I nod toward my uncle, letting him know I'm okay; now is not the time to bring up the paperwork. Agent Williams steps forward, scanning the room as if he were clearing a crime scene. He crouched beside a shattered vase, running his fingers over the floor like he's expecting to find wires or magnets.
"This doesn't make sense," he mutters, more to himself than either of us. It is so faint we almost didn't hear it. "Objects don't move like that. There's no force source, no trajectory, n-n-o—" He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.
He stands abruptly, pacing once, twice, then stopping with his hands on his hips.
"Okay, someone explain to me what the hell that was." There's anger in his voice now—not at us—but at the situation, at his own inability to categorize what he'd witnessed. When we didn't answer immediately, he turns toward us sharply, zeroing in on me.
"You said this happens regularly. How often? How long has this been going on? Has anyone ever been injured before?" His questions come rapid-fire, the way they will during an interrogation, but underneath the professionalism of his voice is something rawer—fear he refuses to name.
Uncle Donovan opens his mouth to respond, but Agent Williams didn't give him a chance to speak. He cuts him off with a raised hand.
"No, I need straight answers. Because what I just saw..." He exhaled shakily. "I've been in the bureau for twelve years. I've walked into cartel torture houses. I've seen bomb labs rigged to blow if you breathe wrong. I've seen things that keep most agents up at night." He looks back at the wrecked office, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Never have I ever seen anything like this."
Something about this recent activity feels off. It's more intense, darker, and feels malicious. A low hum vibrates through the floorboards so faint at first that I think it's my imagination. But Agent Williams visibly stiffens, his head tilts slightly, listening – he hears it too.
"Stay close," Agent Williams murmurs, stepping in front of me again. His gun is still drawn. His knuckles turn white from the death grip he has on it. The hum grows louder, deepening into a rumble, as if something massive is hiding, shifting beneath the house. The lights around us flickered once, then twice. And stops.
"It's starting again," Donovan says after swallowing hard. "Wonderful. Because once wasn't enough cardio for my heart." Before any of us can respond, the temperature around us plummets. It is so cold that our breath is visible in front of us. Agent Williams seems to notice it too; he seems unsure how to feel about it.
"Why is it so cold?" he whispers, his voice barely audible. He reaches out a hand, and the air around his fingers shimmered—a distortion, like heat waves in reverse. Quickly, he pulls his hand back to his side, and the house sounds like it exhaled.
A violent gust of wind blasted down the hallway, slamming forcefully into all three of us. The papers strewn across the office floor flew up into a cyclone, spiraling out into the hallway around our heads. Agent Williams and Uncle Donovan stands on either side of me, trying to be my protective bubble. Agent Williams grabs my arm, pulling me farther behind him as he braces himself against the unknown force.
"Hold on," he shouts over the roar of the cyclone. The wind abruptly dies around us, but the papers hadn't fallen. They hang suspended in the air. They are all around us, frozen in mid-swirl. Uncle Donovan reaches out his hand to touch one, but it moves away from him on its own. Agent Williams stares, his eyes wide, and his breath catches in his throat.
"N-n-no, no, no, that's just not possible." His once-calm eyes and clear voice are shaken to their core.
One by one, the papers start to rotate until they are all facing our group, every scrap of them turning as if being commanded against its will. My stomach drops at the sight.
The room becomes quiet once more, almost too quiet. As we stare at the papers, not knowing what to expect, they snap forward, launching at us like a barrage of knives. Williams reacted on instinct, throwing up his arms to shield his face as the paper sliced past him, sharp as razors. Donovan grabs me by the shoulders, yanking me backward just in time as several sheets fly past, embedding in the wall behind us. They are deep, as if they had been fired from a weapon.
"Oh, my Lanta, what does this thing want? Why are you being so violent?" I yell the last part into the nothingness of the hallway, not expecting an answer, just venting my fury and frustration. Williams staggers, lowering his arms. Thin red lines mark his forearms where the paper has cut them. He slowly looks down at his wounds, stunned.
"Paper doesn't do this," he says hoarsely. "Paper just doesn't do this." Before he can recover, the hallway lights flickered again—then burst one after another in a chain reaction of popping and glass hitting the hardwood floors.
Darkness swallows the corridor. A single light at the far end toward the kitchen flickered on. Someone stands beneath it. A silhouette. It is human-shaped, unnaturally still, watching us. Agent Williams notices it too; he freezes, his breath hitching.
"Who's there?" he demanded, his voice cracking despite his efforts to sound authoritative. The figure didn't move, didn't breathe, and didn't blink. I watch as Agent Williams raised his gun, hands trembling, and steps toward the figure. He motioned to us with his other hand to stay back. "Identify yourself now!" he demands.
The dark figure tilts its head, slowly, impossibly far, like there are no bones in its neck, making it look disfigured. Goosebumps break out all over my body.
"It's not a person," Uncle Donovan whispers the obvious. "Unless the circus started hiring nightmares." The light above the figure explodes, and the silhouette vanishes. We all jump. I scream.
"Get out!" A whisper brushes gently past my ear. It's so close; the hot breath startles me. Agent Williams spins, his gun raised, searching for a target.
"Roxanne, Donovan, get behind me." His voice is raw now, stripped of logic, with no room for denial—he is running on pure instinct. The house groans, making the wall shudder as if something enormous is pressing down on it from all angles.
Then footsteps, dozens of them, running, stampeding, headed straight for us. I am so shocked and scared that my body freezes, but my mind is screaming to run, and I couldn't physically do anything. My brain has short-circuited.
"Roxanne, move," Uncle Donovan says as he grabs my hand, yanking me toward him. "My knees have officially filed a complaint." Agent Williams is standing in front of us now. The footsteps shake the walls as they thunder toward us.
"Stay behind me," Agent Williams yells. "Don't let go of her, Donovan." The footsteps grow louder, closer, faster, and then they hit. A force slams into Agent Williams's chest, lifting him off his feet and hurling him backward, crashing him into the wall with a sickening bang that knocked the air out of his lungs. His gun skittered across the floor, slamming into the wall across from him.
"Agent Williams!" I screamed, my voice still raspy and sore. I scramble to my feet and start running to him when Uncle Donovan's hand shoots out.
"Roxanne, don't!" Uncle Donovan yells as he pulls me back to him. "I am begging you not to audition for Ghost Snack of the Year." But it is already too late. A cold, invisible hand wraps around my wrist. The grip is icy enough to burn my skin, causing me to gasp from the pain. The pressure tightens, yanking me forward. My feet slide across the floor as if someone is dragging me, someone I can't see. My heart pounds so hard I think it will pop out of my chest. Never in my life have I experienced fear like this.
"Let her go!" Agent Williams shouts, reaching for me as he forced himself upright, staggering. The entity's grip tightens, causing me to whimper in pain. My hand feels so cold that I think it is going to break off. It didn't release me; instead, it started to materialize.
Not fully, just enough to see the outline of a man. A shadow with edges that flicker like dying flames. A face that isn't a face, but the suggestion of one. It makes my stomach twist. Beside me, Uncle Donovan's breath hitches sharply. He starts shaking his head as he backs away from the silhouette monster.
"No, no, not him," he starts chanting, as if fear has taken him completely over. "Of all the haunted house guests, we get the deluxe nightmare package."
"Uncle Donovan," I say in a raspy voice, the fear and pain still evident as I speak. "Do you know who this is?" He doesn't answer me; he keeps staring in terror at the black mass of a man. The shadow figure leans in close to my ear. I try to lean away, but his voice rasps like broken glass.
"You shouldn't be here, little bird," he taunted. "You should have died along with your grandparents. Your mom should have died that night, too. Her pregnancy upset some people," his eerie voice sneers. My blood runs cold. I start twisting and yanking, trying to pull free of its grip. All I do is make more marks on my wrist and cause burns that bled. Agent Williams tries to position himself between me and the entity, even though it towering over him.
"Back away from her!" he yells in his authoritative voice. He is still swaying on his feet, but he doesn't move. The entity's attention shifts toward him, thickening the air and pressing down on us like a weight. Agent Williams's knees buckle, and he drops to one knee, gasping for air right in front of me. I struggled more, but there is nothing I can do to help him.
"Stop," he chokes out. "You're … crushing … me." Agent Williams's face is turning blue, and he is clawing at his neck, trying to find the invisible force that is killing him.
Extending my hand out, I try to reach Agent Williams, as tears are falling down my cheeks. The entity's grip tightens on my wrist, pulling me closer. I struggle, trying to back away, but I can't budge. A voice once again slithers into my ear.
"What, you don't want the truth?" it asks. The question takes a moment to sink in. It puzzles me. What truth didn't I know now?
"What are you talking about? What truth?" My voice trembled.
"Oh, not yet, sweetheart. Your Uncle Donovan is going to do you the honor of telling you," the shadow says, recoiling as if my question burns it.
"Leave her alone. This is between you and me," Uncle Donovan yells as he suddenly steps toward us, his voice cracking with desperation. "And for the record, I would like a refund on this entire family curse."
I freeze as the shadow turns toward Donovan, anger radiating from it, and slowly releases me. I hold my arms against my chest, both wrists throbbing. Agent Williams forces himself upright again, grabbing my arm and pulling me behind him.
"Donovan, what the hell is going on? Do you know what this thing is talking about?" He asks my uncle the question that I want answers to. "Start talking right now," Agent Williams demanded. Uncle Donovan's face crumples. He looks at me—really looks—and something inside him breaks.
"Roxanne … I never wanted you to know like this," he rasps.
"Know what?" I ask with desperation in my voice. I am so scared of what his next words will be and how they can tear my world apart.
"Tell her," the entity hisses, the sound vibrating through the walls.
"He is the one who murdered your grandparents. He is also the one who left us kids, to Ted, and you see how well that went. I knew who killed my parents; that's why I have been hiding. If it weren't for you surfacing and letting me know the possibility of everyone living, I would have taken it to my grave." His words are slow and methodical, but his voice shakes at the edges. "Which, frankly, was a terrible retirement plan." Tears start to stream down my face, my world tilting.