The first night after school should have been ordinary.
That was what Arlee told herself as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the new house settle into its bones. The wood creaked softly. Pipes ticked. Wind brushed the siding with slow fingers. Normal sounds, normal patterns—proof that nothing supernatural was waiting in the dark.
Except Arlee didn't believe in normal anymore.
Her charm rested cool against her collarbone, almost heavy with the memory of the cemetery—the grave that had listened, the darkness that had spoken like it owned her name. Her mother had insisted the house was warded, protected, quieter. And it was. There was no humming under the floor, no tugging at her skin.
But quiet didn't mean safe.
Quiet could mean something was holding its breath.
Arlee rolled onto her side and looked out the narrow window. The woods behind the house were black silhouettes against a cloudy sky, branches tangled like knotted veins. Across the gap between houses, Eli's second-floor window was dark now.
She could still feel him anyway.
Not like the thing beneath the grave. Not like the pressure that had threatened to swallow her whole. This was different—warm, steady, irritatingly human. A presence that tugged gently at her attention, like her mind kept drifting toward him even when she tried to push it away.
She hated how much she needed that.
She hated how quickly it happened.
A buzz against her nightstand startled her.
Her phone.
A text lit the screen.
NYLA: you alive? because you looked like you were about to evaporate in 3rd period.
Arlee stared at it longer than she needed to, surprised by the small relief it brought. She typed back slowly.
ARLEE: alive. barely. this town is too loud.
Three dots appeared immediately.
NYLA: lol. tomorrow you sit with me at lunch again. no escaping. also… eli is cute. don't deny it.
Heat crawled up Arlee's neck. She glanced at the dark window across the way as if Eli could somehow hear her thoughts through walls.
ARLEE: goodnight nyla.
NYLA: THAT'S A YES.
Arlee tossed the phone onto the bed, but she couldn't stop the smile that tried to form and failed halfway. Her chest tightened right after, because even laughter felt unfamiliar lately—like a language she had once spoken fluently but now stumbled through.
Down the hall, a floorboard creaked.
Arlee froze.
The sound wasn't loud, but it was distinct—weight shifting, careful and measured. The house had been quiet for nearly an hour. Her mother had locked herself in her bedroom with those old books, the same way she had the night before.
Arlee sat up slowly, listening.
Silence.
Then another creak.
Closer this time. Not in the hallway—beneath it. As if someone were walking under the floor.
Her pulse jumped.
She slid out of bed and crossed to her door, careful not to let it latch loudly. The hallway beyond was dim, lit only by the faint kitchen nightlight. No movement. No shadows.
She took one cautious step out—
And felt it.
A shift in the air, so subtle she might have missed it yesterday. Now it rang through her senses like a wire plucked.
Something was in the house.
Not her mother. Not an intruder made of flesh.
Something else.
Arlee's fingers tightened around the edge of the doorway. She whispered her mother's name, but the sound barely left her throat.
A whisper answered.
Not a word. Not a voice.
Just breath, brushing her ear like a secret shared too close.
Arlee jerked back, heart hammering. The charm warmed faintly—not burning, but alert.
She didn't run. She forced her feet to move down the hallway, toward her mother's room, because if the house had ears, then it had already heard fear, and fear was the easiest door.
Her mother's door was closed.
Arlee knocked once, softly. "Mom?"
No answer.
She knocked again, harder. "Mom. Please."
Locks clicked.
The door opened a crack, and her mother's face appeared in the dim light. Her eyes were sharp and tired, hair loose like she'd been pulling at it for hours.
"What is it?" she asked—then her gaze flicked past Arlee's shoulder, scanning the darkness. "Did you feel something?"
Arlee swallowed. "Yes."
Her mother opened the door wider and pulled Arlee inside, closing it quickly behind her.
Her mother's room smelled like paper and something faintly bitter, like herbs crushed between fingers. Books lay open across the bed and floor, pages marked with scraps of cloth. Symbols were drawn in pencil on loose sheets, circles overlapping circles.
Arlee stared. "What are you doing?"
Her mother hesitated, then answered with blunt honesty. "Listening."
"To what?" Arlee asked, voice tight.
Her mother's eyes stayed on the door. "To the house," she said. "To the spaces between rooms. To what moves when we pretend it doesn't."
Arlee's throat tightened. "So I'm not imagining it."
"No," her mother said. "It followed you from the grave."
Arlee's stomach dropped. "But you said it couldn't—"
"It shouldn't have," her mother corrected. "And that's why we're not sleeping."
Arlee's hands curled into fists. "What does it want?"
Her mother's gaze flicked to the charm at Arlee's neck. "You," she said. "And whatever your father left behind inside you."
Arlee felt cold spread through her veins. "Inside me?"
Her mother nodded once. "He didn't just become a threshold, Arlee. He became a messenger. A lock. A warning. And you… you are the thing the lock was meant to protect."
Arlee's voice cracked. "Then why does it feel like I'm the one opening doors?"
Her mother's expression tightened—pain and fear warring. "Because your sight is waking," she whispered. "And waking sight attracts attention."
A soft tap sounded from the window.
Arlee froze.
Her mother's eyes snapped toward it.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Three slow knocks against glass.
Arlee's breath caught. The window was shut. Curtains drawn. No wind strong enough to do that.
Her mother moved fast, grabbing a thin chain from her bedside table, fingers looping it around her hand like a weapon.
"Stay behind me," she murmured.
Arlee obeyed, stepping back as her mother crossed the room.
Her mother yanked the curtain aside in one smooth motion.
Moonlight spilled in.
And outside, standing on the lawn beneath the window, was a figure too tall to be human.
It wasn't fully shaped—more like a suggestion of a body wrapped in darkness. Its face was blurred, as if the world refused to focus on it.
It lifted one hand.
And pointed.
At Arlee.
Her mother slammed the curtain shut and pressed her palm against the glass. Symbols flared briefly beneath her skin, silver light ghosting through her fingers.
"Leave," she hissed.
The air vibrated, thick and angry.
The thing didn't move.
Instead, the voice came—not outside, but inside the room, inside Arlee's head.
You moved her.
Arlee staggered, clutching the bedpost.
You can't hide what is already named.
Her mother's hair began to glow faintly at the roots, silver creeping through darkness. She spoke through clenched teeth. "She is not yours."
A pause—like amusement.
Not yet, the voice breathed. But soon.
The pressure vanished as suddenly as it came. When her mother yanked the curtain aside again, the lawn was empty.
Only wet grass remained, flattened where something had stood.
Arlee's legs went weak. She sat down hard on the edge of the bed, palms sweating.
Her mother exhaled shakily and closed the curtain again, slower this time. "It's testing," she said. "Pushing. Seeing how strong the wards are."
Arlee's voice trembled. "What happens when it finds a weak spot?"
Her mother didn't answer immediately. That silence was the answer.
Arlee swallowed. "What do we do?"
Her mother's gaze softened, just a fraction. "We build routines," she said. "We keep you grounded. We keep you living. We don't give it grief to feed on."
Arlee let out a bitter laugh. "Too late."
Her mother stepped closer and cupped Arlee's face gently, as if afraid Arlee might drift away if she didn't hold on. "Look at me," she said. "You are not alone anymore."
Arlee's breath hitched. The words should have comforted her. Instead, they made her think of Eli's face. Nyla's blunt kindness. The new threads tying her to a life she hadn't planned.
Threads could be cut.
Threads could also become ropes strong enough to pull her back from the edge.
Arlee nodded slowly. "Okay."
Her mother's voice lowered. "One more thing," she said. "Tomorrow, you do not go anywhere alone. Not even in school."
Arlee frowned. "That's impossible."
"It's not," her mother said. "You make friends fast."
Arlee hesitated, then said softly, "Nyla."
Her mother's eyes narrowed slightly. "And the boy."
Arlee's face warmed. "Eli."
Her mother studied her like she was trying to read a map on Arlee's skin. "Be careful," she said. "Attachments are leverage."
Arlee's chest tightened. "He's not leverage," she whispered. "He's… he's just—"
"Human," her mother finished. "Which makes him precious. And vulnerable."
Arlee didn't argue, because she had already felt it—the way Eli's presence anchored her, the way his voice made the world feel less sharp. And she could already imagine the horror of that being used against her.
She left her mother's room an hour later, exhausted and wired. The house was quiet again, but it no longer felt neutral. It felt like a predator lying still, pretending it wasn't there.
Back in her room, she climbed into bed and forced her breathing to slow.
Her phone buzzed again.
A text.
ELI: you ok? saw your light on. couldn't sleep.
Arlee stared at the screen. Her heart did that strange stutter again, warmth blooming low and steady.
She typed back before she could overthink it.
ARLEE: not really. but i'm trying.
Three dots appeared.
ELI: want company?
Arlee's pulse spiked. The logical part of her screamed no—don't bring anyone closer, don't create doors. But the exhausted part of her—the part that had been screamed hollow by grief—wanted to say yes more than it wanted to breathe.
She typed:
ARLEE: maybe tomorrow.
A pause.
ELI: ok. i'll walk with you. all day if you want.
Arlee swallowed. Her fingers hovered over the screen, then moved.
ARLEE: i'd like that.
She set the phone down and turned toward the window.
Across the gap between houses, a light clicked on in Eli's room. Curtains shifted. A silhouette appeared, still and watchful—but this time, it wasn't the thing from the lawn.
It was Eli.
He didn't wave. He didn't gesture. He just stood there, as if he could sense she was looking, and for a moment the world felt—impossibly—less hostile.
Arlee's throat tightened.
Then, in the corner of her room, the shadows deepened.
Not moving. Not attacking.
Watching.
Arlee's skin prickled, but she didn't look away from Eli's window. She held the gaze, held the warmth, held the thread.
Because if the darkness wanted to test her, it would have to learn something first:
She was not only a girl with grief and a curse.
She was a girl with people.
And people could become weapons.
Arlee finally closed her eyes.
Sleep came in fragments, dreams crawling through her mind like fog through a graveyard. She dreamed of a mouth in the earth, whispering her name. She dreamed of her father's voice turning to laughter. She dreamed of silver light pouring from her mother's hair like a warning.
And she dreamed of Eli, standing beside her in the woods, his hand brushing hers—an almost-touch that made her breath hitch, made her body lean toward him before she could stop herself.
Just as their fingers were about to lace together, Mara stepped from behind a tree, smiling sweetly, and took Eli's hand first.
Arlee woke with a gasp, heart pounding.
Outside her window, dawn was beginning to bruise the sky.
Her phone buzzed again—one more message.
NYLA: morning. btw mara asked about you. like… A LOT.
NYLA: and that's not normal.
Arlee sat up slowly, the charm cool against her skin.
Somewhere deep beneath the town, something ancient shifted—irritated, hungry.
Because the game was widening.
And Arlee Storm had just gained two new weaknesses—
and one new reason to fight.