The book lies on the bed, its spine cracked and fragile, the pages soft from years of hands turning them with fear and fascination. Echoes of the Living: The Psychology of Hauntings.
I stare at it for a long time before opening it again.
The motel feels different this morning—too still. The air is heavy, thick with something that doesn't belong. The blinds rattle slightly though the window is shut tight, and when I move, the air seems to follow, like it's paying attention.
I sit on the edge of the bed and begin to read.
⸻
Chapter One: Residue.
"A haunting begins not with death, but with memory. When emotion burns too brightly, it leaves an imprint—on places, on objects, on those who remain."
I pause, eyes flicking toward the table. The gloves aren't there anymore. I don't remember touching them.
"The living often mistake these imprints for the dead reaching back. But sometimes, it is the living who are trapped—looping the same moments, unable to let go, and thus keeping the echo alive."
I rub at my temples. "Looping the same moments."
That's me. Every night. The diner. The fire. Her voice. Her red dress.
I turn the page. There are underlined words, not in my handwriting—someone else's, frantic and narrow:
"When the echo grows strong enough, it manifests to reclaim what it remembers."
I trace the ink with my thumb. There's a note scribbled in the margin: Beware objects that survive tragedy. They remember first.
My stomach knots.
The glove.
It survived.
⸻
Hours pass. I lose track of time in the paper's texture and the way the author's words start to bleed into my thoughts. The book reads less like research and more like confession. Whoever wrote this wasn't theorizing—they were living it.
By midday, I've worked through half of it. There's a photograph glued between two pages, a grainy image of a woman standing in front of a burned-down house, her face obscured by light. The caption beneath reads:
Dr. Miriam Keene, 1974 — documenting residual hauntings in personal environments.
The name stirs something. I've seen it before—on the inside cover, faded in blue ink. Property of Dr. M. Keene.
The bookstore clerk must not have noticed. Or maybe she did and didn't care.
The next few pages are about the "law of emotional resonance."
"Energy doesn't disappear. Grief, rage, love—they linger. If strong enough, they tether the living to the dead, binding them through shared memory. To break the bond, one must confront the memory itself, unflinchingly, and release what was denied."
I close the book, heart pounding.
Confront the memory.
That's the one thing I've avoided. I haven't been back to the house since that night. Haven't driven past the street, haven't said her name aloud.
The thought of it makes my chest hurt.
I pour myself a glass of water, but my hand trembles too much to lift it.
Something shifts behind me. A whisper of movement—soft, fabric brushing against fabric.
I turn.
The gloves are back. On the pillow. Placed neatly side by side.
The photo of us from the lake sits between them.
My stomach lurches.
The handwriting on the back has changed. The line It wasn't an accident is gone. In its place:
You're getting closer.
⸻
That's when I notice the final chapter of the book, one I hadn't reached yet. I flip to it, desperate for something that feels like explanation.
Chapter Seven: The Medium's Burden.
"When hauntings evolve beyond place or object, the afflicted must seek guidance. Isolation strengthens the tether. Shared belief weakens it. Speak the memory aloud in the presence of one who understands."
There's a list at the bottom—contacts, addresses, faded and barely legible. One stands out, underlined three times.
Dr. Miriam Keene — Psychical Research Society, Boston, MA.
The ink is decades old, but the words spark something alive in me.
If she's still alive, she might understand.
If not, maybe someone who worked with her does.
I tear the page out and fold it carefully, slipping it into my jacket pocket. My hands still shake.
I need help. Someone who isn't part of this place, who doesn't already feel soaked in it. Someone who can look at me without seeing the fire, or the guilt, or her name.
I pack my things—what little there is: a few shirts, the book, the photo. I hesitate when I reach for the gloves. For a moment, I swear they move on their own, the fingers curling slightly as though to beckon.
I wrap them in an old towel and shove them to the bottom of my bag.
The motel door creaks when I open it. The hallway smells like mildew and dust. Sunlight spills through the windows in thin, broken lines.
As I step outside, the air feels clearer, but colder, too—as if something is watching from inside the room I've just left.
I don't look back.
Marty is leaning against the railing downstairs, smoking again. He nods at me, eyes narrowing when he sees the bag slung over my shoulder.
"You heading out?"
"For a while," I say.
He exhales smoke through his nose. "Good. You're starting to look like one of them."
"One of who?"
He flicks the cigarette into the gravel. "The ones who stick around too long."
I force a thin smile and keep walking.
⸻
At the bus stop, I sit with the book open in my lap. The world feels distant—the rumble of engines, the hiss of tires on wet pavement.
I flip through the pages again, stopping at a line I missed before:
"Hauntings are not punishments. They are confessions, waiting to be heard."
The words settle in my mind like a warning—or an invitation.
I close the book slowly, gripping it tight.
Whatever this thing is, it isn't done with me.
But I'm done running.
Boston's a few hours away.
If Dr. Miriam Keene is still out there, she's going to tell me what Emma has become.
And maybe—what I really did the night she died.