When Cyrus arrived, he looked different—tense, breathless, as if he'd sprinted the whole way. Lynn flung open the door, trembling.
"It was in my closet," she said, barely coherent. "It walked above me. It—"
Cyrus held her shoulders gently.
"Slow down. Are you hurt?"
"No… I don't think so."
But as she lowered her arms, he caught her wrist.
A faint red mark wrapped around it—a smudge like fingers had pressed into her skin.
Lynn stared at it, horrified.
"I didn't… I don't know how—"
"It touched you," Cyrus said quietly.
His voice was too calm. Too accepting.
Like he'd expected this.
"What is it?" she asked. "What's happening in that building?"
Cyrus hesitated.
"It's not the building," he finally whispered. "It's someone in it."
"Someone?"
"A ghost."
The word should have sounded ridiculous.
But Lynn had seen enough to believe him.
Her knees nearly gave out, and Cyrus caught her by the arms.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I should've warned you sooner."
Something sharp twisted in her chest—fear, confusion, betrayal.
"Why do you know so much about this, Cyrus?"
He looked away.
"Because…"
He exhaled shakily.
"I knew him."