Max Miller’s Trailer
 

Max’s trailer sat near the back of Red Rock View, where the streetlight didn’t quite reach and the fog liked to linger.

It was a double-wide with history written across every inch—rust blooming along the corners, siding patched in uneven spots, and a tin roof that clattered like bones whenever the wind picked up. The porch was a makeshift build from old wood planks, uneven and splintered, with a pair of boots always kicked off to the side and a hoodie perpetually draped over the railing. String lights hung under the awning—half of them dead, the rest flickering like they couldn’t decide if they wanted to be hopeful or give up.

Inside, it felt like organized chaos. The living room had a sagging couch layered in mismatched blankets, a scratched-up coffee table littered with printouts, half-drunk mugs, and crime scene photos that should’ve been locked away, not spread out like homework. The kitchen was small, all wood-paneled cabinets and burnt toast smells, with one stubborn drawer that always stuck and a fridge covered in outdated magnets and newspaper clippings Max refused to throw out.

The dining table had become her command center. A laptop—cracked screen, keys worn from use—sat open next to a pile of notebooks scrawled with theories, sightings, and names no one else dared say aloud. Red Sharpie stains marked her fingers like blood she couldn’t wash off.

Her bedroom was in the back, the smallest room in the trailer, but the most alive. String lights circled the ceiling, glowing dimly against her evidence wall—clippings, photos, handwritten notes, and red string connecting it all like a web. Books spilled from shelves and corners, stacked beneath the window that overlooked nothing but pine and dirt. The bed was a mess of flannel and fleece, the blankets never tucked in, like sleep was a suggestion, not a habit.

Her dad’s room was down the hall, always closed unless he was home. He gave her space. Maybe too much.

From the outside, it looked like just another crumbling trailer in a forgotten park.

But inside?

Inside was war.

And Max was the only one willing to keep fighting.

Want a description of her room from Eli’s perspective next—or how it felt in the aftermath of Renee’s death?

Max Miller was unraveling again—and this time, she wasn’t trying to hide it.

She dropped the manila folder onto the table like it was evidence in a trial no one else wanted to attend. Newspaper clippings spilled out first. Then grainy printouts. Then a page torn from a spiral notebook with half a bloody thumbprint in the corner, smudged but intentional.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she muttered, fingers fidgeting with the edges of a photograph. “That I’m doing too much again. That I’m spiraling. That I should just let it go.”

She snapped a rubber band off one of the stacks. Papers fluttered like nervous wings.

“But then Benji says Heather Goodwin came to him, asking about the old murders—and what, I’m just supposed to ignore that?”

She glanced up briefly. Eli sat across from her, silent, unmoving. Watching.

Max’s voice sharpened. “She’s not even from this side of town. Sunnyvale girls don’t come sniffing around Shadyside blood unless something’s wrong.”

She flipped over a clipping. “1994: Mall Massacre Leaves Five Dead.” Her pen had marked the margins with furious scribbles. Flies. Possession. One survivor said the killer’s eyes weren’t human.

“Renee was the first,” she said quietly. “And don’t tell me it was just Mitchie losing it, because you saw it, Eli. You saw what came out of him. The flies. The smell. That moment—when he looked right at us but didn’t see us? That wasn’t just some mental break. That was something else.”

She tapped the photo like it might start talking. “And now Heather shows up. Asking about the past. Looking pale as hell and scared like something’s following her.”

Her voice dropped, breathless and reverent. “Something is following her. All of us.”

She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out her cracked phone, and loaded up a familiar screen.

“Reactivated it,” she said. “The blog. Shadyside Killings. Version 2.0.”

She turned the screen so Eli could see: the new banner, the red typeface, the photo of a bloody handprint on linoleum tile—taken from the abandoned school near Fear Street. She’d taken it herself.

“I’m not gonna wait around this time,” Max said. “Not gonna let this thing chew us up one by one while everyone pretends it’s just bad luck or broken boys with sharp objects.”

Her voice trembled—but it wasn’t fear. It was purpose.

“I’m gonna find it. Dig it out. Shine a light in every dark hole it crawled into.”

The streetlamp above them buzzed, then blinked once. Twice. Then held steady.

She looked down at the papers, hands finally still.

“I just need to know you’ve got my back.”

Eli didn’t speak.

But he didn’t leave either.

And that was enough.

For now.

Eli ran his thumb along the edge of his cigarette case, not smoking—just holding it. A small habit that said more than words. The trailer was quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the soft creak of Max pacing in her boots, all righteous fury and sleepless obsession. And honestly, he respected the hell out of it.

But he wasn’t thinking about Max. Not really.

He was still replaying what Benji had said earlier, sprawled across the amp in their practice room like he’d forgotten how to sit upright. “She asked me about the murders, Eli. Not just in passing—like really asked. Like she already knew parts of it.”

Heather Goodwin. Sunnyvale royalty with fire in her voice and venom in her smile. Eli had seen her once at a gas station months ago—hair wild, lips red, eyes sharp like a wolf wearing perfume. She hadn’t looked at him, but he remembered the way the air changed when she passed.

And now she was in his world. Benji’s orbit. Asking about Shadyside ghosts like she belonged.

Eli didn’t trust girls like that. Not because they were liars, but because they were hunters. And he knew the look in their eyes when they caught the scent of something bigger than themselves. Heather had the look of someone about to set a match to everything—just to see what would crawl out of the ashes.

He watched Max’s hands flutter over the evidence. So much conviction. So much desperation.

Heather had it too. That dangerous, magnetic pull toward truth, even if it tore you open on the way there.

And Benji… Benji didn’t know how close he was to the edge until someone like her leaned in and asked if he’d ever wondered what falling felt like.

Eli leaned back in his chair, eyes catching on a nail jutting from the trailer’s wood paneling. It reminded him of Heather, weirdly. Sharp. Out of place. Still standing, somehow.

“You know,” he said finally, voice a low drawl, “if this turns into another bloodbath, it’s not gonna be the blog that saves us. It’s gonna be which one of us cracks first.”

Max didn’t answer, but he saw her jaw set. Heard the paper shift like wind against tombstones.

Eli let his gaze drift to the photograph again—Heather, caught in a blurry frame near the edge of Fear Street, half-turned, like she knew she was being watched.

He almost admired her. Almost.

“She’s gonna wreck him,” he said, softer this time. “Benji.”

It wasn’t bitterness. Just a knowing. The kind that settled behind his ribs and didn’t leave. He tapped the cigarette case once against the table, then looked up.

“But I’ll be here. For him. For you. Just… don’t mistake her curiosity for kindness.”

He didn’t leave.

Instead, he slouched deeper into the chair, kicked his boots up on the edge of the table, and cracked open a a cold beer. No more warnings. No dramatic exits. Just the quiet agreement of someone who knew the storm was already here.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

Max didn’t look at him right away. She didn’t need to. She’d heard every word.

The rhythm of her pacing slowed, boots scuffing soft against the trailer’s linoleum floor. She stood in the space between movement and stillness, staring down at the mess they’d made—newsprint, Polaroids, post-its in her handwriting like curses disguised as breadcrumbs. She didn’t flinch when he said Heather’s name. Didn’t twitch when he said wreck. But her fingers curled slightly at her sides, knuckles pale with the effort not to snap.

Because Eli was right. And she hated when he was right.

“She’s not kind,” Max said finally, her voice flat—cooler than it felt inside. “That’s not why she’s here.”

She turned to him then, arms folded tight across her chest, not in defense—but restraint. From what, she didn’t know. Rage? Fear? The gnawing suspicion that the girl from across the tracks was going to dig too deep and take the whole fragile truth down with her?

“But Benji doesn’t need kind,” she continued, jaw tight. “He needs someone who doesn’t look away. And maybe—maybe that’s what she is.”

The word tasted like betrayal, but she didn’t take it back.

Her eyes flicked to the photograph still resting on the table. Heather, half-shadow, half-story. Caught mid-step like she belonged to a future no one else had seen yet.

“She’s already in it, Eli. Whatever this is. She’s not backing down.”

She crossed the room and sat across from him, kicking a Polaroid aside with the toe of her boot as she dropped into the chair. For a second, neither of them spoke.

Then—

Max reached out and took the cigarette case from where it rested near his beer. Didn’t open it. Just turned it over in her hand, like she was holding something sacred. Or cursed.

“She might wreck him,” she said quietly. “But if she does—if she breaks him—I’ll be there too. Just like you.”

Her gaze lifted, steady. “But if she tries to use him… I’ll stop her.”

She didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just set the case back down gently on the table between them, like a line being drawn.

She wasn’t going anywhere either.

Eli reached for his beer and took a swig, wincing slightly at the taste. Warm. Flat. Typical. He stared into the bottle like it might tell him something new—like maybe the answer had been at the bottom all along. It hadn’t.

Max’s room was still a living crime scene. Not bloodied, but haunted in its own way—by obsession, by grief, by that stubborn streak of hers that refused to let go. The newspaper clippings were yellowed at the corners now. The yarn connecting faces and theories sagged a little under the weight of time. It was a map of a mind unraveling with purpose.

He let his eyes trail back to her. She didn’t flinch. Not when he brought up Heather. Not when she admitted—however reluctantly—that the girl was already part of this now. That Heather Goodwin, with her red lipstick and razorblade charm, wasn’t just playing detective. She’d already stepped into the story.

Eli sighed and leaned back in the chair, running his tongue over the edge of his molar like he was chewing on the next thought.

“Shit,” he muttered, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She better be careful, though. You ever turn on her? She won’t know what hit her.”

He meant it like a joke. Kind of. But it was also true. Max had never needed sharp objects—her words could gut someone just fine. Heather had no idea what it would mean to end up on Max Miller’s bad side. Hell, Eli knew firsthand. He still bore the emotional bruises from the last time they’d fought over a dumb theory in ninth grade—and he’d been right.

He took another pull from the bottle, quieter now.

Truth was, he didn’t give a damn about Heather—not really. She could be poison wrapped in velvet, and it wouldn’t change the fact that Max was in this. Max was too deep already. And Eli? He’d been trying to keep her safe since the first day she dragged him into her ghost stories and web-sleuthing spirals.

But this was different now.

This was real.

And no amount of sarcasm could dull the edge of that truth.

He set the bottle down beside the ashtray, watching her fingers trail over the cigarette case. So careful. So quiet. The way she touched things when she knew they might break.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, expression softer than his voice.

“So what’s the plan, then?” he asked.

His tone was calm, but beneath it was something else. A need. A plea. Not for escape—but for direction. If they were going to war, he wanted to know where the hell to aim.

Benji felt like the center of it all.
Like the weight of the air depended on whether or not he opened his mouth.

But God, he didn’t want to say it.

He didn’t want to watch the light go out of Heather’s eyes.
Didn’t want to watch the shape of the night click into place for Max.
Didn’t want to confirm the dread humming through every one of Caleb’s bones.

He wanted five more minutes.
Five more seconds.
Anything.

But Max’s voice cut the silence:

“Tell them.”

Not a question.
Just a tether snapping.

Benji dragged a hand over his face, fingers trembling.

Then he looked up—at Heather first.
Always Heather.

And it nearly broke him.

“There were names,” he said, voice low and rough. “Carved into the wall.”

That got their attention.

Alice Mae stilled mid-step.
Caleb turned slowly.
Max’s brow furrowed.

Benji swallowed hard, throat dry.

“All of them. The Shadyside killers. Every one we know about—”

His voice cracked.

“Cyrus Miller. Billy Barker. Ruby Lane. Tommy Slater. Ryan Torres. Samantha Frazier. All of them.”

He couldn’t breathe.

He felt Heather shift beside him—stiffening, quiet.
He didn’t look at her yet.

“And then—”
his voice hitched.

A pause.
A heartbeat too long.

“There was one more name. At the bottom.”

Silence sharpened around the room like a blade.

“Heather,” he said. “Heather Goodwin.”

He didn’t know what he expected.

A gasp. A scream. A punch.

But the silence that followed felt worse than any of it.

Benji forced his eyes to hers—and he hated what he saw.

Not confusion.
Not denial.

Recognition.

Like some part of her had known all along.

His voice dropped, softer now.

“It was fresh. It was real. It was yours.”

He reached for her hand—slow, careful, like she might shatter if he moved too fast.

She didn’t pull away.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” he whispered. “But I couldn’t not.”

Another pause.

The group hadn’t moved.

No one breathed.

Benji didn’t care.

He was looking at her. Just her.

“You’re not one of them,” he said, fierce and certain, even if it wasn’t enough. “You’re not.”

And God, he meant it.

But the wall didn’t care.
The curse didn’t care.
The dark below Shadyside had already carved its claim.

And Benji—
Benji had never wanted so badly to rewrite the ending.

Benji’s voice cracked, low and careful, like the words might cut his mouth open.

“Heather Goodwin.”

Max didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t need him to say it.

Because she already knew.

Not just tonight.
Not just now.
But before.

Before the tunnel.
Before the grate.
Before the rusted names carved into stone like a fucking prophecy.

She’d known.

The second they found the flies again.
The second Heather started hearing things no one else could.
The second Max dreamed the Widow’s mark and woke up tasting blood.

This curse wasn’t new.

It was a wheel.

And it was turning again.

She exhaled slow through her nose, hands still locked tight across her chest.

Heather was frozen on the couch, not crying, not moving, not even blinking.

Benji was watching her like she might disappear.

Caleb looked like he’d aged ten years in thirty seconds.

Alice Mae’s jaw was set, but Max could tell she was bracing for a fight.

And Eli—

Eli didn’t look surprised at all.

Max pushed off the counter and moved toward the center of the room.

Not slow. Not dramatic.

Just forward.

All of them turned.

She stopped beside the low coffee table, the weak lamplight slicing a shadow across her face.

“We were right,” she said, voice flat but clear. “The curse is back.”

No one interrupted.

“And not just back.”
Her eyes flicked to Heather.
“It’s targeting us.”

The silence in the trailer vibrated.

Heather still hadn’t moved.

Max didn’t soften.

“It’s her name now. But it won’t stay just hers.”

She let the words settle, let them sting.

Then finally—finally—she looked at Benji.

Her expression shifted. Just a little.

“Thanks for saying it out loud.”

Because she knew how hard that was.
Because someone had to start the conversation.
And because secrets were how this curse survived.

“Now we fight it,” Max said.

Simple. Steady. Cold iron under velvet.

Her heart was hammering against her ribs.

But her voice?

Unshaking.

“No more guessing. No more pretending. We dig up everything this town tried to bury—because the second we stop moving, it takes us.”

She glanced toward the window—toward the dark stretch of woods beyond the trailer park.

“And it’s already started.”

Heather’s name.

Carved into the wall like a signature soaked in blood.

And Max had already known.

Alice Mae didn’t flinch.
Didn’t breathe.

She just stood there, arms crossed, shoulder pressed lightly to the frame of Max’s kitchen counter, watching the room fold in on itself.

Heather was frozen.
Benji looked wrecked.
Caleb hadn’t moved since the words landed.
Eli was silent and still, but Alice Mae clocked the way his hands were flexing.

Max’s voice cut through it like a match to dry air:

“The curse is back. It’s targeting us.”

Not a whisper. Not a warning.
A fact.

Alice Mae exhaled slowly, her pulse a steady metronome behind her ribs.

She should’ve argued.
Should’ve shut it down.
That was always her move—logic over fear, reason over folklore.

But something deep in her bones—older than belief, louder than denial—hummed with recognition.

Heather’s name was on that wall.

And Max’s voice sounded too much like truth.

Alice Mae’s gaze shifted, scanning the group with precision.
Every detail mattered now.

Benji’s hand was still clenched in Heather’s.
Caleb was two seconds from either losing his mind or saving theirs.
Eli looked like he’d throw himself back into the tunnel without blinking.

And Max?

Max was steady.
Too steady.

Like she’d already made peace with something the rest of them hadn’t caught up to yet.

Alice Mae pushed off the counter.

Her boots were silent against the trailer’s thin carpet as she crossed the room. She didn’t ask permission. Didn’t ask for space.

She just moved.

And when she stopped—beside Heather, on the arm of the couch, shoulder-to-shoulder without touching—her voice was quiet, but unshakable.

“So what’s the plan?”

Max’s eyes met hers.

Alice didn’t drop her gaze.

“Because if this thing knows our names, we don’t wait around to see which one it wants next.”

She shifted slightly, grounding herself beside Heather, still not touching, but close enough to count as an anchor.

“We’re not sacrificing anyone. Not this time. Not her.”

Heather’s breath stuttered beside her.

Alice didn’t look.

Her attention stayed locked on Max. Sharp. Steady.

“You want to fight it? Then fight. But we all go down together. And we all come back the same way.”

No one moved.

But something in the air shifted—just a fraction.
Like the ground beneath their feet had stopped spinning long enough to plant one flag in the dirt.

Max might’ve known what was coming.

But Alice Mae Williams had just made it clear:

They’d face it together.

The silence still hummed between them, low and brittle.

But Alice wasn’t done.

She tilted her chin, voice steady but quieter now—like the kind of truth you whisper in church, or at a gravesite.

“Deena Johnson survived this.”

Max’s eyes flicked toward her, sharp.

“So did Samantha Frazier. Josh Johnson, too.”

Caleb shifted against the wall. Heather’s breath hitched. Benji looked up.

Alice didn’t falter.

“In ‘94, they made it out. Barely. But they did.”

She let the names settle over the room like ash.

Most people in Sunnyvale never said them.

Hell, most people in Shadyside pretended they were just another urban legend—the surviving girl who drowned her possessed girlfriend and then brought her back.
But Alice Mae knew better.

“They didn’t survive because they were lucky. They survived because they figured it out. The pattern. The history. The rules.”

She looked at Max.

“We can too.”

Finally, her gaze shifted—downward, to where Heather sat frozen, fists clenched like she was trying to hold her whole body inside them.

Alice’s voice softened, the edges scraped raw but clear:

“You’re not the first, Heather.”

A pause.

Then:

“But you don’t have to be the last.”

Her words weren’t pity.
They were armor.

Because if the curse had its teeth in Heather now?

They were going to have to pull them out.

Together.

She hears the names like echoes.

Not Benji’s voice—but theirs.

Whispers twisted into laughter. Screams buried under floorboards. Familiar now. Intimate.
Cyrus Miller.
Billy Barker.
Ruby Lane.
Each syllable slithers down her spine like oil and ash.

By the time Benji says Tommy Slater, her breath is shallow.
By Ryan Torres, her pulse is gone.

But Samantha Frazier—that one hits different.
That one feels like a mirror cracking.

She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

Her hands are ice. Her knees don’t feel real. The couch might as well be water beneath her.

And then—

There it is.

Her name.

Heather Goodwin.

No gasp leaves her.
No tremble.
No shock.

Because she already knew.

Didn’t have to see it carved in rust to feel it carved in bone.

The dreams had changed.

They used to chase her—screaming, dragging, bleeding. But lately…

Lately she stood beside them.

Watched Ruby Lane smile with a mouth full of teeth.
Felt Cyrus Miller’s breath on her neck like he was waiting for her to move.
Heard the sharp metallic click of Billy Barker’s bat tapping the concrete right next to her heel.

They didn’t hunt her anymore.

They welcomed her.

And that should’ve scared her more than it did.

She doesn’t look at Benji. Can’t.
Because she knows what his eyes will hold: love, fear, pity.

She can’t bear the weight of all three.

So she watches the room instead.

Max, still as a blade, eyes locked forward like she’s already halfway into war.
Alice Mae—stone-faced, chin high, standing too close to not be intentional.
Eli, silent. Watchful. Something humming beneath the quiet.
Caleb—God, Caleb looks like the floor dropped out from under him and no one noticed.

And Benji…

His hand is still in hers.

Rough. Warm. Steady.

Heather swallows hard, throat tight around the sound of a scream that never makes it out.

She should say something.

But what’s left to say when your name is already etched in stone?

She can feel it now—something watching from the dark beyond the trailer walls. Waiting.

The curse had always felt like a storm closing in.

But now?

Now it feels like a door swinging open.

And she’s standing on the threshold.

He didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing until Max spoke.

The curse is back.

Yeah. No shit.

But it wasn’t Max’s voice that rattled him. Or Benji’s. Or even the name itself.

It was Heather.

Or… what was left of her.

She hadn’t moved.

Not once.

Not when Benji said the names like a fucking eulogy.

Not when hers landed like a match in gasoline.

Not even when Alice Mae sat beside her, steady and silent.

Heather Goodwin—the girl who never shut up, never backed down, never let a moment pass without a quip or a challenge—was just… frozen.

And that?

That scared him more than the wall.

More than the curse.

More than anything.

Because Caleb had known Heather for some time now. Knew her loud and biting and chaotic. She had no filter and less patience, and she pissed him off at least once a week.

But she lived out loud.

And now she was so quiet it made his ears ring.

He shifted, weight pressed hard against the trailer wall, arms crossed like they could hold something in. Or out.

His eyes never left her.

Max was still talking—cold, clear, right as always—but Caleb’s focus tunneled.

Benji was still holding her hand.

Alice Mae was close enough to catch her if she cracked.

And just as Max’s voice began to dip, Caleb caught it:

A whisper.

Quick. Soft. Low enough most wouldn’t notice.

But Caleb did.

Eli leaning in, lips close to Max’s ear, something hushed and fast between them.

Caleb’s spine straightened. A chill crept up the back of his neck.

“Hey,” he said, voice louder than he intended. “Say it again.”

Everyone turned.

Eli froze.

Max blinked.

Caleb nodded toward them, jaw tight. “Whatever you just whispered. Say it to all of us.”

A beat of silence.

Then, softer: “We don’t keep secrets. Not anymore.”

Not after tonight.

Not with her name on that wall.

His gaze dropped briefly back to Heather—silent, still, not gone. Not yet.

Then he looked at Eli. And this time, there was no room for dodging.

“What did you see?”

He should’ve stayed in the shadows.

That was always the play.

Observe. Listen. Catalog.
Don’t step into the middle of the mess unless the building’s already burning down.

But then Benji said her name.

Heather Goodwin.

And everything Eli had been tracking—the bad dreams, the flickers in her eyes, the way the dark seemed to lean toward her lately—clicked into place.

It didn’t shock him.

Not really.

He’d known from the beginning that Heather was the type to bring storm clouds in her wake. The Sunnyvale smile. The razor tongue. The buried grief pretending to be glitter.

Trouble, wrapped in perfume and panic and pride.

Eli had watched her claw her way into their group like she belonged there. Like she earned it.

And yeah—maybe she’d proven she wasn’t just playing some long con.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t dangerous.

Now her name was on the wall. Carved next to the cursed. Fresh.

And suddenly, all the gut feelings he hadn’t said out loud didn’t feel so paranoid anymore.

He’d leaned in close to Max, barely above breath:

“She’s not possessed. But she’s marked.”

Max had just nodded—tight, grim.

And then Caleb’s voice cut through the room.

“Say it again.”

Shit.

Eli slowly straightened, eyes meeting Caleb’s. He didn’t flinch, didn’t back down.

Because Caleb was right.

Secrets were how the curse survived.

Eli glanced once at Heather—still on the couch, still silent, still pale—and then back at the group.

“I said she’s not possessed,” Eli said flatly. “But she’s marked.”

Max didn’t interrupt. Alice didn’t blink.

He kept going.

“There’s a difference. The others—Slater, Ruby, the ones before—they were vessels. Empty. Used.”

He nodded toward Heather.

“She’s not empty.”

Silence pressed around the room like the air had thickened.

“I don’t think it’s taken her,” Eli added, voice low, “but it’s watching her. Following her. Waiting.”

His eyes moved to Benji, then to Alice, then back to Caleb.

“And that name on the wall? That wasn’t a warning. It was a claim.”

He didn’t bother softening it.

Didn’t dress it up in hope or comfort.

Because sugarcoating wasn’t going to save anyone.

And if they were going to fight this thing, they needed to know exactly what they were up against.

Even if that meant admitting the curse had already chosen its favorite.

The word claim hit harder than anything they’d seen in the tunnels.

Harder than the smell. The cold. The names on the wall.

Even hers.

Benji flinched like it had been aimed directly at him—because in a way, it had.

Eli’s voice echoed in his head, blunt and merciless:

“She’s not possessed. But she’s marked.”

Marked.

Like a target.

Like a countdown.

Benji’s knuckles tightened around the edge of the couch cushion until it squealed under his grip. He hadn’t realized he was still holding her hand until Heather shifted slightly beside him, not pulling away—just… adjusting. Like even now, she was trying not to lean too hard.

But she could’ve leaned with everything she had, and he still wouldn’t have moved.

He felt it then—raw and sudden—this flood of no that rose up like a tidal wave under his ribs.

No.
Not her.
Not now.
Not when he was just starting to get it. Just starting to feel it.

Because yeah, maybe it had been a slow build. Maybe he’d pretended for weeks that she didn’t get under his skin, that her eye rolls didn’t land like fireworks, that he didn’t feel steadier when she was nearby—even when she was yelling.

But down in that tunnel, when he saw her name…

It wasn’t fear that hit him first.

It was love.

Terrifying, inconvenient, bone-deep love.

And now he didn’t know what to do with it.

He didn’t realize the room had gone silent again until Alice Mae’s gaze cut sharply toward him—expectant. Waiting.

They were all waiting.

Benji swallowed hard, throat like sandpaper. He didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to break whatever fragile thing was keeping Heather tethered upright.

But someone had to.

He forced the words out, voice low, scraped raw.

“She didn’t look surprised.”

That made heads turn.

He kept going.

“When I said the names… all of them… she didn’t even blink. Not until I got to hers. And even then—she didn’t flinch. Not really.”

He looked at Heather then.

She was still pale. Still frozen.

But her eyes flicked to his—just once.

And in that second, he knew she was scared. Not of the curse.

Of him seeing her like this.

Benji’s throat closed again.

“She’s been dreaming about them,” he added. “She hasn’t said it, but I can tell. The way she’s been lately—quiet one second, angry the next. Like something’s crawling around under her skin.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice softer now.

“I think she’s been living with this for longer than the rest of us. I think it started with her.”

Another pause.

“And I don’t care.”

That got their attention.

Benji looked up, defiant now.

“I don’t care if the curse put a target on her. I’m not letting it take her. And if you think we’re gonna vote on that—if anyone even thinks about leaving her behind—”

He looked around the room.

One by one.

“You’ll have to go through me first.”

His hand found Heather’s again.

This time, he didn’t loosen his grip.

She didn’t say anything.

Not right away.

Not after Eli called it a claim.

Not after Benji’s voice cracked wide open around Heather’s name.

Not even when he said he’d fight anyone who tried to leave her behind.

Max just stood there.

Still.
Silent.
Listening.

It was all clicking into place now.

The whispers.
The shift in the air.
The way Heather had started showing up in Max’s dreams—but not like a friend.

Like a mirror.
Like a warning.

Max had seen the curse take people before.
Heard the stories.
Read the posts.
Studied the patterns.
She’d built her blog on them, stacked every Shadyside tragedy like evidence on a courtroom table, convinced herself that knowing the history might keep it from happening again.

But knowing wasn’t the same as surviving.

Not when your friend’s name was etched into a wall like a prophecy.

Max’s stomach turned.
Her trailer smelled like stale tea and woodsmoke, but now all she could taste was rust.
Like the tunnels hadn’t stayed underground. Like they were still here, bleeding through the floorboards.

Heather sat like a statue.
Benji clung to her like he could anchor her to the now.
Alice Mae looked ready to swing at the curse with her bare hands.
Eli, arms crossed, silent but deadly as ever.
And Caleb—bless him—still thought maybe this could be solved with muscle and logic.

It couldn’t.

Max had always known it would come back.
The curse never ended, it just waited.

And now it had found new names.

She ran a hand through her hair, fingers shaking before she tucked them into her hoodie pocket. No one noticed.

Good.

Max straightened up and spoke before anyone else could.

“We’re not guessing anymore.”

Her voice was calm. Clipped.

“This isn’t some echo of the curse. It’s not a maybe. Not a metaphor. It’s back. Fully. And it’s started with Heather.”

No one interrupted her.

“The dreams, the names, the tunnel—it all matches. The possession pattern, the death map, the shifts in town energy—hell, I’ve been tracking it for months and didn’t even realize it was starting again.”

She turned to Eli without blinking.

“That mark you saw down there? It’s Goode. Twisted, but Goode. Like someone’s trying to rewrite the rules.”

Her eyes dropped briefly to Heather, then back up.

“But the thing about rules? You can’t break them without consequences.”

Max stepped forward, into the center of the room, voice gaining heat.

“Deena Johnson didn’t survive because she ran. She survived because she fought. Samantha. Josh. All of them. They faced it head-on.”

She looked at her friends—her people—one by one.

“So yeah, this thing thinks it owns Heather. It thinks it owns us.”

A beat.

“I say we remind it who it’s messing with.”

Max’s voice dropped, sharp as glass:

“It picked the wrong damn group.”

Max’s words hung in the air like the final click of a trigger.

Alice Mae didn’t flinch.

She’d grown up in a town that taught you to smile, to win, to never believe in monsters.

But Shadyside was different.
It didn’t need belief.

Here, the monsters were real.
And they had names.

Alice Mae could feel the shift in the room, low and shivering—like the curse itself was listening.

Heather hadn’t spoken.
Benji’s jaw was clenched like he could hold the world together with his teeth.
Caleb looked like he’d forgotten how to blink.
Eli watched everyone like a puzzle he already knew the answer to.
And Max—God, Max stood like a blade in the dark, daring the universe to try her.

Alice didn’t want to speak.
She had spent years pretending none of this was real.

But she couldn’t stay silent now.

Not when Heather’s name was carved in stone.

“You’re right,” she said quietly, voice a little rough. “It’s back.”

The silence that followed wasn’t judgment.

It was recognition.

And still—Alice felt it.

The subtle way the others turned slightly toward her.
The way their eyes narrowed, not cruel, but cautious.

Because she wasn’t from here.

She wasn’t one of them.

“I know I’m not from Shadyside,” she said, before anyone else could. “And I know what Sunnyvale means to most of you.”

She paused. Let it land.

“But I’ve seen enough now to stop pretending I’m not part of this. We’re all in it. And I don’t care what side of the divide I was born on—if this thing is coming for Heather, it’s coming for all of us.”

She stepped forward then, slowly, so they could see she wasn’t afraid to stand with them.

“When I first moved here, I found old clippings. About Deena Johnson. Samantha Frazier. Josh Johnson.”

The words tasted like truth now—not legend.

“They stopped the curse once. Or they thought they did.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to Heather, whose silence felt louder than anything.

“But it never ended. It just… shifted. Waited.”

A long breath.

“And now it’s got her name.”

Alice looked at each of them in turn—Max, Eli, Caleb, Benji.

“So yeah, maybe I’m from the town that always walked away clean. But I’m not walking away from her.”

A beat.

“Not now. Not ever.”

She didn’t cry. She didn’t shake.

But she meant every damn word.

And the curse?

It could come and see for itself what a Sunnyvaler was willing to burn to keep her people safe.

She’d read about them all.

Late at night, screen dimmed low, heart pounding in her throat while she scrolled past headline after headline.

Teen Girl Kills Friends in Nighttime Slaughter.

Masked Boy Goes on Rampage in Sleepaway Camp.

Local Student Found Covered in Blood—Says She Doesn’t Remember.

She used to read them like ghost stories.

Urban legends dipped in tragedy, soaked in gore, and always ending the same way:

Dead.

Possessed.

Forgotten.

And now her name was on that wall.

With theirs.

Like a whisper from the grave pulling her closer.

Like a signature on a dotted line she never signed.

Heather Goodwin.

Right there.

Fresh.

Claimed.

Her chest felt tight, like something was coiled around her lungs. Her hands hadn’t stopped shaking, not even when Benji gripped them like they were a lifeline. Not even when Alice sat beside her like a fortress. Not even when Max declared war on the curse itself.

Because Heather knew what happened to girls with their names on that wall.

They didn’t get tearful candlelight vigils.

They got mugshots.

Bloody photos.

Breathless newscasters saying things like “We never saw it coming,” and “But she was from Sunnyvale.”

And maybe that was the worst part.

Knowing that when—if—she snapped, people would just shrug.

Like it had always been inevitable.

The curse was cruel like that.

She could feel it now—pressing in at the edges, curling cold fingers around the back of her neck, whispering why not you?

She wasn’t Deena Johnson.

Wasn’t Sam.

Wasn’t built of anything strong enough to survive this.

She was terrified. She was marked. And she was so goddamn tired of pretending otherwise.

But mostly?

She was angry.

Angry that her mouth couldn’t work even though her heart was screaming.

Angry that the girl who used to take no one’s shit had been quiet for this long.

Angry that she finally—finally—had people. Real people. People who saw her, believed her, loved her. And she was going to lose them. Maybe by accident. Maybe by choice. Maybe with a blade in her hand and no memory left.

And it was going to be her fault.

Because of bloodlines.

Because of history.

Because of a name.

No.

No.

No.

The fire inside her sparked. Then flared.

And suddenly, she was done.

Done letting the curse make her feel like a fucking ghost.

Done watching everyone else speak while her voice drowned in fear.

Done waiting for her obituary to write itself.

Heather sat up straighter.

Her fingers tightened around Benji’s without warning.

And then, finally—finally—her voice broke through.

Quiet. Cracked. But hers.

“If any of you try to die for me, I’ll kill you myself.”

The silence after it was stunned.

She looked up.

Eyes burning. Breath unsteady. But back.

“I mean it.”

She looked at each of them in turn—Caleb, Eli, Alice Mae, Max.

And then Benji.

Especially Benji.

“I’m not letting this thing win. Not like that. Not by making me the tragedy before I even get to live.”

A shaky breath.

“I’ve spent my whole damn life trying to be good enough. Smart enough. Sunnyvale enough. And now I’m supposed to be a headline?”

Her voice sharpened, steel under flame.

“No. Screw that. If it wants me, it can come get me. But I’m not going out quiet.”

She turned to Max, eyes burning.

“You said the curse picked the wrong group?”

A sharp, bitter laugh escaped.

“It picked the wrong bitch.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, crackling with heat.

“I hope it’s listening.”

Heather was back.

Not all the way—he wasn’t stupid—but the fire was there again.

The bite in her voice. The sharpness in her spine. The girl who would threaten to kill them if they died for her.

Classic Heather.

And damn, he was grateful for it.

She’d scared the shit out of him sitting frozen like that, quiet and pale and shaking from the inside out. That hadn’t been her—not the version of her he’d come to know like an annoying little sister who always had to get the last word in.

But now?

Now she was pissed, and that, at least, felt familiar.

Caleb exhaled, finally letting his shoulders drop an inch.

And that’s when he looked at Alice Mae.

She hadn’t moved much since the firestorm of confessions started. Still perched beside Heather like a shield. Still calm. Still strong.

But Caleb knew her too well to miss the cracks.

The way she hadn’t blinked since Heather spoke.
The way her shoulders were squared like she was holding up more than just her own weight.
The way she looked like she’d fight God if it meant keeping her best friend safe—but she didn’t know what the hell to swing at.

He moved closer.

Not with fanfare.

Not with words.

Just one step forward, quiet but steady, until he was standing beside her.

Not touching.

Not asking.

Just there.

So she’d know.

So she’d feel it.

He was here.

With her.

For her.

And when he turned to the group, his voice didn’t crack or shake.

It just was.

“We’re getting through this,” he said, firm. “All of us. No matter what it takes.”

No flourish.

No dramatics.

Just truth.

And when his eyes flicked back to Alice Mae, the message was clear:

He wasn’t just talking about Heather.

He meant her, too.

Especially her.

He didn’t trust easy.

Didn’t follow blindly.

Didn’t believe in group hugs and heartfelt speeches and all-for-one declarations.

He believed in facts. Patterns. Precautions.

People broke. Promises failed.

And curses?

Curses didn’t care how much you meant it.

They just took.

So yeah—he was watching all of them. Carefully.

Heather, now crackling with fire again. Angry enough to burn down the curse itself if she could get her hands on it.

Benji, hopelessly in love and ready to throw himself into the flames like that would fix anything.

Max, fierce and focused, already halfway to blueprinting a battle plan in her head.

Caleb, solid as bedrock, stepping up beside Alice Mae like it was muscle memory.

And Alice—hell, Alice. Standing there like she was carved out of grief and resolve, shoulders squared even with the weight of losing her best friend looming right in front of her.

Eli had spent weeks thinking Heather would be the problem.

She was too loud. Too pretty. Too Sunnyvale.

Too willing to insert herself into a group that wasn’t built to let outsiders in.

And yet… she was still here.

Still fighting.

Still holding Benji’s hand like it meant something.

Still herself, even when her name was carved into stone alongside the killers.

And Eli had to admit—just to himself, and only for a second—it meant something that none of them had walked away.

He watched Caleb speak to the room, voice steady:

“We’re getting through this. All of us. No matter what it takes.”

It should’ve sounded naive.

It should’ve made Eli roll his eyes.

But it didn’t.

Because for the first time since this mess started—since the tunnels, since the dreams, since the goddamn wall—he believed them.

The Sunnyvalers weren’t running.

They weren’t pretending.

They weren’t here out of convenience.

They’d made a choice.

And Eli?

He was still cautious. Still calculating.

Still waiting for the moment everything cracked wide open again.

But maybe—just maybe—he and Max didn’t have to do it alone.

Not this time.

Not with them.

He folded his arms across his chest, eyes sweeping the group one last time.

If the curse wanted to drag them under, it was gonna find out just how deep this team could dig.

And Eli?

Eli would be the last one to blink.

Eli didn’t finish his sentence.

Didn’t have to.

Benji felt it—like the last bolt sliding into place. Like something inside the room shifted from scared to ready.

No more ghosts hanging in the silence.

Just them.

Their names.
Their faces.
Their fire.

Heather’s hand was still in his, thumb brushing his knuckles in this absent, steady rhythm like she didn’t even realize she was doing it. But he did.

And God, he held onto that.

The way she came back to herself in pieces and flame.
The way Caleb stepped forward without asking.
The way Alice Mae’s voice didn’t shake when she promised war.

Even Eli, who never trusted anyone without a six-month background check and a surveillance feed, stood a little closer now.

Benji hadn’t meant to become part of a group like this.

He was the guy you invited to a bonfire, not a war.

But this—
this felt like more than a fight.

It felt like a vow.

His eyes scanned the trailer—peeling wallpaper, half-dead lamp, mug full of mismatched pens—like it might be the last normal place they’d stand before everything changed.

It probably was.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low but clear.

“We need a plan.”

Max nodded once—already halfway to opening the binder on her makeshift table. He could see the tabs from here. Color-coded. Of course.

“We need answers,” he added. “The wall. The mark. The order of the names. Why Heather’s is last.”

His grip on her hand tightened slightly—not for her.
For him.

“And we need to know who the hell wrote them.”

Because someone did.

Someone—or something—was watching. Waiting.

Marking them like a checklist.

Benji’s eyes darkened.

“We find it before it finds the next name.”

Then softer, almost to himself—

“I’m not watching this curse take any more of us.”

Not Heather.
Not anyone.

Not while he was still breathing.

Benji’s voice was steady, but his eyes weren’t.

He looked like a storm in a glass bottle—tight, furious, one knock from breaking.

“We need to know who wrote the names,” he said. “Why Heather’s is last.”

Max didn’t look away.

Didn’t shift. Didn’t soften.

She’d been holding back for the last hour. Letting them speak. Letting Heather find her fire. Letting Alice take up space. Letting Caleb and Eli do what they always did—stand steady or quiet, depending on what the moment needed.

But this?

This she couldn’t leave unsaid.

“Heather’s last,” Max said quietly, “because she’s the next Shadyside killer.”

Silence fell.

Not a crackling one.

A dead one.

Benji’s whole body went still.

Heather didn’t breathe.

Max met their eyes—one at a time—and didn’t flinch from any of it.

“It’s always the same pattern,” she said. “The names go in order. Timeline, location, escalation. The last name is always the one the curse is claiming next.”

A pause. Her voice hardened.

“It doesn’t start with murder. It starts with marking. Whispers. Dreams. The pull toward blood. The decay in the air. The shadows that follow. You think the curse just flips a switch? No. It builds. It grooms.”

She turned to Heather—who hadn’t moved.

“It’s not about whether you’re a good person. It’s about whether you fit the story.”

Her tone stayed even, but her fists were clenched at her sides.

“The curse doesn’t want another tragedy. It wants another headline. A legacy. A killer with a name people won’t forget.”

Max swallowed.

“And Heather? You’re the perfect storm.”

There was no cruelty in it.
Just truth.

Heather, pale but blazing, stared back at her with something like horror—and something sharper underneath.

Benji, shaking now, voice low:

“She hasn’t killed anyone.”

Max’s jaw tightened.

“Yet.”

That word landed hard.

She gave it space.

“But if we don’t stop it—if we don’t find a way to sever the link—it won’t matter what she wants.”

Max stepped forward, slow and deliberate, binder in hand now, already flipping through old maps, crime scene notes, her grandmother’s annotations scribbled in red ink on half-ripped pages.

“We’re not just dealing with ghosts. We’re dealing with a system. A design. Someone—something—is keeping it running.”

She looked around the room—eyes blazing now, voice steady.

“So we stop it. We burn it down. We rewrite the story before it finishes writing her.”

She turned to Heather one last time.

“You are not a killer.”

A breath.

“But if we don’t move now, that wall won’t care.”

She’d been holding her breath.

Since the mall. Since the wall. Since Heather went still and Benji went soft and Max went sharp.

But it was that word—yet—that finally punched the air out of her lungs.

Heather hasn’t killed anyone.

Yet.

Alice Mae barely kept herself upright.

The fire under her ribs sparked hot and instinctual, but she held it. Buried it. She couldn’t afford to lose control—not now.

Because Max was right.

Because she’d known it the moment Heather said she could hear their names before Benji ever spoke.

Because she’d felt it in the way Heather’s dreams had changed. The way the air curled around her like it recognized her. The way she’d stopped humming while brushing her teeth. The way she’d started locking her bedroom door when she thought Alice wasn’t looking.

Heather was changing.

The curse wasn’t hunting her.

It was shaping her.

And Max had finally said it out loud.

Alice didn’t flinch.

She looked at Heather instead.

Heather, who hadn’t spoken since.
Who hadn’t blinked.
Whose fingers were still wrapped around Benji’s like a lifeline she didn’t believe in anymore.

Alice moved before she thought about it.

Not dramatically. Not loudly.

Just one shift—sliding down from the arm of the couch to the cushion beside Heather, knees knocking together, shoulder brushing hers on purpose.

“You’re not going to be the next killer.”

She said it simply. Like fact.

Heather didn’t answer.

So Alice leaned in closer, voice low but fierce.

“You’re not. Because we’re not letting that happen.”

She turned to Max then, sharp.

“And if this thing wants a legacy—it’s about to choke on it.”

There was heat in her voice now, barely leashed.

Because she’d stood by Heather through breakups and breakdowns, through essays written at 3 a.m. and fights with parents and every awful, awful moment of high school that tried to carve her down into something palatable.

She’d be damned if she let a centuries-old curse finish the job.

Alice’s gaze swung back to the room.

“So we find the link. The pattern. The power source. Whatever’s keeping this thing alive.”

Then softer, but still unshaking:

“And we end it.”

No one moved.

Not right away.

But Alice didn’t need a roar of approval.

She just needed Heather to breathe again.

To blink.

To fight.

And Alice Mae Williams?

She’d burn down every piece of Shadyside history if it meant keeping the girl beside her whole.

She’d known.

Not just since the wall.

Not just since Benji said her name like it tasted like blood.

She’d known since the dreams started shifting.

When she stopped running and started watching.

When the killers started standing beside her like they were waiting for her to fall in line.

She felt it in her bones, in the way her chest tightened when someone raised their voice, in how good it felt lately to imagine hurting someone when they crossed her.

She hadn’t done anything.

Not yet.

But the pull was there.

And it was growing louder.

She wanted to scream at Max for saying it. For naming the thing she wasn’t ready to.

But Max wasn’t wrong.

The curse didn’t flip a switch.

It crept in slow. Tender. Familiar.

Like a sickness that felt like strength at first.

Heather didn’t move when Alice Mae sat beside her. Didn’t lean away when their shoulders brushed, warm and grounding.

She just stared at the floor, hands clenched, teeth locked together like if she opened her mouth something terrible would crawl out.

But then Alice said it—

You’re not going to be the next killer.

Heather wanted to believe her. God, she wanted to.

But that kind of hope didn’t feel safe anymore.

The room had gone still again.

And it was her turn to speak.

So she did.

Her voice was low. Not broken. But raw.

“I’ve seen it.”

That made them look at her.

She didn’t stop.

“In my sleep. In the mirror. In the space between my thoughts. I’ve felt it building. Like something’s waiting for me to… give in.”

Her gaze swept the room, stopping briefly on Benji—his expression open, desperate, wrecked.

Then on Alice—fierce and fearless beside her.

Then Max, already calculating what came next.

Then Caleb.

And finally—Eli.

She met his eyes. The one who never trusted her. The one who might’ve been right all along.

“There’s a part of me that’s scared you’re all wasting your time,” she said quietly. “That I’m already too far gone and just don’t know it yet.”

Benji flinched. Alice opened her mouth—but Heather kept going.

“And I want to believe we’ll figure it out. That we’ll stop it. That I won’t turn into another name in the papers.”

She swallowed hard, voice trembling—but not soft.

“But if I do—if it happens—if I change before we can stop it…”

A beat.

She looked directly at Eli now.

“You’ll stop me. Right?”

Silence.

Not because they didn’t want to say yes.

But because they knew what that would mean.

Heather forced her shoulders back. Sat straighter. Stronger.

“I need to know that if it comes down to it—if I’m not me anymore—you won’t hesitate.”

Her voice cracked, but she didn’t look away.

“Not because I don’t trust myself. But because I trust you.”

A long pause.

Then, quieter:

“I’d rather die as me… than live long enough to kill any of you.”

The second Heather started talking, something cold gripped his spine.

Not because she was wrong.

But because she was right.

He’d been trying so damn hard not to admit it—not out loud, not even to himself. Telling himself she was just shaken, scared, acting weird because she had a good reason. That if they kept her close, if they stayed alert, if they figured out the rules fast enough, it wouldn’t happen.

But Heather wasn’t guessing.

She knew.

She’d felt it coming like a tide she couldn’t hold back.

And still—still—she sat there and asked them to stop her if she changed. If she lost herself. If she became one of the names they studied in horror.

Caleb’s chest burned.

Not with fear.

With fury.

Because no one should have to ask that.

Especially not her.

Heather annoyed the hell out of him most days. She was loud. Dramatic. Relentless. She poked at every nerve like it was her job and acted like rules were made to be mocked. Half the time he couldn’t tell if she was serious or just trying to get a rise out of someone.

But she’d wormed her way in.

Not just into Alice Mae’s life—into his.

Into all of theirs.

And sitting there now, pale and shaking but somehow still stronger than any of them had a right to be, she looked like a kid asking the world not to use her as a weapon.

His fists clenched.

No. No, fuck that.

He stepped forward without thinking, putting himself between her and whatever future was trying to write her out.

“Okay,” he said, voice sharp enough to cut the silence.

Everyone looked at him.

“I’m gonna say this once, so listen up.”

He looked straight at Heather, then let his eyes sweep the room.

“She’s not going anywhere.”

He pointed at Max. “You? Brain of the operation. Fine. Get to work.”

At Eli. “You see something? Say it. We need that paranoia now.”

To Benji. “Don’t let go of her hand. Not even for a second.”

Then to Alice Mae.

Their eyes met.

And everything unsaid passed between them in one breath.

She needed Heather to live.

So Caleb would make sure she did.

He turned back to Heather.

“You don’t get to die, and you don’t get to disappear, and you sure as hell don’t get to carry this on your own.”

A pause. His voice dropped lower. Rougher.

“You’re not a killer. You’re a pain in my ass.”

A flicker of a smile from her—barely there, but it was enough.

He softened, just a little.

“And you’re ours, like it or not.”

Another beat.

“So if this thing thinks it gets to take you? It’s got a whole lot of us to get through first.”

He stepped back, arms crossing tight.

Still staring at the room like daring it to disagree.

No one did.

He didn’t want to feel it.

The shift.

The pull.

The way this group—the misfits and the loudmouths and the doomed—kept doing the one thing Eli had trained himself not to expect:

They stayed.

They believed.

They fought.

Heather’s voice still echoed in his skull.

“If I’m not me anymore… you’ll stop me, right?”

He hadn’t answered. Couldn’t. Not then.

Because that kind of promise—that kind of line drawn in blood—wasn’t something you gave lightly. And Heather had asked it like she already knew he was the only one who might say yes.

Eli had always thought she was chaos wrapped in glitter. Too big. Too loud. Too dangerous.

He’d seen the signs before anyone else. Had watched the darkness circling her from the jump. And now?

Now she’d admitted it was real.

And worse—she’d asked him to be the fail-safe.

The last line.

The executioner.

His jaw was tight.

His hands, folded across his chest, curled into fists he didn’t remember making.

Then Caleb spoke.

Not with strategy. Not with analysis.

Just… heart.

Stupid, bold, gut-deep loyalty.

The kind Eli had never really trusted—but maybe kind of hated how much he wanted to.

He watched Caleb point them out one by one, calling out roles like this was some kind of ragtag battlefield.

And maybe it was.

Max with the map.

Benji with the tether.

Alice with the fire.

And Caleb—solid and steady as hell, building walls around Heather with words alone.

Eli didn’t flinch when Caleb’s eyes passed over him.

Didn’t push back.

Because for once, the spotlight didn’t bother him.

It grounded him.

He glanced back at Heather, who still looked like she was holding herself together with sheer willpower and maybe one last breath.

And Eli?

Eli found himself stepping forward.

Not far. Not dramatic.

Just enough.

Just enough so she’d see him when he spoke.

“I’ll do it,” he said flatly.

Everyone froze.

His voice didn’t waver.

“If it comes to that… if you change. If we can’t stop it.”

He met her eyes.

Held them.

“I’ll stop you.”

Silence.

But then he added, quieter, almost unwilling:

“But that’s not what’s gonna happen.”

He looked at the others, then back at her.

“Because we’re not letting it.”

And for once, Eli didn’t sound like he was trying to convince anyone else.

He sounded like he was trying to believe it, too.

He knew she needed to hear it.

Needed someone—Eli—to say it out loud.

I’ll stop you.

If it happens.

If you change.

If we lose you.

It was the only answer she’d accept. The one she’d been bracing for. The one that carved a line in the sand between who she was and what the curse wanted her to become.

But Benji?

He hated it.

Every word of it.

He felt it settling over the room like ash, thick and grim and final. Like they were already preparing to grieve her. Already making peace with the possibility that she’d be next. That she’d snap. That they’d have to end her.

And he wasn’t ready for that.

Not because he didn’t believe Eli would do it.

But because he wasn’t ready to imagine a world where Heather wasn’t Heather.

Where her laugh was gone.
Where her fire burned someone instead of keeping them warm.
Where her name was just another carved curse in a wall underground.

Benji’s hand tightened around hers.

Not protectively. Not desperately.

Just… stubbornly.

“You’re not gone.”

His voice came out hoarse.

The whole room looked at him. But he only looked at her.

“You’re not gone, Heather. And I’m not letting any of you talk about her like she already is.”

He looked around—Max, Caleb, Eli, Alice. No blame. No heat. Just truth.

“I get it. I know what she asked. I know what Eli promised. But don’t you dare start planning for her death like it’s some inevitability.”

He turned back to Heather.

His eyes were red. Not from crying. Just from holding too much inside.

“You’re here. Right now. And you’re still you. And as long as that’s true, I’m fighting for that version. Every second. Every breath.”

He shifted forward on the couch, both hands holding hers now.

“You don’t get to disappear on me.”

A whisper, so soft it might’ve broken if it weren’t so solid:

“I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

Even Heather’s breath caught.

But he didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

“And I’m not saying it because I think it’ll save you. I’m saying it because I should’ve said it earlier. Because I need you to know that even if we lose this—if it all goes to hell—I’m not running.”

His voice cracked just once.

“You’re not alone. You were never alone.”

He squeezed her hands.

And for the first time since this nightmare started—

he meant every word without fear.

Because whatever this curse was—

It couldn’t kill love.

Not before they let it try.

She should’ve seen it coming.

Not the curse. That had been a storm cloud she’d tracked for months.

Not Heather’s name on the wall. That had been inevitable.

But this—Benji’s voice breaking open like a dam, and the words he hadn’t said until now—

“I’m in love with you.”

Max froze.

Not because she didn’t believe him.

Because she did.

And suddenly, it all made sense.

Why Benji had been the first one down the tunnel.
Why he hadn’t slept for days.
Why he held Heather’s hand like a lifeline and not a comfort.

He wasn’t just afraid of losing her.

He was in love with her.

And now, the curse wasn’t just coming for a name.

It was coming for something Max knew how to measure.

Hope.

Connection.

Love.

That was the one thing the curse couldn’t stand—something strong enough to pull someone back from the edge. And right now, Heather Goodwin had more than a pulse.

She had a goddamn army.

Max closed her eyes for one breath. One long inhale.

Then opened them again.

“Alright,” she said, stepping forward. “We move now.”

Everyone looked up.

Benji still had Heather’s hands in his.
Alice Mae was on high alert.
Eli—watchful, nodding.
Caleb, already bracing.

Max dropped the binder on the table with a dull thud.

“The curse is grooming Heather, yes. But it’s doing it faster than before. Which means something’s changed.”

She flipped to a tab. Notes. Drawings. A timeline with names scrawled in red pen, their connections mapped like a family tree from hell.

“We need to figure out what’s feeding it.”

She tapped the paper.

“It used to take years to wear a vessel down. Now it’s moving in weeks. That means it’s stronger. Hungrier. Or scared.”

Max’s eyes locked on Heather’s.

“Which means you’re more of a threat to it than you think.”

Heather blinked, stunned.

Max didn’t smile, but her voice sharpened with fire.

“You’re not just the target. You’re the variable it can’t control.”

She looked at the group.

“We use that.”

Then—calmly, methodically—she pointed out assignments.

“Eli, you and I are going back to the tunnels tomorrow. There’s something down there we missed. Symbols. Energy. Maybe even another path.”

“Caleb, you’re with us. You keep the ladder guarded and our way out clear.”

“Alice Mae—Heather doesn’t leave your side. Not at school. Not on the street. Not even for a bathroom break.”

A pause.

“Benji, you’re the anchor. The emotional constant. The reason she remembers who the hell she is.”

Her eyes swept across them all.

“We start with the wall. Tomorrow night, we map it. Photograph it. Look for names we missed.”

Then her voice lowered. Just a hair.

“We find out who wrote them.”

A final beat.

“And we make damn sure Heather’s name is the last one the curse ever tries to carve.”

Max turned to Heather.

“You’re not the end of the story.”

A breath.

“You’re the beginning of the one where we end it.”

She didn’t cry.

Not when Heather said she’d rather die as herself.
Not when Eli promised to stop her.
Not even when Benji, sweet, reckless Benji, looked her in the eye and told her he was in love with her.

But when Max laid out the plan?

Piece by piece.

Step by step.

Tactical. Focused. Unapologetically Max.

That’s when the first real breath slipped out of Alice Mae’s lungs like she’d been holding it for weeks.

Because finally—finally—it didn’t feel like they were just surviving.

They were fighting.

Not flailing in the dark.

Not waiting for the next crack in the curse to swallow someone else whole.

They were organizing.
Plotting.
Pushing back.

And for the first time since Heather’s name showed up on that wall, Alice didn’t feel powerless.

She felt ready.

Even if it still scared her.

Even if it still made her stomach twist with dread.

Even if she knew—deep in her bones—that this wasn’t a battle they could win clean.

She still stood taller.

She still nodded when Max looked her way.

“You’ve got her,” Max said. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

Alice didn’t blink.

“I won’t.”

Because she wouldn’t.

Because if this curse thought it could take Heather from her quietly, subtly, like it had taken so many others—
it didn’t know who the hell it was dealing with.

Alice wasn’t here to cry over another body.

She was here to make sure there wasn’t one.

She looked at the people in the room—her people, somehow.

Caleb, standing like a wall she hadn’t known she could lean on until she already was.
Eli, sharp-eyed and finally in.
Benji, practically made of raw heart and reckless devotion.
Max, too smart for the universe and too stubborn to give up.
And Heather.

Her Heather.

Scared. Marked. Still fighting.

Still hers.

Alice Mae’s jaw clenched as her hand found Heather’s again, lacing their fingers tight.

“You don’t blink without me knowing.”

Heather gave her a shaky nod.

“Good.”

Then she turned to Max.

“You bring me anything you find. I don’t care how small it looks.”

She was done waiting to be told what to do.

“If we’re doing this, we do it loud.”

And if the curse didn’t want a war?

Too bad.

They were already in one.

She hadn’t meant to cry.

But Benji’s words—

I’m in love with you.

—they hit her in the softest place. The part she’d been trying to keep locked up since this whole thing started. Since the first whisper in her sleep. Since the first time she caught her reflection and thought, that’s not me anymore.

Because love didn’t get to exist in a body marked for ruin.

It wasn’t allowed. Not for her.

And yet… there he was.

Saying it anyway.

Saying it like a vow. Like a goddamn anchor.

She didn’t deserve him. She didn’t deserve any of them.

But she needed them.

Needed this—the room, the plan, the binder, the fire, the fury, the hands still holding hers.

She was still scared.

That hadn’t changed.

The curse was in her. She could feel it. Like smoke between her bones. Like something old and sharp waiting for her to crack so it could finally breathe.

She still had the dreams.

Still felt the pull.

Still heard her name whispered in the dark.

But right now?

Right now, she also felt Benji’s thumb brushing hers. Caleb standing like a wall. Alice Mae’s grip tight in hers. Max building a plan like a weapon.

And Eli—

Eli had said what no one else could.

That he’d stop her if he had to.

That he saw the truth, even if it tore him apart to speak it.

That mattered too.

All of it mattered.

She didn’t know how long she had.

Didn’t know if they’d be fast enough. Smart enough. Lucky enough.

But she knew one thing.

She wasn’t going to let the curse hollow her out in silence.

Not anymore.

When Max’s words faded and the room went still again, Heather finally sat up straighter.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t brave.

But it was real.

Her voice didn’t shake when it came.

“I don’t want to be saved because I’m yours.”

Everyone looked at her.

She kept going.

“I want to be saved because I’m me. Because I’m still in here. Even if I can’t always feel it.”

She turned to Benji, gaze soft but searing.

“I don’t know how long I can hold it off. But I swear to God I will fight it with everything I’ve got.”

To Alice. “I won’t leave you.”

To Caleb. “You’re right—I’m a pain in the ass.”

A flicker of a grin. A breath.

Then finally, to Eli.

“And you… if it comes to it, I trust you.”

Another pause.

“But don’t let it come to that.”

She looked back at the room, voice rising just enough.

“Please don’t let it come to that.”

The fire inside her wasn’t steady.

It flickered.

It threatened to die.

But it was still burning.

And as long as it did, she wasn’t done.

Not yet.

The fire was back.

Not just in Heather—but in all of them.

Even Max, usually calm in that surgical way of hers, had heat in her voice. Alice looked like she’d take down a wall bare-handed if it meant keeping Heather breathing. Eli was quieter than ever, but present—in that razor-sharp, calculating way of his.

And Benji?

Benji was practically built of heartache and defiance now.

But Caleb didn’t move for speeches.

Didn’t need declarations or stares or soft-spoken promises.

He just needed the plan.

And Max gave him that.

“You’re with us. You keep the ladder guarded and our way out clear.”

It wasn’t glamorous.

Wasn’t the center of the fight.

But it was everything.

Caleb didn’t ask for the spotlight. Never had. But he showed up. Always.

That was his job—come through when shit hit the fan. When everyone else was cracking, or bleeding, or breaking under the weight of things too big to carry.

He’d carry it.

Quietly. Steadily. No questions.

So yeah—he’d guard the ladder.

He’d map the exits.

He’d stand at the edge while Max and Eli dove into hell, and if something tried to follow them out, he’d be the first thing it ran into.

That was enough.

More than enough.

But it didn’t mean he wasn’t watching the others.

Didn’t mean he wasn’t tracking the tremor in Alice’s jaw, or the way Heather looked a second too long at the window—as if measuring the distance between herself and freedom.

Didn’t mean he hadn’t clocked the fire in Benji’s voice or the weight behind Eli’s silence.

They were all carrying something different.

But Caleb? He carried the moment.

The now.

The part that kept them standing.

Because if Heather faltered, if the curse got bold, if anything went sideways on this next run—

he wouldn’t hesitate.

He wouldn’t freeze.

He wouldn’t fail.

Caleb’s shoulders squared as Max flipped another page in that war-binder of hers.

Whatever came next, whatever shadows they had to crawl through—

he’d be ready.

Not because he was the strongest.

Not because he was the bravest.

But because when everything else broke—

he didn’t.

He didn’t speak unless he had to.

Didn’t fill the silence just to hear himself echo.

That was for people who needed attention. Needed reassurance.

Eli didn’t.

He needed information. He needed patterns. He needed facts.

So he watched.

He always watched.

And tonight, the picture was clear.

Heather was scared.

Not pretend scared. Not theatrical, Heather-brand chaos. Real fear.

It leaked around the edges of her voice, lingered in the stiffness of her posture, hung in the way her eyes darted just slightly—like she was still scanning for exits even now.

But she was also fighting it.

Clawing back tooth by tooth.

That mattered.

Max was in general mode—organizing, sorting, assigning. Her binder looked like something between a manifesto and a map to hell. But he could see it in her hands—the slight tremor when she turned a page. She wasn’t invincible. Just hiding it better than most.

Benji was running on pure emotion. Nothing new there.

Caleb had gone full tank-mode—ready to throw down at the first sign of trouble, stoic and steady like it was coded into his DNA.

Alice Mae? A wall. But not the unfeeling kind. The kind built with grit and grief, standing tall because she knew if she cracked, someone else might fall through.

And Heather—

Heather was still sitting upright.

Still breathing.

Still here.

Which meant they still had time.

Still had a shot.

Eli leaned against the trailer wall, arms folded, mind running faster than anyone could guess. He was already replaying their last trip to the tunnels. Already mapping out what Max might’ve missed, what he might’ve misread.

There’d been something in the wall. In the air. A pressure he didn’t like.

It hadn’t just been death.

It had been design.

That was what scared him.

Not ghosts.

Not curses.

Intent.

The wall hadn’t been random.

It had been curated.

Eli’s fingers tapped once against his bicep. Thinking. Calculating.

If someone—or something—was accelerating the curse, it meant one of two things:

They were running out of time.

Or someone else was.

His eyes flicked to Heather again.

Her knuckles were white. Her jaw tight. But she was grounded now. Anchored. By them. By him, too, maybe, in the way only someone willing to do what needed doing could be.

He didn’t flinch when she said she trusted him.

He didn’t need to.

Because trust wasn’t about what you said.

It was about who stood where when shit hit the fan.

And Eli?

He’d already decided.

If this thing came for Heather, it wasn’t getting a clean shot.

Not with Max on one side.

Not with Caleb watching their backs.

Not with Alice ready to burn the world down.

And not with Eli standing in the dark with a flashlight and a plan.

He didn’t speak until the others started to move.

Then, quietly—measured—he pushed off the wall and said:

“We go in clean. We come out cleaner.”

A pause.

“And no one gets carved into that wall again.”

That was it.

But it was enough.

Because when Eli did speak?

People listened.

He didn’t realize he was crying again until he felt it hit the back of his throat.

It wasn’t loud.

Just this tight, burning pressure behind his eyes—like something breaking slow, steady, quiet.

Like something grieving.

Not for Heather.
Not yet.
Not ever, if he had anything to do with it.

But for what she had to carry.

For what they all had to carry.

Eli’s voice was still echoing in the room like a gunshot that hadn’t finished ringing.

“No one gets carved into that wall again.”

Benji clenched his jaw.

Because fuck if he’d let that happen.

Not to her.

Not to any of them.

He looked down at their hands again—his still laced with hers, like they belonged there. Like maybe if he held on tight enough, nothing could get inside.

Her skin was cold, but her grip was strong.

She was still here.

And that was the thing that mattered most.

He didn’t have plans like Max.
Didn’t have tactics like Eli.
Didn’t have strength like Caleb or fury like Alice Mae.

But he had this.

The now.

The part where you stay when someone else might run.
The part where you keep loving someone even when the world is trying to ruin them.

He leaned a little closer, voice low enough that it was only for her.

“You don’t have to be okay yet.”

A breath.

“But you’re not doing this alone. Not one step.”

Her eyes flicked to his.

So scared.

So stubborn.

So Heather.

He gave her a small, crooked smile. It didn’t hide the fear behind it, but it didn’t try to.

“I meant what I said. I’m not going anywhere.”

A pause.

“So you better not either.”

That was all.

No speech. No flourish.

Just truth.

The kind you only said when the room was cracked open wide and nobody was pretending anymore.

And maybe—just maybe—it was enough.

Because this wasn’t about saving the world.

It was about saving her.

And Benji?

He would burn everything else down to do it.

They were in it now.

Not just the curse. Not just the bloodlines.
Not just the sick little web that had been spinning beneath Shadyside since the 1600s.

This.

This room.

This group.

This moment, strung tight between grief and defiance.

Heather’s voice still rang in Max’s ears, rough and quiet and steady.

Benji, too—soft but sharp, saying the thing no one else would’ve had the guts to say until it was too late.

And Eli—cold, cutting, correct.

No one gets carved into that wall again.

Max knew what that meant.

It meant they had a deadline.
A pattern.
A playbook written in blood and silence and bones.

And she was going to break it.

She stepped back to the table, flipping another page in the binder. Her handwriting—meticulous, dense, underlined three times in red—glared up at her like a warning.

The timeline is accelerating.

They didn’t have weeks.

They might not even have days.

“We go in tomorrow,” she said, voice clear, final.

Not a suggestion. A command.

“Same tunnel. Same grate. We photograph the wall, every inch of it. We don’t just document the names—we look for what connects them. Placement. Spacing. Order. There’s a code in there. I can feel it.”

She didn’t have proof. Not yet.

But Max had stopped doubting her instincts the second Heather’s name appeared.

She looked up, eyes locking with each of them in turn.

“Something down there wants her. Wants to finish the story it started centuries ago. But if we understand the pattern—if we break the chain—we don’t just save Heather.”

A beat.

“We end the curse.”

Her voice softened slightly, but not much.

“That wall isn’t just a graveyard. It’s a map. And tomorrow, we start reading it.”

She turned to Eli first.

“You’re on point. Take the lead when we’re in. You see something we don’t, speak it.”

He nodded once, sharp and controlled.

To Caleb:

“Crowbar. Knife. Backup flashlight. You’re the line between us and the thing that lives down there.”

Another nod.

Then Alice:

“Heather doesn’t go. She stays up top, with you. Guard the tunnel. Keep lookout. If something comes out that doesn’t have our voice—don’t wait.”

Max didn’t add kill it. She didn’t need to.

Alice Mae just nodded, jaw tight.

Then, finally, Benji.

“You stay with her. Keep her grounded.”

Max’s gaze flicked back to Heather.

And for the first time all night, she let herself say something that wasn’t tactical.

“You’ve got more fight in you than most people do in a lifetime.”

A pause.

“But that fight’s only going to matter if we buy you enough time to win.”

Another beat. Her voice dropped to a low, certain hum.

“So we’ll buy it.”

Max shut the binder with a firm snap.

That was the plan.

Tomorrow, they went back.

And this time, they weren’t going in just to look.

They were going in to learn.

To challenge.

To change the ending.

Because if the curse wanted Heather?

It picked the wrong girl.

And the wrong crew.

She didn’t flinch when Max said it.

“Heather doesn’t go. She stays up top, with you. Guard the tunnel.”

She didn’t argue. Didn’t ask for more. Didn’t blink.

Because she already knew.

That was always going to be her role.

It had been since day one.

Since Heather stepped into this cursed town with glitter eyeliner and a chip on her shoulder, dragging a history she didn’t even know she carried. Since the first dream. Since the first crack in her smile.

Alice had been preparing for this long before Max said the words.

But hearing them out loud?

It still hit different.

Not because she doubted herself.
But because this wasn’t just about protection anymore.

It was about prevention.

Because if something tried to crawl out of that tunnel—if something decided tonight was the night Heather Goodwin finally broke—
Alice Mae was going to be the thing standing between her and the dark.

She looked at Heather, who sat just a few feet away—tired, burning, raw—but still here.

Still breathing.

Still fighting.

God, she looked so young.

And so old.

Alice’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

She couldn’t fix the dreams.

Couldn’t reach into Heather’s chest and rip the curse out like a rotten root.

But she could do this.

She could stand.

She could guard the threshold with fire in her bones.

She glanced at Max, voice low but steady:

“We’ll be ready.”

Not I. We.

Because Heather didn’t get to be a passenger anymore.

Alice wasn’t babysitting.

She was barricading.

Max gave a single nod—like a general acknowledging another commander—and turned back to the binder.

Alice sat again, this time closer to Heather. Not touching. Just… there.

It wasn’t a gesture. It was a warning.

To anything listening.

Anything creeping in through the cracks.

Anything waiting for the moment Heather faltered.

Not tonight.

Not while I’m breathing.

The living room was quiet.

Too quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that soothed—protected—but the kind that made her feel like the silence itself was holding its breath.

The streetlamp outside flickered against the blinds, casting faint slashes of orange light across the old hardwood floor, the chipped coffee table, the edge of the pullout sofa. The air smelled like dust, eucalyptus from Max’s cheap diffuser, and something vaguely metallic beneath it all—like rain on rusted metal that hadn’t seen the sun in weeks.

It was Shadyside.

And even though they were safe—for now—even though Max had locked every door and shoved a chair under the front knob, even though Eli had curled up in Max’s bed like a tiny, exhausted heat source and Max had insisted they take the living room, it still didn’t feel right.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust them.

She did.

She trusted Max with her life. Trusted Eli to wake up screaming if something so much as brushed the wrong window. Trusted Caleb, most of all, because he was right here—warm and solid beside her beneath the worn blanket, back turned slightly, breathing slow.

But trust wasn’t the same as peace.

And she hadn’t had that in days.

Alice Mae lay on her side, one leg curled close to her chest, the other stretched awkwardly to keep pressure off her ankle. Max had wrapped it carefully earlier, fussed over her like an older sister even while pretending not to. It throbbed now. Dull and hot. A constant reminder.

She stared at the ceiling. At the cracked paint and the shadow of the hallway nightlight flickering with every shift of the power-hungry old heater.

This wasn’t Sunnyvale. There were no manicured lawns here. No silence for the sake of civility. No pretending things didn’t exist if you just didn’t say them out loud.

But the fear followed anyway.

Maybe because the curse started here.

Maybe because it belonged here.

And maybe—because a part of her did, too.

Her hand reached out across the dip in the pullout, searching through tangled sheets until it brushed the soft cotton of Caleb’s sleeve. She let her fingers rest there—just enough to feel him breathe. Just enough to know he was real.

Her voice barely left her throat.

“Are you awake?”

A pause.

“Caleb.”

The name hung there, fragile in the dark.

She didn’t wait for a response.

“I’m scared.”

It felt childish. It felt honest.

Because even here—in Max’s trailer, with the doors locked and her best friends just down the hall—her chest still felt too tight. Her ears still strained for footsteps. Her muscles were still wound too tense to let go.

Because he had come into Sunnyvale. Because he had broken the boundary that wasn’t supposed to break.

And because now they were in Shadyside.

In the dark.

Waiting.

She swallowed hard, eyes on the ceiling.

Not asking Caleb to fix it.

Just needing him there.

He was already awake.

Had been for a while.

Lying still. Listening to the hum of Max’s heater, the creak of old pipes shifting like bones, the buzz of a fridge that sounded like it was dying one wheeze at a time.

It wasn’t the noise that kept him up.

It was the quiet underneath it.

That thick, heavy quiet that settled over Shadyside like a second skin—one that never stopped itching. Like the walls remembered too much. Like the shadows never quite let go.

He heard her breathing change before she spoke.

That faint hitch. The slight shift in the sheets. The way her hand moved, searching until it found his arm, fingers brushing the cotton of his shirt like she was checking if he was still real.

He didn’t move.

Not right away.

Just let her find him.

Let her hold on.

Then her voice—so soft it nearly got swallowed by the dark.

“Are you awake?”

He was.

But she didn’t wait.

“Caleb.”

And then—“I’m scared.”

That cracked him open.

Because she didn’t say it like someone looking for comfort. She said it like someone admitting the thing they’d been swallowing all night. Like she thought maybe saying it out loud made her weak.

But to him?

It made her unstoppable.

He turned toward her slowly, careful not to jostle the thin mattress or bump her ankle. His arm slid out from under the blanket and found her hand—curling around it, warm and steady, no room for questions or conditions.

He didn’t say don’t be scared.

Didn’t lie to her with soft reassurances that it would be fine. Because they both knew better.

He just held her hand tighter.

Then—quiet, low, raw from everything they’d survived:

“I know.”

His thumb brushed over her knuckles once.

And then, after a beat:

“But I’m here.”

Simple.

Final.

Like it was a rule written in something older than any curse.

He didn’t offer promises he couldn’t keep.

He just stayed.

Let her breathe.

Let her feel him there—anchored beside her in a town that reeked of memory and rust and blood in the floorboards.

Because if she was scared?

Then he wasn’t sleeping.

Not until she could.

She didn’t cry.

Not because she wasn’t close—God, she was—but because that small, steady pressure of his hand around hers was enough.

For now.

The moment his fingers curled around hers, her chest loosened. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe without it catching in her throat. Just enough to feel the blanket under her, the rough fabric of Max’s couch, the ache in her ankle, the rawness behind her eyes.

Just enough to remember she was here.

Not on the porch. Not in the woods. Not watching that axe drag across the sidewalk like a death sentence that had come early.

Here.

She squeezed his hand in return—small, but intentional. Like a signal flare she didn’t have to send with words.

He didn’t speak at first. Didn’t rush to fill the quiet or chase the fear away with empty noise.

And when he finally did?

“I know.”

That was all it took.

Her throat went tight again, but it didn’t close. Because it wasn’t pity. Wasn’t a lie.

It was understanding.

And then—But I’m here.

She turned her face toward him in the dark. Not all the way—her body still stiff, her heart still trying to catch up—but enough. Enough to feel the warmth of his shoulder near hers. Enough to hear the breath he let out as if he’d been holding it for hours.

“I hate this,” she whispered. “I hate that it followed us. That it touched Sunnyvale. That it got in.”

The hand he held twitched in his—reflexive. Angry. Scared.

“I hate that I don’t know where’s safe anymore.”

She let out a shaky breath. Looked at the ceiling like it might give her answers.

“Max is sleeping ten feet away. Eli’s here. You’re here. And I still feel like if I close my eyes too long, he’ll be at the window again.”

Her voice cracked, just slightly.

“I don’t wanna feel like that forever.”

Her fingers tightened around his.

“I don’t wanna be scared every time it gets quiet.”

She paused, then added more softly:

“But if you’re here… it’s less.”

She wasn’t asking for it to go away. She wasn’t stupid. She knew the curse didn’t care how tired they were or how much they’d already lost.

But it was less with him beside her.

Even in Shadyside. Even in the dark.

Even now.

He didn’t let go.

Not when her hand twitched. Not when her voice cracked. Not when she looked up like the ceiling might crack open and finally let the sky fall down where it was supposed to.

He just held on.

Tighter, when she needed it. Looser, when she didn’t. Like he could read the rhythm of her fear in the curl of her fingers.

And maybe he could.

Because he wasn’t guessing anymore.

He knew what haunted her now. Knew what it looked like. What it sounded like. How it moved.
And he knew exactly how it had looked at her.

That hadn’t left him.

Wouldn’t leave him.

She said she hated that it got in—that it touched Sunnyvale. But Caleb? He hated that it had touched her.

That it had come that close.

That it had chosen her.

And he hadn’t been fast enough to stop it.

He swallowed hard, his eyes on the ceiling too, like if he stared long enough maybe he could keep the darkness from pressing in.

“I know,” he said again, softer this time. Not as a response—just as a thread. Something to stitch them together in the dark.

Her fingers squeezed his.

He felt it all in that one touch.

The fear.

The exhaustion.

The need to just feel less.

And the worst part? He understood it.

Because he felt it too. Every time it got quiet. Every time he closed his eyes and saw blood instead of sleep. Every time the silence wrapped too tight around the world and made him wonder if the killer had ever really stopped following them.

But he didn’t say that.

Didn’t pile weight on top of hers.

Instead, he moved closer.

Not much. Just enough that their knees brushed beneath the blanket, just enough that his shoulder bumped hers gently. The kind of contact that didn’t take. That didn’t crowd.

Just reminded.

“You’re not gonna feel like this forever,” he said, voice low and steady and meant. “I don’t know how I fix it, but… I’ll stay. ‘Til it’s less.”

He turned his head just enough to see the outline of her face. Pale in the dark. Eyes wide open.

“And then I’ll stay longer than that.”

Because it wasn’t about making it all go away.

He couldn’t promise that.

But he could promise her this:

That he wouldn’t go away.

That even in Shadyside, even after the boundary broke, even in the kind of night that made your chest lock and your blood feel too loud—

He’d be there.

Still.

Real.

And holding on.