MADISON

A dead mosquito clung to the windshield—frozen stiff, legs curled under like it had given up mid-flight. Smeared into the glass like a warning, it caught the silver-blue light of the moon hovering over Salem's crooked skyline.

My breath fogged the passenger window. I traced a lazy line through the condensation, watching stars flicker behind the skeletal branches overhead. Salem, Massachusetts. Population: witches, tourists, and me. Fantastic.

Garrison gripped the wheel with one hand, the other resting casually on the stick. His jaw flexed occasionally, like he was chewing on a memory he didn't want to share. The shadows under his eyes hadn't left since the funeral. I pretended not to notice.

He looked like our dad—same dark olive skin that always looked tan, the same angular face, the same stormy blue eyes that told lies better than they told the truth. I had the eyes, too, but mine didn't hide anything. Not yet.

The old CR-V rattled over potholes like it was trying to shake us loose. Gravel crunched beneath us as we crawled down a driveway that looked more like a forgotten deer path than anything meant for vehicles. Trees loomed on either side, their branches bowing inward like they wanted to seal us.

Then came the stench.

Sharp. Wet. Rancid.

My stomach twisted. "God, Garrison—what the hell? Did something crawl up your air vent and die?"

He rolled up the window with a smug chuckle, like I was the one being dramatic. "Country life. You'll get used to it."

"No, I won't. Ever. My nose is filing a complaint as we speak."

The trees opened, and the house revealed itself like it had been waiting.

A hulking Victorian monstrosity squatted at the end of the drive, its once-white siding now a faded shade of sorrow. The paint peeled like sunburnt skin. One shutter hung crooked on a second-story window. The wraparound porch sagged like it had a secret.

The porch light was out.

Of course.

Garrison pulled to a stop, grinning like he'd just brought me to Disneyland instead of a probable crime scene.

"Home sweet haunted home," he said, killing the engine.

I stared at the house. "You dragged me to a murder mansion in the middle of nowhere. During October. In Salem. Is this a social experiment?"

"It's one mile from the city limits, Mads. Chill. We've got land, privacy, and no neighbors breathing down our necks. It's exactly what we need right now."

"Privacy's what serial killers want," I muttered.

Garrison got out without responding. I slammed my door and followed him to the back of the car. The trunk creaked open like it hadn't been used in a decade.

He tossed a box into my arms without warning. It was heavier than it looked, and I nearly toppled backward.

"Ugh—seriously?" I shifted it against my chest. "You knew I was unarmed."

"I figured you could handle a box of clothes." He shrugged and pulled out another. "You want your precious Wi-Fi, right? Help me move faster."

I adjusted my grip and trudged after him. The grass was damp and tall, brushing against my legs as we headed toward the porch.

"What about your job, genius?" I asked.

"Old Betty's still kicking," Garrison said, patting the CR-V like it was a damn warhorse. "She'll get me where I need to go."

"I meant me," I snapped. "Sixteen. No car. No friends. No phone signal. What am I supposed to do, host seances with the ghost of Alexander Graham Bell?"

He shot me a sideways glance. "Maybe the ghosts'll text you first. Salem's got a thing for dramatic teens."

I rolled my eyes and followed him up the creaking steps. The boards groaned like they hadn't carried weight in years.

"And how exactly should I get my license out here?"

"You've got legs, don't you? There's a DMV in town. I'll take you tomorrow. Consider it a bonding experience."

"AM or PM?" I asked, deadpan.

He didn't blink. "Depends. Are you gonna wake up before noon, or should I bring an exorcist to help you rise?"

I exhaled so hard it bordered on a groan. "You're hilarious."

He kicked open the front door. It groaned in protest. The smell of old wood, dust, and maybe mothballs slapped me across the face. I stepped in slowly, eyes adjusting to the dim, dusty interior. The entryway was massive, with a grand staircase and a chandelier that looked like one sneeze would send it crashing down.

It was the kind of house that made you whisper. The air had weight. Memory.

I could feel it settle on my skin like static.

"Just think of it this way," Garrison said, walking ahead, voice echoing down the hall. "You're gonna have a killer story to tell when you start school."

"If I live long enough to enroll," I mumbled.

✽✽✽

Later that night, I was curled up on the cold wooden floor, wrapped in my favorite plaid pajamas and half-buried in a sagging sleeping bag that smelled faintly of dryer sheets and campfire smoke. My laptop rested across my thighs, its warm hum the only real heat in the room besides my body.

The screen glowed faintly, casting soft blue light onto the walls like a broken flashlight. I scrolled through job listings in Salem, every title more depressing than the last—Dishwasher Needed at Wicker's Diner, Cemetery Grounds Assistant, Live-In Pet Sitter (which sounded like a trap).

The room itself didn't help my mood.

It was bare. Not minimalistic. Just... empty. The walls were a sickly cream color, cracked near the ceiling. No curtains on the windows, just wooden slats that creaked whenever the wind blew. No furniture except the sleeping bag, my duffel, and a single, dusty floor lamp in the corner that barely worked.

The floors groaned like they resented my existence. The draft was ancient and bitter, seeping in from every angle, carrying that antique smell of rotting wallpaper and forgotten memories.

The house made strange noises—soft thumps in the walls, floorboards creaking when no one was walking on them, and sometimes, something that sounded suspiciously like whispers coming from the vents. I told myself it was just the place's age.

Just the wind.

Still... I hadn't unpacked fully yet. Something about this house made me feel like I shouldn't.

The door creaked open, and Garrison stepped in.

He looked as worn out as the house. White t-shirt slightly wrinkled, khakis with a stain on one thigh that looked suspiciously like grease or blood—but I didn't ask. A fresh scar curled across his forearm. Thin. Pink. New.

He didn't explain it. He never did.

"I'm heading into town," he said casually, like he hadn't just walked in looking like a B-movie vigilante. "We need food. You coming?"

I didn't answer right away.

Instead, I watched the loading circle spin on a job posting titled Cashier Wanted – Night Shift Preferred. My lips twisted into a dry smile.

"Do I want to go into civilization for the first time in days and pretend I'm normal again?" I tilted my head. "No. But I'm out of Oreos and hate myself just enough tonight to settle for interaction."

Garrison raised an eyebrow, amused. "That's the spirit."

His eyes dropped to my bear claw slippers—giant, fuzzy, unhinged-looking. My one rebellion against the doom-and-gloom aesthetic of our new life.

"You're going out dressed like that?" he asked, grinning like he thought he had a say.

I slammed the laptop shut, kicked off the blanket, and stood, brushing static from my pants.

"You kidnapped me," I said, stepping up to him and jabbing a finger into his chest, "and dragged me across state lines to play house in a haunted Victorian in the middle of nowhere. The fact that I haven't stabbed you yet is a miracle. The slippers stay."

He put his hands up in surrender. "All I'm saying is, you're gonna stand out."

I brushed past him toward the hallway. "I already do. Might as well do it in style."

The hallway was colder than my room, somehow. Shadows gathered in the corners like they didn't want to be alone. My footsteps echoed too loudly against the floor, even though I was in soft flannel and fuzzy paws.

"Ten bucks says you come back with a guy's number," Garrison called after me.

"Ten bucks says I come back possessed," I shot back.

He chuckled under his breath, and it almost felt normal for a moment.

Almost.

But nothing about this town was normal.

And something about that boy from earlier—Mark—still sat on the back of my brain like a fog I couldn't shake.

The way he looked at me.

The way he moved.

The way the air had changed just from being near him.

Yeah... no matter how normal I tried to act tonight, I knew deep down something had shifted.

And slippers or not, I wasn't ready.

But I was going anyway.