Clara
Keith lives in a quiet, cookie-cutter suburb where every house looks like it was copy-pasted from the same blueprint. His, however, has a slightly more disheveled charm—two floors of dull beige siding, a sagging porch light, and a lawn that looks like it gave up trying months ago. The kind of place you could walk past a dozen times and still forget existed.
I stare at it, chewing my thumbnail. When we were trapped in that kidnapper's house, Alister found Keith's business card shoved in one of the drawers—Keith Lewis, graphic designer for some game company I've never heard of. After calling the company from a payphone while pretending to be his concerned relative, we learned he hasn't shown up to work in over a week.
Seeing the white car parked out front, I hoped that maybe—just maybe—he's home. Or will be soon. I don't intend on coming back to this place some other day; it's hard enough coming up with excuses for being gone this long, and the last thing I need is my mom asking questions I can't answer.
But after knocking repeatedly and peeking into every dark window we can reach, it's clear: Keith isn't here.
"Do you think something happened to him?" I ask, trying to see through the window again. It's useless—everything inside is cloaked in darkness.
"Obviously." Alister replies. "The guy tried to get rid of the gems, hasn't shown up to work, and now his house is empty. Either he got involved in shady stuff and died, or he ran away."
I turn to face him. "But his car's still here."
He shrugs. "Must be the former then."
With that grim assessment, he starts walking toward the front, away from the narrow alley beside the house. I follow close behind.
"Do you think the reason he wanted to get rid of them was because of those artifact hunters? Maybe he knew they'd track him, and he wanted the items far away from him as possible." I speculate as I walk beside him.
From the way the men at the basement were talking, I'm not sure if they killed Samuel. What if...it was the artifact hunters as well? What if they are following the track, killing off whoever had the gems?
No...then the kidnapper guy should have died too along with his friends.
"Not a bad theory. But it just leaves us with more questions than answers." He sighs, running a hand through his face. He looks awfully tired.
"We'll need to get inside." I say, scanning the porch. "See if he left anything useful."
We pause at the curb, checking the quiet street. It's nearly empty, the clouds above thick and bruised, promising rain. The wind is starting to pick up, sending leaves scuttling across the sidewalk.
Perfect weather for a felony.
"Cover for me." I say, already walking toward the house, tugging the bobby pin from my hair.
The porch creaks under my weight. I sigh in relief when I check the lock. No blinking keypad, no fancy fingerprint scanner. Just a basic, traditional one.
I crouch in front of it, slipping the pin into the keyhole, and begin to work. It's all about pressure, patience, and the right angle.
Behind me, Alister steps into position, body angled just enough to block me from view if anyone glances out their window.
It's not like he doesn't know how to pick a lock. He does. Better than me, perhaps. But only one of us is eager to show off that skill.
The lock gives a quiet click. I straighten up, heart thudding in my chest—not from nerves, exactly, but from the feeling that we're about to cross into something we can't uncross.
I usher him to come inside.
The terrible smell hits us like a punch to the gut. The air is thick with the putrid scent of rotting food, making our stomachs turn. Alister quickly moves to turn on the lights with his elbow, and as the room illuminates, we're met with a sight that's just as unpleasant as the smell. The refrigerator door is wide open, its contents spilling out onto the floor covered in mold and slime. The sink is filled with dirty dishes, and the countertops are cluttered with trash and leftovers.
Alister covers his nose with his shirt, his face scrunched up in distaste. "Gross." He says, voice muffled by the fabric.
We split up, and I enter the living room while he goes into another room down a corridor. The room is cluttered, with clothes and books scattered haphazardly across the floor. The coffee table is littered with empty food containers, crumpled-up papers, and discarded remotes.
Upon looking closely, the papers seem to be receipts from grocery stores. With a lot of purchases of cup noodles.
The couch looks battered, as if an animal ripped it in various places. The TV stands silent and dark, its screen smeared with fingerprints and grease.
I refuse to touch anything in here.
"Hey!"
"What is it? Found anything?" I ask eagerly as I run towards the room he's in.
My heart races with anticipation, but I'm met with a sight that makes my blood run cold. Alister is standing in the center of the bedroom, his eyes fixed on something below him. But my focus is on the only thing that demands anyone's attention.
"Don't touch anything. We can't leave fingerprints here." He says without looking at me.
A body is hanging from the ceiling fan, its limbs stiff and lifeless in his white shirt. The man's face is pale and gaunt, with sunken eyes that seem to stare into nothingness. The skin is cold and looks clammy, with a bluish tint that suggests he's been dead for some time.
"Is that...Keith!?" I feel a chill run down my spine as I take in the scene.
I look towards Alister, and he seems to be staring at the ground, unfazed by the body. How is he not freaking out!? Oh...right.
This might as well be just a Halloween decoration to him.
"I think so. But this..." he mutters, pointing to the ground. I step toward him, following his gaze. "This is going to complicate things."
The floor is covered in red symbols—dozens of them—overlapping, intertwining, bleeding into one another like someone lost their mind drawing them. Identical pentagrams, drawn over and over again.
Strange markings and symbols that are completely unknown to me. The glyphs appear to be some sort of arcane script, etched into the wood. They're scrawled in chaotic layers, as if whoever drew them was obsessed. Or desperate.
"This is…?"
"Blood." Alister confirms. "I'll get a kitchen towel or something we could use to inspect this room." He says as he begins to walk out.
I glance once more at Keith's body, then back at the mess on the floor. The second he's out of the room, I flip the light switch on.
The room bursts into clarity. Every stroke of blood, every jagged edge, every symbol lights up in sharp relief. The red is so vivid now it looks fresh.
Despite my lack of knowledge about the specific symbols, I've seen enough movies and late-night documentaries to recognize the general significance of the pentagram. Witchcraft. The occult. Stuff people usually laugh off—until they walk into a room like this.
Then I notice something—a flash of red wedged in the narrow space between the bookshelf and the wardrobe. I walk closer and peer into the shadowed gap.
On the wall, written in desperate strokes of black marker—and in places, blood—are the words:give them back to me... over and over again.
Was this guy hallucinating? Was he seeing things too? Did that drive him to suicide?
But then... what about the symbols? The endless circles on the floor?
Alister steps into the room, two kitchen towels in hand, and holds one out to me. I take it, but his attention's already shifted.
He sees the wall and freezes.
I see the color drain from his face. His eyes widen, flicking from one place to another like he's reading a nightmare written just for him.
"Alister?" I ask, stepping toward him.
He begins to then look around the room and keeps mumbling something under his breath.
Oh no...
"Hey! Hey! Snap out of it!" I run up and grab his arms, shaking him. I snap my fingers sharply in front of his face. "Alister! Look at me!"
His eyes jerk toward mine, locking in. For a split second, it's like he doesn't recognize me.
"Calm down." I say firmly. "It's not real."
His jaw tightens, and I watch the tension in his shoulders slowly release. He sucks in a breath and looks away.
"I'm fine." He mutters, stepping out of my grasp. "Let's just… finish this. Fast."
He heads toward the bedside table, using the towel to pull drawers open.
I move to the wardrobe. Only to find clothes and nothing strange.
Then I turn to the bookshelf. Paperbacks. Travel guides. A moldy dictionary. I push them aside—until something at the far end catches my eye.
A brown leather book. There's no title on the spine. The cover is worn smooth, as if it had been passed through too many hands. The only marking is a gold cursive letter, etched near the bottom right: L.
I open the cover slowly—and pause.
The text, which looks more like patterns, is written in the same mysterious inscription language as the pentagram on the floor. The symbols twisting and curling across the pages like living vines.
But it's the illustrations that truly catch my eye.
Drawings of various objects are scattered throughout the pages—a white candle, a compass, an hourglass, a hat, a necklace with tiny beads. I wonder what kind of rituals or spells they might be used for and what kind of power they might hold.
I now know for a fact that this book has the information about the curse and, possibly the solution to our problem.
I spin around, excited to show Alister the book. "Look! I think this might be—"
But the words die in my throat.
Alister is standing on a chair. His back straight, and his face tilted toward the corpse swaying like some grotesque chandelier. I realize that he's studying the body with an almost clinical detachment. Eyes scanning every detail, taking in the position of the body, the angle of the rope, and the expression on the face.
"I'm trying to see if it was actually a suicide." He answers when he catches me staring. "And not just meant to look like one."
I eye him warily, my grip tightening on the book. "Don't tell me you touched that corpse."
He looks over his shoulder and gives me that insufferable half-smirk. "It's not like it's the first time."
"Ugh, you're disgusting!" I grimace.
"I'm sure he didn't mind." He steps off the chair casually. "Anyways, what's that?"
"I think I found a spellbook."
His eyes narrow as he takes it from my hands, flipping it open. Both of us peer down at the strange, twisting symbols and haunting illustrations.
Some show pentagrams almost identical to the ones drawn across the floor, each slightly altered with different sigils scrawled beneath. Then he pauses, tapping a page.
"That's the flute I told you about." he points then resumes flipping.
After a few pages later, it's my turn to stop him. "Wait! I know that pipe! That's what the guy who was chasing me used."
We keep flipping, faster now. A hairpin with a rose carved into it. A dog whistle. Even a simple spoon. Each item is paired with a summoning circle or ritual symbol, but no mention of the gems.
"I don't get it." I finally whisper. "How can they not be here?"
Alister stops flipping through the pages, his eyes fixed on something in particular. I glance over.
It's a single ivory gemstone, drawn in perfect detail, its edges sharp and glowing faintly in the sketch. At first glance, it doesn't seem like anything out of the ordinary—just another artifact amongst hundreds. But the more I stare at it, the more a strange familiarity creeps up my spine.
I glance at Alister, but his eyes are still glued to the page.
I take a slow breath, then turn toward the dresser across the room. I tug my neckline down, my fingers brushing the cold surface of the gem. I focus on it, watching the way the light catches on its edge.
"What if... what if that gemstone broke into two pieces?" I say uncertainly.
Alister doesn't react at first. But then, after a long pause, he murmurs. "Or what if there are just two of them?"
I shake my head. "No. If there were two, they should have the same effect and abilities."
He slowly looks up from the book. "And if that jewel did break into two, it shouldn't have any power or abilities at all. When I broke the other artifacts, they became useless. No energy. No effect. Just... shattered junk."
His logic makes sense, but something doesn't sit right with me. I bite my lip, thinking quickly. "What if ours is a special one?" I say, almost as if testing the idea out loud.
"Special how?"
I shrug, the uncertainty bubbling up again. "I don't know. Maybe it's different. Maybe... maybe it's something more? Ugh, if only we knew what any of this writing means."
He closes the book and tucks it into his satchel. "How about we go to the library tomorrow? Maybe some of the witchcraft books there might have answers. We could look up stuff online in the meantime."
I nod, and we both set off, splitting up to search the house one last time. Every room feels more oppressive than the last. I think I hear Alister muttering to himself in one of the rooms, but when I peek in, he doesn't seem to be having one of his hallucinations. Instead, his face is grim, as if he's concentrating hard.
Alas, in the end, we find nothing else.
We leave the house after checking the street for any sign of movement. It's empty, save for the sound of rain softly tapping against the pavement.
It's started to drizzle now, just enough to coat everything in a fine, translucent sheen. Neither of us brought an umbrella, so we hurry to the bus stop where the next bus will be arriving in about 20 minutes.
The pavement was dark and glistening, the trees across the street swayed gently, their leaves catching the drops. The air felt fresh, as though the world had taken a deep, cleansing breath.
Alister, predictably, sitting beside me, has his nose buried in that leather-bound book.
I had a good time today. Sure, the memory of the basement and that haunting body would stay with me forever, but there was something...exhilarating about it, something that made my heart beat a little faster, something that made me feel alive in a way I hadn't for a long time.
I stretch my hand out, feeling the raindrops hit my palm, each tiny drop like a fleeting moment I could capture if I wanted. I don't want to go back home. I don't want to be pulled back into the mess waiting for me.
I stand up, stepping from the narrow roof of the bus stop and into the drizzle. I can feel it soak my clothes immediately, and the sensation sent a shiver down my spine. But I didn't mind. It felt like freedom. A quiet rebellion against everything else. I tilted my head back, letting the droplets fall on my face, closing my eyes for a moment.
My mind drifted to simpler times. I remembered playing in the rain with James when we were kids. I'd gotten him sick that day—he was just four—but I still remembered how carefree it felt. I'd tried to teach him the steps to the ballade Swan Lake, laughing when he tripped over his own feet. I hadn't realized back then how precious that moment was, how rare it would become in my life.
Of course, I did get punished later for getting him sick. Mom forced me to stay in the cold water of the bathtub for 6 hours.
"You'll get yourself sick." Alister's voice cut through my thoughts. It was like he was saying it out of habit. Like a parent half-scolding a child while they scroll through their phone.
Annoyance bubbles up inside me. "You're not going to understand anything no matter how hard you stare at it."
He looks up at me then, looking bored. "What does that have to do with you getting sick?" He asks, eyebrow raised. "And it's like you're begging to get in trouble with your family again. Coming home drenched and injured? I'm starting to think you might be a masochist."
I don't let my smile twitch into something darker. I spin on my heel, aiming to brush off the irritation. "Make fun of me all you want. Your words don't mean anything to me anymore."
He rolls his eyes, his focus dropping back down to the book with a disinterested sigh. I notice he's still stuck on the same page. It was almost funny how determined he was to stare through it as if hoping the words would rearrange themselves under the weight of his attention.
"You should come out too. It's not even raining that hard." I reached out my hand, the wet bandage clinging to my skin, and positioned one foot behind the other like I was going to perform a grand gesture. Then, with an exaggerated dip of my head, I make a theatrical bow. "We could dance together."
His eye twitched like I'd just suggested something absurd. Which, well, I kind of had. But I'm not really expecting him to take me up on it. "Not happening." He mutters flatly, completely uninterested.
I tilt my head. "What, you hate the rain, or you just don't know how to have fun?"
He says nothing. A glare crept into his gaze, not directed at me, but at the book itself, as if it were to blame for dragging him into this moment.
I laughed as I lifted my head back and let the rain kiss my face. "I see." I murmured, eyes closed for a second. "So it's both."
I can tell by the look on his face he wants to say something to me. About the seriousness of our situation. Or my inappropriateness at the moment. Especially considering the fact that my cousin died recently.
Who he killed.
But of course, he dare not open that Pandora's box.
I exhale through my nose and turn away from the open sky, walking back beneath the narrow shelter. I settle on the bench beside him, the cold metal against my legs sending goosebumps all over.
"Try Google translate." I suggest.
I watch him silently as he takes out his phone and does just that. But the click of his tongue, something he seems to do whenever he's frustrated, tells me that it didn't work.
I hug myself, shivering slightly. The rain soaked through most of my dress and now feels like a second, colder layer. I rub my arms, pulling my knees up to my chest, trying to shrink into myself to conserve warmth.
"I wouldn't sit like that if I were you." He says without looking up.
I frown, glancing down, and tug the fabric back over my thighs and legs. "Are you going to tell me how to sit now?"
"No." He shrugs. "Just something I wouldn't have done if I were you."
I narrow my eyes at his leather jacket. Regret prickles up my spine. I should've worn one too. "Well, if I were you," I say, mimicking his shrug. "I wouldn't let a lady freeze beside me and offer my jacket like a gentleman." Hopefully that'll get him to hand it over.
He snorts. "Not if the lady's an idiot who wore a thin dress in this weather and thought it was a great idea to dance around in the rain like a child."
I resist the very real urge to shove him off the bench. He's already sitting near the edge, and it would be very entertaining watching him fall.
"There's a clothing store right there." He adds, nodding across the street.
I followed his gaze, squinting at the darkened windows through the curtain of rain. "It's closed, you moron."
"Well, it's a good thing someone's good at picking locks."
"I don't stea—" I began, then clamped my mouth shut. No stealing? after I stole his coat from the cabin and then this book? I sound like a hypocrite.
And apparently he caught on too, as he turns to face me, smirking and leaning slightly toward me. "What was that?"
"Nothing." I mutter, turning away from him.
"Oh no," he presses, amusement coating every word. "By all means, finish that sentence."
I shifted even further until my back was almost completely to him. "I said it's nothing. Are you deaf?"
He goes quiet, and for a moment, only the sound of the rain remains, tapping against the pavement.
Then something soft weighs lightly on my head. I reach up and find his jacket.
Trying to keep my face neutral but failing, I glanced back. He'd turned away, his posture angled so I couldn't see his expression. Just his shirt clinging to the lean lines of his back as he pretended to be far too focused on the book. I don't fail to notice the burn marks on his right arm.
I pulled the jacket on, and the satisfying feeling floods my heart. The one I feel whenever I get what I want
Its far too big—my hands disappear into the sleeves—but the warmth is immediate. So is the scent. Sea salt and paper. An odd combination.
The wind blows, tousling his black hair, sending it sweeping across his forehead. It reminds me of the time I ran my fingers through it, soft and warm beneath my touch. It's such a strange feeling to remember that.
My hand twitched, an urge rising inside me to touch his hair again.
"Hey." I say, needing to break the silence before my mind spiraled further. "Can I ask you something personal?"
"No."
I cross my arms over my chest. "Come on, don't be like that. I'm bored. You can ask me something personal too in return. Make it a trade. Anything you want. I'm sure there's something you're curious about."
I leaned back, my eyes on his profile. I watched as he gave me a sideways glance. I could sense the wheels turning in his mind. The challenge was set.
He looks away for a moment before speaking. "What do you know about your birth parents?"
Ah, he must think this was something that would trip me up. That it was a subject too raw for me to answer, that I'd clam up and break the trade we'd just made. But I wasn't about to let him off that easily.
I hadn't expected him to ask that though. In fact, I thought he might take the opportunity to pry into my adoptive family secrets. He's always looking for one of those.
I pretend to think it over. "Well..." I started, glancing at the trees swaying lazily in the breeze. "I killed them."
His head snapped toward me, eyes widening in surprise, and I could see the shift in his expression, like he hadn't expected me to answer so bluntly. "How?"
I smirk, glad at catching him off guard. "That's one question," I say. "Now it's my turn. And just so you know, backing out of this will make you look weak."
He blinks, and I see him try to collect himself, eyes narrowing.
"Are the hallucinations you see, and the one you saw in Keith's house, related to your... tragic kidnapping?" I chose my words carefully, making sure to ask whatever I wanted in one question.
He quickly averts his eyes as his hand tightens on the book. I thought for a second that he might call me out on how I knew about his past, how I might've found out things he hadn't wanted anyone to know. But then he surprised me.
"No." He says, sternly. "That was the best thing to ever happen to me."
Did I hear him wrong?
How could he say that? The more I think about it, the more I'm beginning to realize where his murderous tendencies might have came from, why he thinks his time as a prisoner was good.
He was groomed. And he still puts his captor atop a pedestal. I don't need to ask him whose coat that was in his cabin. He has some sort of unhealthy obsession with that person and doesn't want to let them go.
We hear the low rumble of the approaching bus, and I stand up. Alister looked to it, then back at me.
"It's my turn. What did you mean you killed your parents?"
I smirk, threading my fingers behind my back, the corners of my lips tugging up in amusement. "Game's over."
The crease between his brows sharpens. "You were lying, weren't you?"
A quiet laugh slips from my lips. "No, that was the truth." The bus screeches to a halt in front of us. "Or part of it, of course." I held his gaze, letting the pause stretch between us. "I just want to leave you in suspense."
He scowled, but his eyes followed me as I walked to the bus.