The Goodwin Estate

The Goodwin home isn’t just a house. It’s a statement.

Perched at the end of a sweeping cul-de-sac lined with flowering dogwoods and whisper-quiet Teslas, the Goodwin residence is one of the crown jewels of Sunnyvale’s elite. A sprawling, modern colonial-meets-French-chateau hybrid, the home rises three stories high with pale limestone siding, a slate roof, and dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows that gleam like polished glass even on cloudy days.

Wide stone steps lead up to a grand double door painted the same color as Cabernet—deep and rich, flanked by ornate lantern sconces and seasonal floral arrangements designed by a local boutique. Twin topiaries, sculpted to precise symmetry, guard the entrance like silent sentinels. The driveway is long, circular, and paved in smooth cobblestone, with a black luxury SUV always parked at the ready—her father’s pride, her mother’s accessory.

Perfectly manicured hedges wrap around the property like a frame, and the lawn is too green, the flowers too perfect, like they were grown under contract. At night, the house glows softly with hidden exterior lighting—no harsh floodlights, just ambiance and affluence.

From the outside, it’s stunning. Elegant. Aspirational.

But Heather knows it’s a façade.

Inside those walls is a museum of cold perfection. No clutter. No fingerprints. Just spotless marble floors, curated furniture, and expensive silence. The kind of home where appearances aren’t just everything—they’re the only thing. Where her mother speaks in smiles and veiled critiques, and her father’s approval is given in measured nods and withheld affection.

Heather’s bedroom is the only space in the entire house that looks lived in.

The neighbors call the house beautiful. Enviable.

Heather calls it a mausoleum.

Heather's Bedroom

Heather’s room is a secret confession wrapped in velvet and shadow.

From the hallway, it looks like the bedroom of any polished Sunnyvale girl—flawless and curated. But step inside, and it becomes something else entirely. Dark. Romantic. Personal. A world built by a girl who’s been told her whole life how to look, how to speak, how to shine—but this space? This one is hers.

The walls are painted a dramatic oxblood red, softened by warm, golden lighting that casts a gentle glow across everything it touches. One wall is draped in sheer black lace curtains, hung not over a window but as a backdrop for the bed—turning it into something theatrical, almost shrine-like. Her queen-sized bed is the centerpiece: black satin sheets, a crimson velvet duvet, and an arrangement of plush pillows in various shades of red and black. Some are ruffled, some are silk. All chosen with care.

Above the headboard, a string of antique fairy lights winds through delicate ivy vines—faux, but artfully placed. They give the illusion of softness, a kind of fairytale warmth in the middle of a room that still whispers danger.

A vintage vanity sits near the window, its mirror framed in art deco gold. Perfume bottles, pressed flower trays, and lipsticks in deep berry hues scatter its surface. An old jewelry box holds rings that once belonged to her grandmother, and beside it, a handwritten letter she’s read more times than she’ll admit.

The floor is covered with a Persian rug in deep crimson and charcoal, worn in just the right places. Her bookshelf is stacked with poetry, gothic romances, and true crime memoirs—titles her parents would scoff at, but she devours like scripture. A few crystals rest between the spines, not because she believes in magic, but because it’s comforting to pretend she might.

Tucked in a corner is her obsession—a large corkboard layered in secrets. Magazine clippings about Shadyside. Photos of suspects. Newspaper headlines. Torn notebook paper with names and theories. Red string maps out her hunt like a detective in a noir film. Her parents call it “morbid.” She calls it clarity.

There are romantic touches everywhere—a crushed velvet chaise lounge with a lace throw, dried roses hanging from a gold sconce, a music box that plays a haunting lullaby. It's not about being girly. It's about claiming softness in a world that demands she be sharp.

The room smells like her signature perfume—dark rose and sandalwood—blended with candle wax and old pages. It’s dim, intimate, and filled with contradictions. Just like her.

This is where she unravels. Where the mask slips. Where she lets herself be a girl who wants, who wonders, who dares.

And no one gets to see it unless she lets them.

Heather’s bedroom always smelled faintly of vanilla perfume and dust. The curtains were drawn tight against the night, and the string lights above her desk cast a soft, flickering glow that made the space feel smaller—warmer, maybe, or claustrophobic, depending on how long someone had been sitting there.

Alice Mae perched on the edge of the bed, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. Heather had barely said a word since she arrived, too preoccupied with shuffling papers, pinning photos to her corkboard, and muttering names under her breath like spells. Mitchie. Fier. Goode.

The wall in front of her was a cluttered mess of headlines and scrawled notes. Arrows pointed in every direction, most of them leading nowhere. Circles enclosed dates Alice Mae didn’t recognize. Some of the photos were grainy crime scene shots. One of them had blood.

Her stomach twisted.

“You’re seriously still on this?” she asked, her voice light and teasing—an attempt to make it feel like they were still two girls talking about a party instead of a town cursed by a dead witch.

Heather didn’t answer. She never did, not right away.

Alice Mae exhaled slowly, reaching for the half-empty iced latte on the nightstand and taking a sip. The coffee had long since gone watery and bitter.

“I mean, yeah, I know it’s weird, but this? It’s, like… obsessive.”

She glanced toward Heather, who hadn’t moved. Her eyes stayed fixed on a red pushpin stuck between two overlapping articles. Alice Mae’s gaze shifted back to the wall. The tunnel map was there again—redrawn darker, with a harsh black marker, the lines jagged and erratic.

“You’ve got body counts, Heather. And symbols. And that tunnel map again.”

A soft laugh escaped her, unconvincing even to her ears.

“God, if someone walked in here, they’d think you were planning a murder, not solving one.”

Still, Heather didn’t look at her. Alice Mae watched her fingers curl against the edge of the desk, her knuckles white.

“I’m not saying I don’t believe you.” Her voice dropped lower, the room pressing in around them with the same heavy silence that always followed when Heather started talking about the curse—like it was real, like it was watching.

“I’m just saying—maybe we should focus on finals and forget the tunnels for a night.”

That’s when Heather turned, her eyes wide and too bright in the soft glow of the lights. Alice Mae felt the shift immediately—like stepping on ice that suddenly cracks beneath your feet.

“Okay, okay,” she said quickly, surrendering her hands. “Just… promise me you won’t go back there without me.”

Heather's obsession with the Shadyside mysteries grew by the day, almost as though something deep within her was pulling her toward them—an invisible force she couldn't explain, but felt every time her eyes landed on another faded photograph or scribbled note. Each clue she uncovered seemed to lead her deeper, yet the puzzle remained frustratingly unsolved. She'd been sharing everything with Eddie, the only person she trusted enough to let in on the truth behind her obsession. But she hadn't told Alice Mae—she couldn't. Not yet. The secrecy felt like an anchor weighing her down, yet the pull of the mystery was stronger than any doubt.

In her bedroom, the glow of string lights danced on the walls, casting shadows that mirrored the chaos in her mind. She had been working for hours, and the wall before her had become a patchwork of connections, dead ends, and half-formed theories. Every line, every pushpin, every marked date felt essential, as if the answers were just within reach, if she could only see it all clearly. But she couldn’t.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she pressed a pushpin into the corkboard, securing another article she’d clipped from the local newspaper. The stories, the faces, the victims—all of them were linked by a pattern she had yet to unravel. Mitchie. Fier. Goode. Names she had traced through time, names she couldn’t let go of. The more she learned, the more connected she felt to them.

Alice Mae's voice broke through her focus, light but laced with concern. "You're seriously still on this?" she asked, trying to sound playful, but Heather could hear the edge of disbelief in her tone. The words didn’t sting anymore, though. Heather had long since grown used to the skepticism, the way people wrote her off when it came to this. They just didn’t understand.

Her gaze never left the corkboard, the red pushpin, the map of the tunnels, redrawn yet again in frantic strokes. The black marker had become a familiar tool, a way to bring order to the mess in her head. But it felt like it was slipping through her fingers, like something was just out of reach.

"Yeah," Heather muttered under her breath, not answering Alice Mae’s question. She couldn’t, not without betraying the fear gnawing at her insides.

Alice Mae’s voice softened, but Heather didn’t look up. Her hands, still resting on the edge of the desk, curled into fists.

“I’m not saying I don’t believe you,” Alice Mae said, her words quieter now, weighted with a sincerity Heather didn’t always hear. “I’m just saying—maybe we should focus on finals and forget the tunnels for a night.”

The shift in the room was immediate, like a subtle storm brewing in the distance. Heather’s heart pounded as she turned to face Alice Mae. Her gaze locked onto her, eyes wide, too bright in the dim light. The words came out too fast, her voice crackling with urgency.

“I can’t promise that,” she whispered. And it was true. She couldn’t. Not when the mystery had her in its grip, not when she knew she was so close.

Heather knew Alice Mae was trying to protect her, to pull her back from the edge. But the truth was, Heather had already crossed that line. She couldn’t go back.

Alice Mae spoke then, her voice softer, filled with a trace of worry. "Just… promise me you won’t go back there without me."

Heather hesitated, her fingers still clenching against the desk. Her eyes burned with something that was more than determination—it was a need.

“I can’t promise that either,” Heather said finally, her voice low and heavy with the truth of it. "But I’ll try."

Alice Mae didn’t answer right away.

She just stood there—half in the glow of the string lights, half in shadow—with her arms wrapped around herself like she was bracing against something she didn’t have a name for yet. Not a ghost or a curse or even the memory of Renee’s blood drying in the gravel behind Mitchie’s trailer. Just… that quiet, sinking dread. The kind that starts in your stomach and spreads through your ribs like smoke.

She’d never seen Heather like this before.

Not when her grandpa died. Not even after the dreams started.

Heather wasn’t just chasing a mystery anymore. She was unraveling right alongside it.

“I hate this,” Alice Mae said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “I hate watching you disappear into this thing like it’s the only thing that matters. Like I don’t.”

She didn’t mean for that last part to come out.

It did anyway. And it hung there between them, louder than the hum of the desk fan or the rain starting to tap the window.

Heather blinked. Just once. Her face didn’t change.

But Alice Mae saw the way her knuckles whitened against the edge of the desk. The way her mouth parted like maybe—just maybe—she’d say something back. Something real.

Instead, silence.

Alice Mae stepped closer, slow like she was approaching something wild. Or wounded.

She looked at the wall—the strings, the maps, the names. She knew them all by now. Knew them like old ghosts. Knew Heather had stopped calling this obsession and started calling it fate.

“Okay,” Alice Mae said, quieter now. “Then I’m coming with you.”

Heather’s eyes flicked to hers, sharp and startled.

But Alice Mae didn’t flinch.

“You don’t have to protect me from this. You just have to let me in.” She swallowed hard. “Whatever this is, wherever it leads… I’m not letting you follow it alone.”

And just like that, something in Heather’s shoulders finally dropped. Not relaxed. But yielded. Like she’d been holding her breath so long she forgot she could exhale.

Heather didn’t move at first.

She just stared at Alice Mae like she was seeing her through a pane of fogged glass—recognizable, but not quite reachable. The words her best friend had said circled in her head like static, muffled and sharp all at once.

I hate watching you disappear into this thing like it’s the only thing that matters. Like I don’t.

That stung. Not because it was cruel, but because it was true.

Heather’s hand was still braced on the edge of the desk, her knuckles aching. The maps and clippings loomed beside her like a second skin she couldn’t shed. She didn’t remember when the research had started feeling less like curiosity and more like gravity. Like something was pulling her toward it, and no matter how many times she told herself she could stop, she didn’t want to.

Not really.

Alice Mae didn’t get that. Not fully. Not the way Heather felt it thrumming in her bones at night, whispering in her dreams, curling behind her ribs like a thing alive. Alice Mae wanted to help, sure. But she didn’t see it. Not the way Heather did.

And Heather didn’t want to drag her any closer.

Didn’t want to be the reason the people she loved got too close to something that wouldn’t let go.

She glanced at the string pinned across a photo of the quarry, at the faded newspaper article tucked half under her lamp. Everything felt too close. Too loud. Like the room itself was breathing with her.

When Alice Mae said, “You don’t have to protect me from this. You just have to let me in,” Heather’s throat tightened.

She wanted to say no.

She wanted to say: You have no idea what you’re asking.

She wanted to say: This won’t end clean. I can feel it.

But none of that left her mouth. Just that aching, hollow place where fear lived.

Instead, Heather finally looked at her. Really looked. And said, flat but honest, “You don’t have to follow me off a cliff just to prove you care.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. Just turned back toward the window, arms crossed like armor. Rain tapped against the glass like a ticking clock.

Behind her, Alice Mae stayed quiet.

And maybe that was the closest they’d get to an understanding tonight.

Alice Mae stepped forward, slow and careful, like the floor might give out beneath her if she moved too fast.

“I’m not trying to follow you,” she said, voice low but steady. “I’m trying to find you.”

Heather didn’t turn around. Her silhouette was all tension—arms crossed, jaw set, eyes fixed somewhere far outside the window. Like if she stared hard enough, she could will herself into another version of this moment. One where she wasn’t letting someone in just enough to break both their hearts.

Alice Mae swallowed. Her throat felt tight, too full of everything she hadn’t said until now. “You think I don’t see it. What this is doing to you. But I do. I see the way you don’t sleep. The way you stop hearing me when you’re staring at those papers like they’re going to give you your soul back.”

A breath hitched, hers or Heather’s, she wasn’t sure.

“I’m not here because I want a front-row seat to your unraveling,” she added, softer now. “I’m here because I love you. And I’m scared, too. Scared of what happens if you go any deeper into this thing without a tether.”

Heather’s shoulders flinched—just barely. But it was enough.

Alice Mae kept going, because if she didn’t say it now, she never would.

“You don’t have to do this alone to prove something. Not to me. Not to yourself. And if there’s a cliff, fine. I’m not following you off it. I’m building a goddamn rope bridge.”

That made Heather turn. Slowly. Her expression unreadable, but her eyes—her eyes looked like they’d just been hit by lightning and rain at the same time.

Alice Mae didn’t flinch.

“I’m not leaving,” she said simply. “So you can either shut me out, or let me help you carry some of this before it eats you alive.”

The quiet that followed was sharp enough to cut glass.

And Alice Mae didn’t break eye contact. Not once.

Heather didn’t speak for a long time.

She just stood there, still and stunning in the middle of her chaos—string lights trembling against the weight of secrets, shadows tangled in the corners like they were listening. Her fingers toyed with the frayed hem of her sweater, the only sign she hadn’t gone full marble statue.

Alice Mae’s words echoed in the space like they’d shattered something.

Heather bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. Let the taste of copper ground her. Because if she didn’t, if she let the ache rise up past her throat, she wasn’t sure what would come out. A scream. A sob. A confession.

Instead, she smiled.

Not a kind smile. Not even a convincing one.

That smile was armor.

“You think this is about protecting you?” Her voice was velvet wrapped around barbed wire. “You think I’m chasing this just for fun? Like it’s some twisted game of hide-and-seek with the boogeyman?”

She turned away before she could see Alice Mae flinch.

That would’ve cracked her.

She paced toward the wall—toward the web of red thread and scrawled notes, faded headlines and names long lost to the town’s rotting memory. Her fingers skimmed over one—K. Fraser, underlined three times in green. Her nails were chipped.

“Sunnyvale taught me how to pretend,” she said. “How to smile through funerals and fold trauma into napkins at brunch. But Shadyside—this cursed, blood-soaked hellhole—it taught me how to see.” She looked over her shoulder, eyes glittering with something that wasn’t quite anger. “And I can’t unsee it now. I can’t go back to pep rallies and pageants like nothing’s rotten underneath.”

Her voice wavered, just a little.

“I wish I could.”

She turned fully now, arms crossing tight over her chest like a shield. “But if this thing could change me the way it has—if it can hollow me out and refill me with… this—then what the hell do you think it would do to you, Alice?”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a warning.

“I’m not shutting you out because I don’t trust you. I’m doing it because I do. And because I still remember what it’s like to feel safe. I won’t rip that from you.”

The tension in her jaw clenched tighter.

“I’ve got Benji now. I’m not alone. You don’t have to throw yourself into the fire just to prove something.”

She stepped back, toward the bed, arms still folded, voice cooling.

“I love you,” she said, plain and dangerous. “So let me keep one good thing out of this mess.”

And then she sat, spine straight, eyes averted, letting the silence swallow what she didn’t say.

Let me keep you.

Alice Mae didn’t cry.

She wanted to. God, she wanted to. But the tears stayed stuck behind her ribs, where the dreams liked to live now—curled up like secrets too scared to speak.

Instead, she sat down on the floor. Cross-legged. Palms pressed flat to the rug like maybe it could tether her to the here and now.

Heather didn’t look at her. Didn’t move. Just kept staring at the wall like it might blink back.

“We didn’t come out of those tunnels the same,” Alice Mae said, her voice low. “You know that.”

Heather flinched like she’d been slapped, but still didn’t turn around.

“You keep talking like I need protecting,” Alice went on, “but you saw it too, didn’t you? Felt it.”

A pause. Then, softer:

“I still smell the dirt sometimes. Hear the flies, even when it’s dead quiet. And the dreams—Heather, they’re getting worse.”

That finally cracked something. Heather’s shoulders tensed, her arms wrapping tighter around herself like she could fold away from what Alice was saying.

“They’re not just dreams,” she said, voice hoarse. “They’re warnings. Echoes. Pieces of something that hasn’t finished with us yet.”

Alice Mae nodded slowly, eyes fixed on her.

“Then stop acting like I can be spared.”

Silence settled again, thick and pulsing.

“You’re not the only one it marked down there,” Alice whispered. “You’re not the only one waking up screaming.”

Heather turned now, finally, eyes dark and wide.

And Alice Mae looked straight into them.

“I’d rather face whatever this is with you than spend one more night pretending I’m not already cursed.”

She reached out—just barely brushing her fingers against Heather’s.

“You don’t have to keep me safe. You just have to keep me.”

And this time, Heather didn’t pull away.

Heather had always been good at pretending.

Pretending she was fine. Pretending none of it touched her. Pretending the sleepless nights and bloodied dreams were just stress, just hormones, just shadows stretched too long.

But Alice Mae’s words sliced through the act like a razor. And for a second—just one, trembling second—Heather forgot how to breathe.

She’d been so caught up in her own spiral, so obsessed with untangling the curse, she hadn’t seen the way it wrapped around the people she loved too. She thought if she carried the weight alone, if she bled for the answers and bore the madness, maybe the rest of them could walk free.

She forgot—no, ignored—that Alice Mae had been marked too.

That was the worst part. She knew. Somewhere deep in her chest, where all the fear turned to fire, Heather had known her friend was drowning too. But she told herself a lie wrapped in a prettier truth: that she was strong enough to shield Alice from all of it. That dragging Benji into this mess didn’t count because he was already born doomed, a Shadysider by blood. That if someone had to fall further, it should be her.

It was selfish. It was cruel. And it felt like the only choice she’d ever had.

Heather stared at their hands—at the place where Alice’s fingers brushed hers, so light, so human. And for a moment, all the sharpness in her softened into something fragile.

“I didn’t mean to leave you in the dark,” she said, voice low and tight like it was stitched together by regret. “I just thought if I let you in... it would ruin you too.”

She finally met Alice Mae’s eyes, and there was no more distance, no more armor.

“You’re all I have left that still feels good. Still feels clean. And I’ve already ruined so much, Alice. You have no idea what I’ve done. What I’ve seen.”

Her jaw clenched, throat bobbing.

“I can’t lose you too. Not to this. Not like this.”

Then, quieter: “I’m not completely alone. I’ve got Benji. He gets it in ways you shouldn't have to.”

She blinked fast, like that would stop the heat behind her eyes.

“But maybe… maybe I was wrong. Maybe you’re already in too deep. Maybe we both are.”

And slowly—so slowly it felt like something sacred—Heather laced her fingers through Alice Mae’s.

“Fine,” she whispered. “Then we face it together.”

Alice Mae didn’t smile.

She wanted to. It flickered in her, sharp and aching, that old instinct to soften things when they got too real. But this moment—this quiet, broken offering from Heather—it didn’t need soft. It needed truth.

So instead, she leaned forward, rested their joined hands against her knee, and let herself feel it. The way Heather’s grip wasn’t tight, but anchored. Like maybe this was the only solid thing left between them.

“I was already ruined,” Alice Mae said, voice calm but stripped bare. “Long before the tunnels. Long before the curse started scratching at the edges of our dreams.”

Heather’s eyes flickered, pain sparking in them like flint, but Alice kept going.

“I’ve felt like a ghost in my own skin since I was twelve. Like something was waiting to catch me slipping. I used to think it was just… the way I was wired. Too curious. Too reckless. Too much.”

She swallowed, jaw tense.

“But now I know better. I know what it feels like when something chooses you. When it doesn’t matter how good or careful or loved you are—because it’s already inside you. Twisting. Watching.”

Her fingers tightened around Heather’s.

“So don’t try to sell me the lie that I’m still clean. I’m not. And it’s not your job to keep me that way.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“You don’t get to carry this alone anymore. That’s not love, Heather. That’s martyrdom dressed up in fear.”

Her voice cracked, just a little.

“And I love you too much to let you do that.”

She leaned in then, forehead almost brushing Heather’s, close enough to breathe the same heavy air.

“If we’re cursed,” she whispered, “then let it come for both of us. We’ve already made it this far, haven’t we?”

And then, softer—like a promise stitched into the dark:

“We burn or we break, but we do it together.”