I keep thinking about how to answer Agent Williams' question. No matter how I approach it, he'll remain suspicious. Telling my family was one thing, but speaking to an FBI agent is entirely different. They have strict rules and protocols, and they're usually skeptical about anything paranormal. To convince someone like him, I need facts and undeniable evidence, which we don't have much of.
Uncle Donovan notices my internal struggle and looks at me, studying my face thoughtfully. I can feel the weight of his stare and look up toward him. When our eyes meet, I sense the silent question he is asking—whether I want or need him to speak for me. I want to let him, because it would be easier, but that wouldn't be right. I have to do this myself and answer honestly. Whether the agent believes me is his decision. As subtly as possible, I shake my head to signal I want to answer on my own. I appreciate my uncle's desire to protect me, but I have to do this myself.
I pull my phone from my pocket and type frantically, eager to explain the situation. Finding the right words is challenging; honestly, I still don't fully understand it myself. The emotions of that dream cause tears to stream down my face as the words flow through my fingers. Agent Williams watches my every move from his seat on the opposite side of the desk; his steady gaze is almost unsettling, but he remains quiet and patient.
Once I finish, I place the phone on the desk between us and push it toward him. Initially, he doesn't pick it up. He just keeps looking at me, analyzing. It seems he's internally debating whether to trust me and my words. Then he slowly grabs my phone, glancing at me one last time before focusing his attention on the text before him. For some reason, relief washes over me because I feel that if he believes I am deceitful, then he won't waste his time with us today.
"As you know, I was assaulted by my neighbor a few days ago, which left me unconscious. During that time, I experienced a very vivid dream or vision—whichever you prefer to call it. I saw Uncle Donovan hurry out the back door of my house with two young children, and I watched their every move, witnessing everything they endured. They were scared, cold, and hungry, not knowing what awaited them. It was hard to watch them run, clutching each other's hands, hoping for someone to save them. The old couple was their saviors; if not for them, Ted would have caught up to the kids. He would have killed them." I observe as Agent Williams reads each word, his face expressionless while he processes the information. Does this man ever smile? I wonder what he is like around friends and family. Why these thoughts invade me is beyond my comprehension. It doesn't matter how he is outside of work. All that matters is that he is helping us, and we can trust him, I hope. "As soon as I woke up, I wrote down everything I could remember, hoping the details might help find my aunt and uncle. Did I do something wrong?"
"No, not exactly wrong. It just seems far-fetched," Agent Williams says flatly. "Your version and Betty's are very similar—too similar. It's suspicious because you know vivid details of that night that no one else knows besides the people who were there. Plus, you're recalling these events when you weren't even born yet? You shouldn't know any of it," he states matter-of-factly.
"I'll admit, when she first came to me with all this, I thought she was one haunted teacup short of a full set, but I was proven wrong. Her dreams and visions have always been accurate. Something in this house wants the people from that night caught as badly as we do—and apparently, it has the subtlety of a marching band in a library," Uncle Donovan says, backing me up. I appreciate him defending me; it makes me feel safe.
Grabbing my phone, I type again, "This house called to me the first time I saw it, and it still has an eerie hold over me. One that I'm afraid I'll never be able to shake off. Look, I know this all sounds crazy. I really do, but it's all true. Since we moved into this house, so many strange and frightening things have happened—like the shoebox the other day, for example. Zeke and I have searched that closet countless times and never found anything. Then, out of nowhere, the shoebox shoots out at our feet." I place the phone back in front of him again.
"I understand, Miss Sleighton. I'm not accusing you of anything," Agent Williams explains, his eyes returning to the paper as he reviews the details once again. "I'm just trying to figure out the facts and how everyone is involved."
"Okay, before we chase this conversation into the weeds and need a search party," Uncle Donovan interjects, "my niece is trying to help us. If the facts line up, doesn't that give us one step in the right direction?" he asks.
"Yes, it helps, but in my reports, I need to explain how she got the information," Williams explains. "Saying she had visions or ghosts would get me laughed out of the bureau. If that is your goal, then we are well on our way to it."
"I don't see why it would make you a laughingstock. Agencies use psychics all the time. They just give it a fancy name so it sounds less like Aunt Marge reading tea leaves at a church basement," Donovan says.
The other man thinks about what he has said and nods. "Yes, they do sometimes, but it's usually a last resort, or there are extenuating circumstances. This case has neither of those."
"Okay, I get what you're saying, but it doesn't mean the supernatural isn't real. Let's agree to disagree before this turns into a lecture none of us bought tickets for," Uncle Donovan offers. "I can tell you are the type of man who doesn't believe something like this unless he sees it for himself, but I hope you never do. Just please try to take our words seriously."
"I take every lead seriously, but let's get back on topic." For the first time, I can see he is uncomfortable talking about this subject and is ready for a change of direction. "This woman, who thought she might be the sister you were looking for, said her name was Betty Faltman and that she had a brother, too. Their ages match, and they were adopted by an older couple who recently passed away," he explains.
"Faltman, Faltman. Why does that sound so familiar?" I wonder in my head. I grab the paper back and read it over again and again until the realization washes over me. The old couple who hit the kids that night said their last name was Faltman. They must have adopted them. Waving my hand at the two men across from me, I grab my phone from Agent Williams' hand and begin typing. "Faltman was the name of the couple who hit Betty and Samuel that night. This has to be them." Excitement flows through me. We may be very close to finding them.
"We don't know that for sure; we still need to go through proper channels to confirm or deny this," Agent Williams explains. He has a peculiar look on his face as I study it. If one didn't know any better, they would think he and my uncle are related; they have the same nose and chiseled jawline. Shaking my head, I chuckle silently at my thoughts.
"Okay, how can we confirm whether they are our Betty and Samuel or not? DNA test? Blood oath? Secret family handshake? I'm flexible," my uncle asks, prepared to do whatever is necessary.
"Yes, a DNA test will be conducted after we gather more background information on the siblings. It might take a few days, and then we will arrange a lab appointment for the test," Agent Williams explains. "Miss Faltman mentioned she didn't want to meet anyone until it's confirmed that you all are biologically related." Understandably, they are being cautious. We still don't know who the killer is or who ordered him to attack our family. The only person we know who is involved is Ted, and we still need more evidence to arrest him. He clearly has high-level connections. He got away with just a slap on the wrist for almost killing me.
"Okay, so how long will this process take? Also, are there any more leads on my parents' deaths or who buried them in the woods? I'm trying to schedule my panic accordingly," Uncle Donovan asks, firing off one question after another.
Williams looks ready to respond to my uncle, but heavy footsteps suddenly thunder down the stairs, interrupting the conversation. Each step sounds forceful, echoing loudly in the tense silence. The room's atmosphere grows heavy with anticipation as everyone holds their breath, uncertain of what is coming next. When the footsteps finally halt at the bottom of the stairs, the tension heightens.
"I thought we were the only ones here?" Williams asks, confusion spreading across his features.
"We are! Unless the ghosts started paying rent, in which case I have questions," Uncle Donovan whisper-yells. Shushing him, I place my finger over my mouth, then slowly stand and start walking softly toward the hallway, not wanting to disturb anyone or anything that might be lurking at the bottom of the stairs. Uncle Donovan reaches for my hand to stop me, but I slip free of him and continue onward. I feel a presence walking closely behind me; it is Agent Williams. He is obviously curious to see what is happening. As we step into the open hallway, no one is at the bottom of the stairs.
"Where did they go?" Williams asks, puzzled that we haven't found anyone. "They didn't pass us to the front door; we would have noticed. They must still be here somewhere," he mutters quietly to himself.
"Welcome to our world. Please keep your hands, feet, and disbelief inside the ride at all times," Uncle Donovan chimes in unexpectedly. His sudden appearance startles us, and my hand flies to my heart, as if it might leap out of my chest onto the floor. We assumed he was still sitting in the chair and hadn't noticed him sneak up behind us. Agent Williams looks as rattled as I feel in that moment.
"Could you give us a little warning next time, please?" Agent Williams huffed. This is the most emotion we have seen him express since we met him.
"Sorry, I thought you knew I was behind you guys. I'll wear a bell next time—very fashionable, very haunted farmhouse," Uncle Donovan says, offering a sheepish smile. As soon as the words leave his mouth, the quiet aftermath shatters—the home office door swings open and then slams shut with a force behind us that makes the entire frame rattle. Before any of us can react, the bathroom door across the hall does the same, and then, as if following some invisible command, all the doors begin opening and closing in unnerving, perfect sync. Our heads pivot toward each sound so fast that I am afraid we will all end up with whiplash. The tension and fear permeate the air, making it almost suffocating. Agent Williams, reacting swiftly, draws his gun and motions for me to step behind him for safety. I shake my head in refusal, knowing his gesture is futile. He is up against a supernatural entity.
Without hesitation, I type a message to him on my phone: "The gun will do no good. This is a paranormal threat, not a normal one." I hold it out for him to see, hoping he understands what I am saying.
"How are you so sure?" Skepticism laces his voice.
"Because this is a regular occurrence here," Donovan explains. "I've never actually experienced anything until today, but I've heard enough stories to know this house has a flair for drama and absolutely no respect for office hours." Moments after he speaks, the loud banging of the doors stops, and an eerie silence overtakes the house. But a sense of unease grows stronger, signaling that something else is about to happen. We barely have time to catch our breath and brace ourselves before a new round of chaos erupts in the house.
It comes from the home office again, but it isn't the door; it comes from within. Violent crashes and loud banging noises echo from inside the room, prompting us to rush in. We arrive just in time to see things flying off the bookshelves—vases, books, and pictures hurling past our heads and smashing onto the floor with alarming force. One object flies dangerously close to my head. Uncle Donovan and Agent Williams each grab an arm and manage to pull me out of harm's way just in time.
Agent Williams stares in shock at the scene, his face showing clear disbelief. "How is this possible?" he asks, struggling to understand the chaos before him. He has never seen anything like this, and the sight of objects flying through the air visibly unsettles him. The chaos abruptly stops as everything falls to the floor with a thud. The room looks like it has been ransacked, which, technically, it has—just not by human hands. The paperwork, the thought echoes in my head. It was on the desk when we came out to inspect the footsteps. I quickly whirl around, grabbing Uncle Donovan's arm and startling him.
"What's wrong, Roxanne? Are you okay?" he asks, worried.