounds suspiciously like he’s trying not to laugh. You shoot him a look over your shoulder. He doesn’t even try to hide it.

Your aunt straightens slightly, smoothing her hands over the front of her coat like she’s wrapping up something already decided.

“You can stay,” she says again, this time to Eddie, her tone calm but unmistakably firm. “We have no objections.”

Then, after a brief pause, something almost amused flickers in her expression. “But,” she adds, her gaze flicking meaningfully between the two of you, “I trust you’ll see yourself out accordingly.”

Eddie’s expression shifts, something a little more careful settling back into place as he nods again. “Yeah,” he says. “Of course.”

Your aunt smiles, satisfied. Then she turns, already stepping out into the hall like nothing about this was unusual, like she didn’t just walk into something you’re definitely not ready to unpack. The door closes behind her with a soft click.

Then you let out a slow breath, dropping your head slightly as you press your fingers to your forehead. “Okay,” you mutter. “That’s humiliating.”

“Little bit,” Eddie admits.

You don’t move right away. Your head is still tipped forward slightly, your fingers pressed to your forehead, trying to will the heat out of your face, trying to pretend your aunt didn’t just clock everything with that stupidly knowing look.

“Okay,” you mutter again, softer this time. “That’s never getting brought up again.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, not sounding convinced at all.

You drop your hand, turning back toward him with a look that’s meant to be unimpressed, but it doesn’t quite land.

He’s still there, still close enough that you can feel the shift in the air around him, still watching you in that quiet, focused way that’s becoming very hard to ignore.

For a second, neither of you says anything. The silence stretches. Not awkward, just full. You step closer before you can overthink it. Just a small step that closes the space your aunt interrupted, like picking up a conversation that never really ended.

His eyes flick down to your mouth for half a second, then back up, like he’s checking if you’re actually about to do what it looks like you’re about to do.

Your hand catches lightly at the front of his shirt again, grounding, familiar now in a way that feels dangerous all on its own, and then you lean in just enough and kiss him.

A soft press of your lips against his, testing, confirming, something that feels both impulsive and inevitable at the same time.

He stills for half a second like he wasn’t expecting you to be the one to close that gap, and then his hand shifts slightly at your waist, not pulling you in further, just there. Solid. Real.

You pull back first. Your breath is a little uneven again. He looks as if he might be too. “Goodnight,” you murmur, your voice quieter now, like you’re not entirely sure what just happened, but you’re not taking it back either.

Then you step back, just enough to put a little space between you, even if it doesn’t feel like much.

“I should—” you gesture vaguely toward the door, toward the hallway, toward anything that isn’t this exact moment. “Shower. Try to sleep. Normal human things.”

He huffs a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh under it, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “Yeah,” he says. “You should.”

You pause at the door, hand on the handle, towel in hand. Then glance back at him, something lighter slipping into your expression again, something that feels a little more like yourself. “Don’t get curious,” you add, one brow lifting slightly.

He blinks, a short smirk creeping on. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Mm,” you hum, unconvinced. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.” Then you open the door and step out into the hallway, pulling it shut behind you with a soft click.

Your room is quiet when you come back.

Empty in a way that feels different now, not just physically empty but missing something that had been there only minutes ago. The air has settled again, softer than the rest of the house, but not entirely untouched by it.

You pause just inside the door for a second, glancing around like you expect to catch a glimpse of him still there, leaning against the wall or sitting on the edge of your bed like he never left.

Nothing. Just your room.

By the time you’re in bed, the exhaustion has settled in properly, heavy and insistent, dragging at your limbs in a way that makes it impossible to keep your thoughts moving at the pace they were before.

You don’t bother with unpacking anything else. For a moment, you just lie there. Staring at the ceiling, listening. Nothing moves. Nothing shifts. It almost feels normal.

Eventually, your eyes close. Sleep takes you faster this time, too fast. And then, you’re there again. You know it immediately. Not because you see it, but because you feel it. The weight. The stillness. The way your body refuses to move the second you become aware of it.

Your chest tightens, your breath shallow, your limbs heavy and unresponsive as the darkness around you settles into something thicker, more deliberate.

You try to shift, to sit up, to do anything, but nothing answers. You’re pinned again, held in place by something you can’t see but can feel pressing into you from every angle.

Your eyes are open. You wish they weren’t. The room is different this time. Not the basement, not entirely. It’s… darker. Less defined.

The edges of things blur into shadow, shapes forming and dissolving like they’re not fully there, like the space itself hasn’t decided what it is yet. But there’s a figure.

Standing just beyond you. Still. Watching. You don’t see a face. Not properly, but you feel it. The attention. The focus. The way the air bends around it instead of through it. Your throat tightens. “No,” you try to say. Nothing comes out.

There’s someone else in the room.

You realize it slowly, your eyes dragging to the side, your pulse spiking as the shape of another person comes into focus. A man, younger this time, struggling, stumbling backward like he’s trying to get away from something he can’t see but knows is there.

He looks terrified. He gasps, his hands coming up like he’s trying to push something away, something invisible, something pressing into him from all sides. “No—” he chokes, his voice breaking. “No, please—”

The figure in the dark doesn’t move. It doesn’t need to.

The man jerks violently. It’s like something invisible wraps around him, something tightening, constricting, dragging him back inch by inch as he fights against it, his movements frantic, desperate. His feet scrape against the ground, his hands clawing at nothing, at everything, at something that isn’t there and yet is.

You try to move. You try to scream. Nothing.

Your vision blurs as it unfolds, your breath catching, your chest heaving uselessly as the violence hits all at once, sharp and wrong and impossible to ignore.

There’s too much of it, too much movement, too much sound, the wet, awful reality of something tearing, breaking, ending right in front of you while you can’t do anything but watch.

Your head shakes weakly against the floor.

The figure shifts. It steps forward just enough that the darkness around it pulls tighter, warping, distorting, like it’s swallowing the space between you.

You still can’t see its face, not fully, but there’s something there now, something almost forming, something that feels wrong in a way that makes your chest seize. It’s closer. It’s looking at you.

Your heart slams harder. Panic floods your chest, sharp and overwhelming as your body strains against whatever is holding you down. It kneels.

Your breath stutters as something cold brushes against your skin, your body jolting against the pressure holding you in place as its presence settles over you, too close, too real.

A hand, or something like one, lifts. Your eyes squeeze shut; you don’t want to see it. You feel it anyway. Wet. Cold. Dragging across your forehead. It moves slowly, deliberately, pressing into your skin with something thick, something that sticks, something that smells metallic.

Your breath comes faster, sharper, your chest heaving uselessly as the motion continues, up, then across, something forming, something being drawn into you. A cross. Upside down.

Your eyes snap open, coming eye to eye with the figure. And for a split second, you swear you can see something like a face. And it smiles.

You wake up screaming. Your body jerks upright, breath tearing out of your chest, your heart slamming violently as your hands fly to your forehead, fingers pressing hard against your skin like you expect to feel something there, something left behind.

“Fuck—” you gasp, your vision blurring as panic floods your system all at once. You can still feel it. You can still feel it.

“It’s okay.” You gasp, staring into the dark to make out a familiar figure, Eddie.

He’s already moving toward you, his hands finding your arms, your shoulders, steadying you before you can fully spiral, his grip firm and real and warm in a way that feels like the only solid thing in the room.

“Hey,” he says, quieter now, closer. “Hey, look at me.”

Your breath stutters, your gaze snapping to his, panic still sharp in your chest as you grab onto him without thinking, your fingers curling into his shirt like you need something to hold onto.

“I saw it again,” you choke out. “I—I couldn’t move, and it—it was there—”

“I know,” he says, not dismissing it, not brushing it off, his hands tightening slightly on you. “I know.”

Your head shakes, your pulse still racing. “It touched me,” you whisper, your voice breaking slightly. “It—it put something on me—” His expression darkens.

“You’re okay,” he says again, more firmly this time, like he’s trying to anchor you back into something real. “You’re here. It’s not touching you now.”

Your breath comes in uneven bursts, your grip on him tightening, your body still shaking slightly as the panic slowly starts to ebb, just enough to breathe again.

You don’t realize how hard you’re gripping him until your fingers start to ache. Eddie doesn’t pull away. If anything, his hold steadies, one hand firm at your shoulder, the other braced at your back like he’s keeping you upright, like he knows exactly how close you are to slipping back into it.

“Hey,” he murmurs again, quieter now. “You’re here. You’re good. Breathe.”

You try. It comes out shaky, uneven, your chest still too tight, your mind still stuck somewhere between your room and that thing leaning over you, something cold dragging across your skin in a way you can still feel if you think about it too hard.

“It touched me,” you say again, your voice thinner now, your hand lifting instinctively to your forehead. “It—Eddie, it touched me.”

The door opens. The quick turn of the handle, the door pushing inward just a little too fast to be casual.

Your aunt steps in first, your mother right behind her, both of them alert in a way that feels immediate, intentional, like they felt something shift the second it happened.

Their eyes go straight to you. To Eddie. To the way you’re practically clinging to him.

“What happened?” your mother asks, already moving closer.

You don’t let go of him, not yet.

“I saw it again,” you say, your voice still uneven, your pulse not quite settled.

“The thing—the same thing from last night, but worse. It—it killed someone, and I couldn’t move, and then it—” You swallow hard, your hand pressing to your forehead again. “It came to me. It touched me.”

Your aunt stills. Not in concern, but in recognition. “It marked you?” she asks.

“I—” you hesitate, your breath catching slightly. “It felt like it. It—it drew something. I don’t know what, but it was—”

“An inverted cross,” your mother says.

You freeze. Your eyes snap to hers. “How did you—”

Your aunt lets out a sharp, almost delighted breath. “Oh,” she says softly.

Then louder, “Praise Satan.”

You blink. Once, then twice. “…what?”

Your aunt is practically glowing. “That’s it,” she says, turning slightly toward your mother, her excitement barely contained now. “That’s the sign.”

Your stomach drops. “That’s not a good thing,” you say immediately, your voice rising again, confusion tangling with the leftover panic.

“I was terrified. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t stop it, it—”

“It chose you,” your mother says.

“What?”

Her gaze is steady, calm in a way that feels completely at odds with what you’re saying, what you’re feeling, what you just experienced.

“That presence doesn’t reveal itself without reason,” she continues. “It doesn’t mark without intention.”

Your grip on Eddie tightens again. “I didn’t want it to,” you snap.

“That’s not how it works.”

Your aunt steps closer now, her attention fully on you, her expression alight with something that looks dangerously close to pride.

“This is your awakening,” she says. “A powerful one.”

Your head shakes immediately.

“No. No, that’s not—this is not what I thought you meant. This isn’t herbs and candles and whatever else you’ve been doing, this is—this is wrong.”

“Wrong to you,” your aunt corrects gently.

You look between them, your chest still rising and falling too quickly, your thoughts spinning again, faster this time, sharper.

“This doesn’t feel like something that’s supposed to happen,” you say, your voice quieter now, more uncertain than before. “It felt like it was… choosing me.”

“Yes,” she says. “That’s exactly what it’s doing.”

Morning comes softer than it should, the kind of quiet that feels almost deceptive in a house like this, where silence usually means something is waiting.

For a moment, you don’t open your eyes, not because you’re afraid, but because something feels… different. Warmer. Grounded in a way you haven’t felt since you stepped into this place.

It takes a second to realize why.

There’s weight behind you, an arm draped low across your waist, steady and real, pulling you just slightly into something solid. Your breath slows as your awareness settles into it, your body registering the presence before your mind fully catches up. Eddie.

He’s still here. Not just in the house, not somewhere in the walls or the shadows, but here, in your bed, like he never left.

You shift just a little, testing the reality of it, and his arm tightens instinctively in response, not enough to trap you, just enough to keep you there, like some half-asleep reflex he doesn’t bother to fight.

It pulls a quiet, involuntary smile out of you, something softer than anything you’ve let yourself feel since yesterday, something that doesn’t quite belong in a place like this.

"Morning, o'marked one," he murmurs, placing a gentle kiss on your temple.

You huff quietly at that, turning just enough to glance back at him over your shoulder, your movement slow, unhurried. He looks normal, too normal. Hair a mess, expression softer than you’ve seen it yet, like whatever edge he carries during the day hasn’t fully settled back into place.

For a second, it’s easy to forget everything else, the house, the basement, the dreams, all of it fading into the background like it doesn’t exist.

You don’t say anything else. You just stay there for another minute, maybe two, letting yourself exist in something that feels almost safe, even if you know better than to trust it completely.

Eventually, you shift again, more deliberately this time, and he lets you go without resistance, his arm sliding back as you sit up, the warmth lingering for a second longer than it should.

The room feels a little emptier for it, even though he’s still there.

“You’re lucky I don’t charge rent,” you mutter, swinging your legs over the side of the bed.

“Pretty sure I’ve got squatters’ rights,” he replies, his voice still rough, but clearer now.

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it, just a quiet ease that settles into you despite everything.

You grab something to throw on, not bothering with much beyond what feels comfortable, then head for the door, pausing only long enough to glance back at him.

“You coming?”

He watches you for a second, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, before he nods once and pushes himself up, falling into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The kitchen is already alive when you walk in.

Not loud, not chaotic, but filled with a low, steady energy that hums just beneath the surface. Your aunt is at the counter, your mother at the stove again, both of them moving with that same quiet purpose they always seem to carry, like they’re already three steps ahead of everything else.

They don’t look surprised to see you. If anything, they look pleased.

“There she is,” your aunt says, her voice light, almost sing-song as she glances up, her smile already forming before you’ve even fully stepped into the room.

You narrow your eyes slightly. “That tone is concerning.”

“It should be,” she replies easily.

Your mother turns then, her gaze settling on you with a kind of calm satisfaction that immediately puts you on edge.

“How do you feel?” she asks.

You hesitate, just for a second, because the honest answer is complicated. Tired. Wired. Uneasy. And underneath all of that, something else, something you don’t have a word for yet.

“Fine,” you settle on, dropping into a chair. “Why?”

Your aunt hums softly, exchanging a quick glance with your mother before leaning back against the counter, her arms crossing loosely.

“Because,” she says, like she’s about to share something exciting, “we’ve been discussing your dark baptism.”

You blink. “My what?”

Your mother doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t soften it.

“Your initiation,” she clarifies, as if that helps. “The point where your connection fully manifests.”

Your stomach tightens. “You’re saying that like it’s already scheduled.”

“In a way, it is,” your aunt says.

“We have a blood moon in a week.”

“A week,” you repeat slowly. “And that’s… relevant because?”

Your aunt’s smile sharpens just slightly. “Because it’s Halloween.”

Your mother steps closer, her gaze steady, unwavering.

“The timing is not a coincidence,” she says. “What you experienced last night, the marking, the presence reaching for you—it’s aligning with something larger.”

Your fingers tighten slightly against the table. “Or it’s just getting worse.”

“It’s progressing,” your aunt corrects gently.

You lean back in your chair, exhaling slowly, your thoughts already starting to spiral again, but slower this time, more controlled. “So what, in a week I just… what? Wake up fully possessed or something?”

Your aunt laughs softly. “Not possessed,” she says. “Awakened.”

Your mother nods once. “The blood moon will make it easier. The veil is thinner. The connection stronger.”

You drag a hand down your face. “Great. Love that. Super comforting.”

Your aunt’s gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, something softer slipping into her expression beneath the excitement.

“You won’t be alone in it,” she says. You don’t miss the way her eyes flick, briefly, toward Eddie.

And for the first time since you sat down, the weight of everything settles in properly. A week. Whatever this is, it’s not slowing down. It’s building.

AH here we are! part two should be out really soon, i already wrote too much for the first section so half of it is already completed. let me know what you think!

tag list is also open for this series, comment to be added.

bye! xoxo

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