Chapter 10

Sleep had come in fragments.

Elliot could remember drifting off sometime after four a.m., but only because he’d been counting the seconds between the house settling and Sam’s soft, trembling breaths beside him. none of them, Sam, Harper, or Elliot, had truly slept. They had ell ended up in the attic room together, Harper on the far side of the bed, Sam curled safely in the middle, Elliot holding her against his chest like he was afraid she might vanish if he loosened his grip.

David had left as soon as the whispering voice faded into silence the night before. He hadn’t said goodbye, just grabbed his coat with a stiff, frightened look and murmured something about needing to see his father. By the time the house fell quiet again, he was already gone.

Jordan, too, had disappeared hours earlier after the fight with Harper. Nobody had heard from him since.

Elliot lay awake in the darkness long after Harper and Sam’s breathing evened out. His eyes stayed locked on the door of Room 6. Nothing moved. Nothing whispered. But the memory of that voice, raw, desperate, begging the empty halls for someone who couldn’t remember him, pressed heavily against the inside of his ribs.

When morning finally crept through the attic window, weak grey light spreading across the carpet, Elliot could feel the exhaustion sunk deep in his bones. His head pounded with that dull ache of too-little sleep and too much fear. Sam’s fingers were curled into the fabric of his t-shirt, like even in sleep she refused to let him drift too far.

Harper stretched first, groaning under her breath as she pushed herself upright.

“I feel like I got hit by a bus,” she muttered, rubbing her eyes.

Elliot couldn’t help a faint, humourless laugh. “If a bus was haunted and emotionally manipulative, then yeah. Sure.”

Sam stirred at the sound of their voices, blinking awake. Her hair was a soft, messy halo around her, cheeks faintly flushed form sleep, but her eyes were rimmed with leftover fear from last night.

“Morning,” she whispered, her voice thin. She shifted closer to Elliot instinctively. “Did we… actually sleep at all?”

“Barely,” Elliot said. “But we survived it.”

Sam exhaled shakily, almost a laugh. “Great baseline. Surviving.”

Harper swung her legs off the bed and stood, stretching her back with a painful crack. “I have never been this grateful for a morning in my life,” she said. “I honestly thought we were going to hear him again.”

Sam’s expression tightened. “Don’t… please don’t say that. Not before breakfast.”

Elliot ran his hand through Sam’s hair in a soothing motion. “It’s over for now. Today’s a new day.”

But the room didn’t feel new. It felt like a haven they’d fled to, a bunker above the storm. It was too quiet. Too still. The weight of last night clung to the corners, heavy and waiting.

Sam say up slowly, bringing her knees to her chest. “Do you think David’s okay?” She asked softly.

“I texted him before we tried sleeping,” Elliot said. “He said he was heading to see his dad and would check in later.”

“Good,” Sam whispered. “I hope he’s somewhere safe.”

Elliot didn’t need to ask what she meant.

Harper scrubbed her face with her hands. “Right. we need a plan for today. Jordan is probably-“

A loud groan from the floorboards below startled all three of them.

Harper froze. Sam grabbed Elliot's hand. Elliot's pulse spiked instantly. 

But then came the unmistakeable bang of a door closing somewhere downstairs, sharp enough to send a pulse of panic through all three of them.

Harper froze. “That… sounded like the front door,” she whispered, though none of them could say for sure.

Sam clutched Elliot's arm. “Maybe Jordan?”

“Or David?” Harper offered, though she didn’t sound convinced.

They waited, listening for footsteps, voices, anything. Nothing followed. No greeting, no movement, no second sound.

Just the house settling into a deeper, heavier silence than before.

Elliot tightened his grip on Sam’s hand. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Whatever today brings, we deal with it together.”

Sam nodded and pressed her forehead to his shoulder, grounding herself. “Together,” she whispered.

They dressed slowly, every rustle of clothing almost too loud in the quiet, pausing anything a floorboard creaked or the pipes shifted.

But no more sounds came.

Morning had arrived, but nothing about it felt brighter.

If anything, the light made the shadows stand out more sharply, as though the house was watching them more intently than ever.

Elliot, Sam, and Harper left Room 6 together in a tight cluster, none of them silling to peel away from the others just yet.

As they descended the attic staircase, Sam stayed close enough that her shoulder brushed his with every step. Harper followed just behind them, arms folded tightly over her chest, an attempt at composure that didn’t quite hide the tremor in her hands.

The house felt heavier than usual, as if the air itself resisted their movement. Every floorboard creaked with too much intent. Every shadow seemed a degree too deep.

They reached the second-floor landing. The doors to Rooms 5 and 4 stood still and closed, mundane in their silence. But Elliot couldn’t help glancing at Room 2’s black door across the staircase rail on the floor below, the memory of last night’s sounds crawling sharply back up his spine.

Nobody spoke.

They continued downward, steps purposeful but hesitant, and when they finally reached the ground floor, Sam let out a slow breath she’d been holding since leaving the attic.

The kitchen, at least, was bright.

The morning sun streamed across the counters in gold bands, warming the tile floor. It should have felt comforting, but the brightness only made the exhaustion in all three of them more visible, dark circles under eyes, sluggish movements, stiff shoulders.

Elliot put the kettle on without a word while Sam pulled mugs from the cupboard, the mugs clinking together as she shook. Harper sat heavily at the table, rubbing her palms over her face.

The moment the kettle clicked, they each grabbed onto their coffee like a lifeline.

They gathered around the kitchen table together, shoulders slumped, hands wrapped around their hot mugs. No one pretended they were fine. No one had the energy.

Harper spoke first, voice strained but steady.

“Well,” she exhaled, “morning, I guess.”

Elliot huffed a humourless breath. “Barely.”

Sam nudged her foot against his under the table, an unspoken grounding.

The three of them sat there in uneasy quiet, nursing too-strong coffee and waiting for their hearts to finally catch up to the daylight.

The creak of the front door broke through the quiet like a held breath snapping. Elliot and Sam both looked up sharply. A moment later, Jordan stepped over the threshold.

He looked worn out.

His hair was flattened on one side as if he’d been running his hands through it for hours. His clothes were the same as yesterday, wrinkled and thrown on without care. His eyes carried that unmistakable mix of defensiveness and regret, the look of someone who’d spent all night replaying every word of a fight.

Harper pushed her chair back the moment she saw him. she didn’t rush to him, but he stood, posture tense, bracing herself.

Jordan froze for half a second in the doorway. Just enough to see the three of them in the kitchen. Just enough to swallow whatever apology he’d rehearsed.

“Harper,” he said quietly. “Can we talk?”

There was no edge in his voice. No accusation. Just tiredness and the faintest strain of hope.

Harper nodded once, not coldly but cautiously, and walked toward him.

Jordan stepped back to let her pass, avoiding Elliot's and Sam’s eyes as the two of them moved into the living room, neutral ground. Harper pulled the door closed behind them, not slamming, just shutting out the world.

The house went still again.

From the kitchen, Elliot and Sam could hear low voices begin; not clear enough to make out full sentences, but enough to catch the emotions threating through them: the shake in Harper’s voice, the softness in Jordan’s, the slow unravelling of tension.

Whatever happened next, at least they were finally talking again.

Elliot and Sam stayed in the kitchen after Harper and Jordan disappeared into the living room, both clutching their mugs as though the warmth might steady them. 

Sam sat sideways in her chair, one knee drawn up, her fingers circling the rim of her mug. Elliot sat opposite her, elbows on the table, doing his best to keep his breathing even.

“We should talk about something normal,” Sam said quietly, a tiny, hopeful smile tugging at her lips. “Before we start climbing the walls.”

“Yeah,” Elliot agreed, nodding as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Normal sounds good.”

They tried. It was funny how hard “normal” suddenly felt.

Sam reached across the table, nudged his hand with hers. “So, Tell me something light.”

“Hm.” He pretended to think deeply. “I’ve discovered I make an objectively incredible coffee.”

She snorted softly. “Objectively?”

He lifted his mug. “Science doesn’t lie.”

Her laugh loosened something tight in his chest. She leaned a little closer, eyes soft, grateful for the distraction.

A swell of raised voices drifted faintly though the wall. Jordan’s voice, sharp and pained. Harper’s voice wounded and defensive.

Sam flinched.

Elliot reached across the table instinctively, covering her hand fully this time. “Hey. Ignore them. They’ll sort it out.”

“I know,” she said. Her fingers tightened around his. “Just… everything’s still so raw.”

They tried again to make small talk, letting the fragments of argument fade into the background.

Sam rested her cheek on her hand. “You know that book I’m reading? The one with the green cover. The Victorian ghost stories anthology?”

He nodded.

“There’s this one story,” she continued, her voice low, steadying, “Where the ghost only appears to people who share a deep emotional connection. Lovers, siblings, close friends. It feeds off the strength of the bond. Something poetic and tragic about that.”

Elliot huffed out a breath. “Fitting.”

“Too fitting,” she whispered.

More words bled through the living room doorway:

“…didn’t even check…”

“…not lying…”

“…old paper…old ink…look at it…”

Sam reached out with her other hand and brushed the back of Elliot's fingers gently. “Talk to me.”

He gave her a small smile, leaning toward her. “Okay. Fine. Tell me about the rest of your family. You only mentioned some cousins earlier.”

“Oh, God.” She let out a breathy laugh. “It’s chaos. All noise and food and people asking why I’m not married yet”

He grinned. “Already?”

“Always,” she rolled her eyes. “The second I turned twenty, the aunties assembled like a council.”

“And?” he teased.

“And now,” she said, her eyes flicking over him, warm enough to turn his stomach over, “I finally have and answer I actually… like.”

The kitchen dimmed around them for a heartbeat.

Then another ripple of raised voices pierced the warmth:

“…you didn’t trust me…”

“…it wasn’t mine…”

“…you think I’d wrote something like that?...”

Sam winced again.

Elliot squeezed her hand and stood, rounding the table to her side. She shifted instinctively, welcoming him as he slid an arm around her shoulders. She sagged against him, grateful for the solidity of him, the warmth.

He pressed a soft kiss to her temple. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Just… don’t go anywhere.”

“Not a chance.”

She tilted her face up to him, not asking, but wanting.

He cupped her jaw gently and kissed her. Slow, grounding, something to hold on to. Sam breathed out softly against his mouth, her fingers clutching at his shirt as she kissed him back.

It wasn’t heated or desperate, just a promise. A reassurance. A moment carved out of the uncertainty.

When they parted, she rested her forehead against his cheek, breathing him in.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

“Always.”

Harper’s voice suddenly rose:

“Hang on.”

Rapid footsteps followed the lounge door opening, crossing the hall then pounding up the stairs toward the second floor.

Sam straightened slightly, heart thudding against Elliot's side. “She’s going to get the letter,” Sam murmured. “And the other papers.”

They both fell quiet. Not to eavesdrop, just waiting, steadying, holding onto each other as the storm of muffled voices continued upon Harper’s return.

Jordan’s voice, low and angry, carried through the thin walls. “…don’t understand why you hid it…”

Harper’s reply, though muffled, was thick with emotion. “…didn’t… told you… know what it… at first…”

Elliot swallowed. He didn’t want to listen. He didn’t want Sam to hear it either.

So, he leaned toward her and asked softly, “Did you actually finish that essay you said you were going to work on yesterday?”

Sam shot him a look, grateful for the distraction, amused despite everything. “Barely. I wrote the introduction and then procrastinated for two hours by untangling my hair.”

“That counts as effort,” Elliot said.

“Sure,” she huffed quietly, “if you squint.”

Through the door, Jordan’s voice spiked again.

“…believe you didn’t…”

“…didn’t write…” Harper cried, and her voice cracked hard enough that Sam flinched.

Elliot reached for Sam’s hand under the table. She laced her fingers with his instantly and leaned just slightly against his shoulder.

“Talk to me,” she murmured, eyes down. “Anything. Just talk.”

So he did.

He told her a silly story about David’s attempt to make garlic bread earlier in the week, setting off the smoke alarm, shouting at the oven in a scandalised tone, apologising to the bread as if he’d wronged it personally.

Sam giggled quietly, half-hiding her face in her sleeve.

But even with the attempts at normal conversation, some of the words from the living room still broke through:

“…just don’t trust myself right now.”

“…how could you think that of me?”

“…you weren’t even here when it happened…”

“…I didn’t lie… swear I didn’t lie…”

Sam squeezed Elliot's hand tighter, breath hitching every time Jordan’s voice rose.

They heard a stack of papers dropping onto the coffee table.

Silence followed.

A long silence. A heavy one.

Then voices again, but softer.

Jordan’s confusion first. Then a broken, trembling exhale.

Then:

“I’m sorry.”

Harper’s reply came small and tired. “It’s okay.”

More murmured words, clarity replacing accusation, understanding smoothing rough edges. A quiet hum of conversation stretched on as Harper filled him in on everything he’d missed: the shadow in Sam’s room, the papers appearing from nowhere, the whispering voice begging form the dark.

Elliot heard Jordan’s voice drop into startled disbelief, then Harper’s sombre assurance, then both in low earnest conversation.

Time drifted.

Sam leaned fully into Elliot now, legs pulled to her chest, Elliot's arm wrapped around her shoulders. Every so often he pressed a quiet kiss to her hairline, her temple, her cheek; anything to keep her grounded, to stop her from trembling.

At last, nearly an hour later, the living room door opened.

Harper and Jordan stepped out. Jordan looked exhausted, puffy-eyed, ashamed. Harper looked steadier, though still worn thin.

They didn’t speak to Elliot or Sam yet. They just held each other’s hands tightly and climbed the stairs together.

Only when their footsteps disappeared onto the landing did Sam exhale the breath she’d been holding.

Late in the morning, the house settled into a strange, uneasy quiet. The kind that made Elliot hyper-aware of every small sound. He and Sam were upstairs in Room 3, gathering the last few bits she wanted to bring into Room 6: a handful of books, and a small stack of clothes.

Sam moved around him comfortably, close enough their arms brushed from time to time, as if neither of them wanted more than a few inches distance, they spoke quietly, nothing important, just the warm, easy chatter of two people who didn’t want to think about hauntings or lost voices or anything that had shaken them the night before.

Down the hall, they heard Jordan’s footsteps heading towards the bathroom. Slow, heavy steps. The kind of walk that came from exhaustion and emotional hangover.

Elliot had just picked up a book from Sam’s desk when a sound cracked through the silence.

A single, sharp knock.

Not from the bathroom. Not from the landing. From Room 2.

Then came the second sound. Softer, but unmistakeable. The whispering drag of paper sliding across the floor.

Elliot stepped into the doorway just in time to see Jordan, halfway down the landing, jolt backward as a yellowed sheet of paper slipped out from beneath the black door and skidded to a stop by his foot.

Jordan stared at it like it might bite him.

“Elliot?” Jordan’s voice cracked. “Sam? You guys… should probably see this.”

Elliot and Sam hurried toward him, stopping just behind his shoulder. Up close, the paper looked ancient; browned at the edges, warped slightly, the ink faded but still visible.

Jordan swallowed hard, picking it up between two fingers as if afraid it might crumble. His face had gone pale. 

“I didn’t touch the door,” he said quickly. “I didn’t… it just… it just came out.”

Elliot believed him instantly. The house had been doing things like this for days.

He exchanged a look with Sam; fear mixed with the grim certainty that this was yet another piece of a puzzle they weren’t ready to finish.

“Let’s take it downstairs,” Elliot said quietly.

Jordan nodded, gripping the page with trembling fingers as the three of them walked toward the staircase, each step carrying them deeper into whatever the house wanted them to know next.

Harper was already in the lounge when Elliot, Sam, and Jordan stepped in. Morning light pushed weakly through the thin curtains, casting long muted stripes across the worn carpet. Someone, probably Harper out of habit, has drifted toward the corner lamp and switched it on, even though it was daylight. The house felt dim regardless.

Jordan hovered just inside the doorway; the sheet of yellowed paper pinched between his fingers like it might burn him. His knuckles were white. When Harper turned toward him, he swallowed hard and thrust the page out toward her with a trembling hand, almost relieved to be rid of it.

Elliot saw the way Harper’s expression tightened, curiosity first, then dread.

She took the page with both hands, holding it carefully by the edges as though it might crumble. Even from where Elliot stood, he could see how fragile it looked: the paper was brittle and time-worn, the corners curled and feathering apart. The ink had faded into a muddy brown in places, while in other spots it ran together, smudged by hurried strokes.

Sam slipped closer to Elliot, her fingers brushing his forearm before linking through his. Her touch steadied him; he hadn’t realised how tense he’d been until that moment.

Harper lowered herself onto the sofa slowly, her movements deliberate, controlled; the exact opposite of the frantic handwriting before her. The others followed, gathering around her in a loose, uneasy semicircle. Elliot sat beside Sam, feeling the weight of anticipation press into the space between them.

From Elliot's angle, he could see more clearly now. The page wasn’t simply messy. It was chaotic. Words had been scratched out and rewritten so many times the paper buckled in places, thin as if it might tear with a breath. Names appeared again and again, sometimes spelled differently, sometimes trailing off mid-letter. Dates clustered far too close together on the page, as though Thomas had been writing them in a frenzy without realising he’d already recorded them. Entire sentences had been overwritten, one line scrawled directly on top of another until the ink formed bruise-dark knots. It looked less like a document and more like a mind coming apart, captured in desperate, tangled strokes.

Harper placed the brittle page on the coffee table. The four of them leaned in instinctively, Elliot settling so close to Sam that their shoulders touched.

Up close, the writing looked even more unsettling. Years of desperation pressed into ink.

Harper took a careful breath and began reading.

“Dr. Whitcombe, second visit. Still no improvement. Too expensive, must find alternative.”

The next lines were a jagged list of names, some underlined twice, others blotched where ink had bled:

“Dr. Harris.”

“Mr. Linton promised results.”

“Dr. Kellan useless.”

Harper’s voice wavered but she continued.

“Travelling healer arrived. Tonic tastes foul. Eleanor worse.”

“Apothecary says miracle cure. Lies, lies, lies.”

The handwriting shifted halfway down the page, once-neat cursive dissolving into uneven, frantic strokes.

Harper swallowed and read on.

“She forgets more each morning…”

“I can’t watch her fade.”

“Thomas, she said. Then not Thomas. Then no name at all.”

Sam pressed a hand to her mouth. Elliot reached under a table and laced their fingers together, her grip tightening as Harper continued.

“I’ll try anything… anything… anything.”

Each repetition dug deeper, the ink darker, heavier like Thomas had carved the word into the page.

The bottom third was almost unreadable, letters slanted wildly, many overlapping.

Harper squinted.

“He promises he can stop it…”

“A price… what price… but I must save her…”

“I won’t lose her I won’t I won’t…”

The final line wasn’t a sentence at all, just a violent tangle of scratches where a pen had gouged the paper.

Silence settled over the lounge like a heavy cloth.

Harper let the last line hang in the air before raising her eyes. She swallowed hard.

“…He lost his mind,” she said softly; not unkindly, but with the stunned reverence of someone staring into another person’s despair.

Sam’s hand tightened in Elliot's. He felt the warmth of her palm, the quiet reassurance in the small gesture, but it did little to thaw the cold dread threading through his veins.

Jordan, who’d been standing rigidly beside the sofa, dragged both hands through his hair. His face was pale, eyes wide, as though the weight of what he had witnessed was only now beginning to settle. “It came from under the door,” he said, voice rough and strained. “I didn’t touch anything. I swear. It just… slid out. Like someone pushed it.”

Elliot's stomach dipped. For the first time, he realised the full, terrible scope of what that meant. Not just a haunting but a consciousness in the house. One growing stronger, more desperate, and far more away of them than he had ever wanted to believe.

Beside him, Sam tightened her hold again, as if sensing the shift in him. Harper laid the old page on the coffee table with almost ceremonial care; afraid it might crumble if she exhaled too hard. Jordan stayed rooted where he was, staring toward the staircase, toward the space beyond the banister where Room 2 waited unseen and silent.

The hours slipped by in a strange, muted haze.

After the incident with the paper sliding from under Room 2’s door, all four of them had drifted upstairs together; Harper and Jordan walking ahead, their hands tentatively linked, and Elliot and Sam behind them, fingers intertwined in a grip neither of them seemed willing to loosen. At the second-floor landing, they murmured their quick goodbyes and separated into their own spaces.

Elliot and Sam retreated into Room 6.

The attic room felt like the safest part of the house now; tall ceiling, warm carpet, pale walls, and enough distance from Room 2 to breathe. They gave themselves tasks to focus on, small normal things meant to drown out the unease.

They folded clothes, shifted piles of laundry, sorted drawers; Sam’s belonging continuing to claim more and more space without either of them commenting on it. Elliot restacked his sketchbooks. Sam gathered her scattered notes, tucking some onto the desk, sliding others into folders, as though creating order might hold the house together for a little while longer.

They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to.

Every now and then, Sam brushed her shoulder against him, or Elliot rested a hand on her back; small, grounding touches shared without thought. The quiet between them wasn’t tense. It was tired. Fragile. Heavy in the way only long, unsettling days could be.

Down the attic staircase, Room 4’s door stayed closed.

Occasionally Elliot paused, listening. Faint sounds, the muffled cadence of conversation, soft movement. Harper and Jordan had reconciled, probably talking in low voices, rebuilding stability after the chaos of the morning. Elliot didn’t know what they were saying, but he hoped it helped. God knew everyone in the house needed some piece of normality to cling to.

By the time late afternoon dimmed into early evening, the light filtering through the attic window had thinned into long slanted shadows that stretched across the carpet in uneven bands. The room felt abruptly different. Not unsafe, but quieter, as though the house itself were holding its breath again.

Sam noticed it first. Elliot didn’t even need to look directly at her to sense the shift; it came in subtle signs; the way her shoulders drew in, the slight way she stopped folding mid-movement, the way her eyes kept drifting toward the darkening corners of the room.

He set aside a half-folded jumper and moved closer.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

She didn’t answer at first, only gave a small, tight nod that wasn’t convincing in the slightest. Her fingers curled into the edges of the duvet, knuckles whitening.

Elliot brushed his hand gently across her back, fingertips tracing slow, reassuring lines. She let out a shaky exhale and leaned into him almost instinctively. He slid his arm around her waist, grounding her, feeling the faint tension in her muscles.

“It’s just getting dark,” she said finally, barely above a whisper. “I hate it when it gets dark in this house.”

Elliot pressed a soft kiss to the side of her head. “I know. I’m right here.”

They stayed like that for a few moments, holding onto the normalcy of folded clothes and shared warmth while the rest of the house settled into its eerie twilight quiet.

Then. Footsteps.

Two sets, soft but unmistakable, padding along the landing outside Room 4.

Jordan and Harper.

The soft murmur of their voiced drifted up first, followed by the soft creak of their door opening. Whatever conversation they were happening was impossible to make out, but the easy rhythm of their steps suggested calm, not conflict.

Sam lifted her head slightly from Elliot’s shoulder. “They’re going downstairs,” she murmured.

He nodded, tightening his arm briefly around her. “Let’s go too. I think… none of us should be alone right now.”

She gave a small, grateful smile.

They rose together, fingers interlacing out of habit now; a small gesture that steadied them both more than either would admit. The stairs down from the attic groaned faintly under their weight, the familiar old-house sounds echoing just a fraction too loudly in the dimness.

As they descended, the warm glow of the ground floor lights reached them like a small refuge. Harper and Jordan’s silhouettes passed through the hallway ahead.

Elliot and Sam followed closely behind, seeking company, seeking normalcy, seeking anything that wasn’t the creeping, watching quiet of the upper floors after dark.

The four of them drifted into the kitchen within moments of each other, drawn there by some unspoken need to be in the same space. The overhead lights cast a warm, homely glow across the tiles, and for a brief moment it almost felt like any other evening in any other house.

Jordan clapped his hands together, forcing a cheer into his voice. “Right. I’m making cheese toasties,” he declared, already pulling out bread like he’d been waiting all day for this exact moment. “Or grilled cheese if you insist on being American about it. If we’re going to get haunted again, we might as well be well-fed.”

Sam managed a weak smile. Elliot nudged her gently with his shoulder before stepping forward to help.

“I’ll butter,” Elliot said, grabbing a knife from the drawer.

Jordan shot him a grateful look. “Teamwork makes the dream work. Or at least stops us from descending into collective madness.”

Elliot snorted under his breath but kept working, spreading butter with more precision than the task required. Jordan laid slices of cheese on each piece with dramatic flair, narrating his actions like a cooking show host having a breakdown.

“And now,” Jordan said gravely, “a generous application of dairy-based coping mechanisms.”

Sam actually laughed, a small, real one, and Elliot glanced at her, heart unclenching just a little. She leaned into him briefly as she passed behind him to fetch plates, her fingers brushing the small of his back in a way that grounded him entirely.

Harper focussed on making a tea for everyone, brimming mugs with strong, hot tea and placing them onto a tray, ready to carry them out.

“Behind. Liquid stability,” she announced, moving the tray to the kitchen table.

“Perfect timing,” Jordan said. “We’ll pair it with toasted carb-based denial.”

Harper roller her eyes but her smile was genuine this time, smaller than usual, but real.

Between the four of them, the simple act of preparing a meal felt strangely sacred. Elliot passed Jordan the spatula when needed, Sam arranged plates, Harper topped up each mug. The tiny domestic noises, the butter knife scraping, mugs clinking, the soft sizzle of cheese, filled the silence in a soothing rhythm.

When the last batch slid off the pan, Jordan lifted the plate triumphantly.

Together they carried everything out of the kitchen, the tea tray, the plate stacked with golden cheese toasties, the lingering scent of warmth following them.

They stepped into the lounge as a group, the fragile sense of temporary normalcy settling around them.

Elliot hesitated only a second before heading for the smaller two-seater sofa he and Sam usually used. This time though, instead of sitting side by side, Sam paused in front of him, looking uncertain but hopeful. Elliot opened his arms without thinking.

She climbed onto the sofa and settled between his legs, her back fitting neatly against his chest.

It wasn’t a position they’d ever sat in before, not even close, but it felt effortless. Natural. As if the shape of him and the shape of her had always been meant to fit like this.

Elliot pulled the blanket over them both as Sam rested fully into him, letting his arms circle her waist. Her fingers curled lightly around his forearm, grounding herself in his warmth.

On the other sofa, Jordan lowered himself down with a weary sigh, still shaken but trying to appear normal. Harper curled into the armchair, tucking her legs beneath her and pulling a blanket up to her chin.

The group began eating in the soft quiet, the faint crunches of their bites mixing with the low hum of the house. Despite everything pressing in on them, the papers, the shadow, the knocks, the lounge felt like a pocket of fragile warmth, held together by proximity and shared fear.

For the first time all day, Elliot felt Sam breathe just a little easier. He tightened his arms around her, and she sank further into him, letting the moment hold them both.

They hadn’t planned to do it, and nobody suggested it out loud, but once they’d settled in with warm plates and hot tea, the mood in the lounge shifted. Jordan was the first to speak up, launching into a memory almost reflexively, as if the silence demanded something human to fill it.

Jordan set his mug down on the floor beside the sofa and leaned back with a theatrical sigh, as though preparing the deliver a grand monologue.

“Alright,” he said, lifting a finger, “since we’re all trying not to think about ghosts or shadows or… whatever the hell that voice was last night, let me offer you a tale of absolute childhood stupidity.”

Sam perked up a little, and Elliot felt the shift of her shoulders against his chest. Harper glanced over too, already smiling in anticipation.

Jordan continued, eyes brightened as the memory rolled back in.

“So picture me at… I don’t know, nine? Maybe ten? It was a heatwave. One of those weeks where the adults are basically melting and all the kids in the neighbourhood have turned feral. My cousin Ravi comes over, he’s a menace by the way, even now, and he brings this massive bag of water balloons.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Massive?”

“Industrial scale,” Jordan said solemnly. “We’re talking enough to declare war on Belgium.”

Harper snorted into her tea.

“Anyway, we fill every single balloon using my mum’s garden tap, which was so old it basically coughed water at us. Ravi decides that’s not enough and drags out the garden hose. And then, because we were geniuses, we decide bikes are going to be our warships.”

Sam covered her mouth, already laughing.

“Ravi gets on my dad’s old mountain bike, I get on my BMX, and we start cycling in circles around the garden. Full speed. Launching water balloons at each other like deranged naval commanders.”

“Please tell me nobody died,” Elliot said between laughs.

“Oh, almost,” Jordan said proudly. “Because then, then, we graduated to the hose. Ravi wedges it into the frame of his bike so it’s basically firing like a water cannon, and he’s pedalling in fast circles yelling ‘SURRENDER OR PERISH’”

Sam burst into laughter, her head falling back lightly against Elliot’s shoulder. He instinctively kissed her temple, and she squeezed his arm in response.

Jordan held up both hands. “Now, this is where the neighbour comes in. Mrs Dawkins. A woman who hated noise, fun, and honestly probably the concept of children. The hose jets over the fence at just the right angle. Absolutely drenches her. Soaked. Like she’d just swan dived into the Thames.”

“Oh no,” Harper whispered, delighted.

“Oh yes. She storms out of her garden like an avenging angel, screaming bloody murder. Ravi panics, loses control of the bike, crashed into the compost heap. I panic too and try to jump off mine, but my foot gets caught and I just… topple. Like a felled tree. Straight into a rosebush.”

Elliot winced. “Ouch.”

“Thorns everywhere,” Jordan said gravely. “My mum comes running out, horrified, Ravi is half-buried in decomposing vegetables, Mrs Dawkins is yelling about ‘delinquent hooligans,’ and there I am, stuck in the roses, bleeding from places children shout not bleed.”

Sam was wheezing with laughter now, covering her face.

“But” Jordan added, lifting a finger triumphantly, “worth it. Because the next day my dad bought us another giant pack of water balloons as a reward for ‘creativity.’ And Mrs Dawkins never spoke to us again.”

He leaned back, satisfied, as laughter filled the lounge, warm, human, and for the first time all day, unafraid.

Harper pulled her blanket a little tighter around her shoulders, tucking her legs beneath herself in the armchair. A small smile tugged at her mouth, the soft, nostalgic kind that appeared before a warm memory properly surfaced.

“Okay… I’ve got one,” she said, glancing around the room. “But you’re not allowed to laugh too hard.”

Jordan lifted a brow. “No promises.”

Harper rolled her eyes affectionately and settled into the story.
“So… I must’ve been… what, Eight? Nine? And my mum decided we were going to bake together, proper baking. Not the cheap mix from a box, I mean flour, eggs, sugar everywhere, the real deal.”

Elliot nodded encouragingly. Sam nestled against him, smiling.

“I was so excited,” Harper continued. “I’d seen these gorgeous cookies in a cookbook and was convinced I could recreate them exactly. You know the ones, perfect circles, cute little cracks on top, that magazine look.”

“Oh no,” Jordan murmured. “Already sensing disaster.”

Harper pointed a warning finger at him but laughed. “We get everything mixed, feeling very professional, and Mum says she’s trusting me to put the tray in. big responsibility. I basically march it to the oven like it’s a royal ceremony.”

Sam giggled, picturing little Harper with the same determined expression she often had now.

“Except,” Harper went on, “neither of us remembered to set a timer. Not me, not Mum. We were too busy chatting about school and my friend Amelia’s crush on this boy in our class. And then suddenly…” She snapped her fingers. “Smoke. Everywhere.”

Elliot’s eyes widened. “Everywhere?”

“Everywhere. Pouring out of the oven. The whole kitchen smelled like… I don’t know, burnt sugar death.” Harper pressed a hand to her forehead laughing. “And mum rushes over, yanks the tray out, and these cookies… these poor, tragic cookies… are black. Not burnt. Black. Like charcoal briquettes.”

Jordan let out a low laugh. “Sounds edible.”

“They weren’t,” Harper said flatly. “They crumbled to ash when you touched them. Amelia would’ve cried if she saw it.”

Sam was laughing openly now, cheeks warm. Elliot squeezed her waist once in delight.

“And mum,” Harper finished, voice softer, “didn’t get angry. Didn’t scald me. She just laughed. Full-on belly laugh. Then she hugged me and said ‘Well, love, baking is just science with snacks. And science takes practice.’”

The group fell quiet for a moment, the warmth of the memory softening the edges of the dim room.

Harper brushed a thumb beneath her eye, though she wasn’t crying, just touched.

Beside her, Jordan rested a hand gently on her knee. Not flashy, not for show, just a soft reassurance.

“It’s a good memory,” he said.

Harper nodded, small smile lingering. “Yeah. It really is.”

Sam shifted a little against Elliot, sitting up just enough to be seen over the blanket. Her cheeks were already pink before she even spoke.

“Okay,” she said, laughing under her breath. “I have one. But you’re not allowed to judge me.”

Jordan held up a hand. “I’ll say what I said to Harper. No promises.”

Sam rolled her eyes, but s smile pulled at her lips anyway.

“So,” she began, “this was at my cousin Priya’s wedding about five years ago. Anyway, you know how Patel weddings are. Loud, colourful, and there’s always at least three aunties dragging you somewhere you don’t want to go.”

Harper nodded knowingly. “I’ve heard stories.”

“Yeah, well.” Sam waved a hand. “The music had been playing for hours. The dancefloor was packed with, like, fifty people. Uncles, aunties, kids doing cartwheels for some reason. Complete chaos. I was hiding at the side, trying to eat in peace, and suddenly two of my cousins grabbed me by the wrists and just…” she made a dramatic yanking motion “…dragged me into the circle.”

Elliot chuckled. “Against your will, clearly.”

“Very much against my will,” Sam said firmly. “And they didn’t just want me to dance. Oh no. they wanted me to lead a whole Bollywood choreography routine they’d seen on TikTok.”

Jordan chokes. “Lead?”

“LEAD,” Sam emphasised, pointing at him. “I don’t dance. I’m terrible. Completely hopeless. I have two left feet. I lose rhythm in songs without rhythm.”

Harper was already laughing. “So, what happened?”

“I panicked,” Sam admitted. “I tried to copy what they were doing but I kept going in the wrong direction. Everyone spun right, I spun left. They stepped forward, I stepped back. At one point I somehow slapped myself in the face, don’t ask me how, and the aunties in the crowd actually gasped.”

Jordan burst into laughter.

“I wish there was footage,” he said.

“There is,” Sam muttered darkly. “My mum still shows it to people when she wants to embarrass me.”

Elliot grinned, leaning close. “I would absolutely pay to see that.”

Sam elbowed him hard in the ribs, but she was laughing.

Elliot only tightened his arms around her in response, pulling her back against his chest, the movement instinctive and affectionate.

“Keep talking,” he murmured jokingly. “This is the best story I’ve ever heard.”

Sam gave an exasperated little sigh, but her smile didn’t fade.

“So, anyway,” she finished, “I ended up doing some mortifying half-dance, half-near-death experience in the middle of a screaming crowd. And by the end of it, everyone was clapping like I’d done something heroic when I was actually dying inside.”

Harper clapped now, teasing. “Samira Patel: Bollywood icon.”

“Oh, shut up,” Sam said, burying her face briefly in the blanket. 

Elliot kissed the side of her head without thinking, causing Sam to melt a little more into him.

Elliot inhaled softly before beginning, the warmth of Sam’s body pressed against his chest grounding him. His voice was gentler than the others’, but there was a faint smile in it, the kind you get from touching something precious and painful at the same time.

“Alright,” he said, rubbing his thumb over Sam’s hand where it rested with his. “Mine’s… a bit less dramatic than hoses and weddings.”

Sam tilted her head back slightly to look at him, eyes warm and encouraging.

He cleared his throat. “When I was ten, my sister and I decided we were going to build the biggest pillow fort the world had ever seen. Not just a fort, a whole expedition base.” He gave a small, embarrassed grin. “We’d been watching some rainforest documentary earlier that day, so we were basically convinced we were explorers about to discover a new species of frog or something.”

Jordan snorted. “Sounds legit.”

“Very legit,” Elliot deadpanned, then continued. “We dragged every pillow, blanket, spare cushion, sofa throw; literally everything soft, into the living room. My mum walked in halfway through and nearly tripped over the mountain we’d made, but instead of telling us off she just stepped over it like it was normal.”

Harper smiled softly.

“We built this enormous cave system,” he went on, gesturing with one hand as though mapping it in the air, “with tunnels and little ‘rooms’ for supplies. And my sister, she was so proud, drew all these ‘wildlife’ sketches to tape to the walls.” He let out a soft laugh. “They were awful. Like… unintentionally terrifying. Her idea of a jaguar looked like a melted sock with teeth.”

Sam’s fingers slipped up to squeeze his forearm, her head gently leaning into him. “Bet they were cute.”

“Oh, they were,” he said, voice thickening just a little. “She tried so hard. And whenever the blanket roof started collapsing, she’d panic like we were in real danger. ‘Save the supplies! Abandon the outpost!’” he smiled toward the ceiling briefly, eyes glassy but not breaking. “We spent the whole afternoon in there. Just… being kids. Being stupid. Laughing at nothing.”

The room went quiet. Not sad, not heavy. Just full of something tender.

Elliot exhaled. “I think that’s the one I miss the most,” he finished quietly. “Us hidden away from the world, pretending everything outside the blankets didn’t matter.”

Sam lifted one of his hands and kissed his knuckles, a small gesture but steadying.

Jordan looked down, respectful. Harper’s eyes softened.

The lounge settled into a slow, steady warmth. Not from the radiator humming faintly behind the two-seater, but from the soft rise and fall of voices, from the gentle laughter that drifted between them in uneven but welcome waves. For the first time all day, the house felt lived-in again, claimed by the people who lived in it rather than the memories haunting its walls.

Elliot rested his chin lightly on Sam’s shoulder, the fabric of her t-shirt brushing his skin. She covered his hands with hers where they rested across her stomach, fingers lacing loosely, and he felt her exhale.

Jordan and Harper murmured to each other from where they each sat, heads tilted toward each other, the flickering lamp-soft glow catching the edges of their smiles. Tea cooled on the coffee table; the leftover crusts of their toasties sat forgotten on plates. Their stories lingered in the air like fading lantern-light, the warmth of them pushing back the chill that so often seeped from the upper floors.

For a little while, minutes, maybe longer, the house didn’t press on them. No creaks, no whispers, no flickers of movement.

Just soft conversation. A few tired but genuine laughs. A pile of shared blankets. And the fragile, precious feeling of peace.

Then, so faintly that Elliot almost missed it, something tapped from upstairs.

Knock.

Just a single, soft sound. Knuckles on wood.

Sam stiffened first. He felt it immediately in the line of her back, a small, involuntary tightening beneath his arms. She lifted her head slightly, eyes flicking instinctively toward the ceiling.

Elliot’s gaze followed hers, though he didn’t know what he expected to see. Just plaster, still and silent.

Harper trailed off mid-sentence, her features tightening as her eyes drifted to the stairs leading up toward the first floor. She didn’t ask ‘did you hear that?’ She didn’t need to. The sudden stillness in the room said enough.

Jordan’s brows knitted, his posture shifting from relaxed to alert. “…Probably just the house settling,” he muttered, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

No one challenged him, but no one nodded either.

Silence stretched out slowly, thickening by degrees, settling over them like an unwelcome blanket. Thirty seconds. Maybe a touch more. Enough that they could almost convince themselves the sound had been nothing. Enough that breath gradually returned to normal. But the tension didn’t leave the room. Not really. It hovered in the quiet, waiting.

They tried to fall back into conversation, slowly, cautiously, as if resuming their stories might anchor everything in place again. Harper picked up where she’d left off, voice softer than before, and Jordan forced a chuckle at something she said. Sam shifted a little in Elliot’s arms, trying to relax, though he could feel the way her muscles tightened and released in uneven patterns.

For a moment, it almost worked. The room felt like it might steady itself.

Then it came.

Knock.

Not faint this time. Not subtle. A crisp, solid strike that carried cleanly through the ceiling and straight into the lounge.

Every head snapped upward.

Sam flinched hard; Elliot’s arm reflexively tightened around her. Harper’s hand froze halfway to her mug. Jordan sat straighter again, eyes narrowing as if he could pinpoint the exact floorboard the sound came from.

No one spoke. The air between them seemed to brace itself.

Jordan was the first to try and break the tension. “It’s… probably just pipes. Or someone’s door shifting in the frame,” he muttered.

But even he winced as he said it; the explanation limp, unconvincing.

Sam leaned more heavily against Elliot, her fingers curling around his forearm.

Elliot gave her a reassuring squeeze, even as his own pulse climbed.

The silence that followed stretched out longer than before. Long enough for them to exchange uneasy glances. Long enough to make every creak of the house feel sHarper in contrast.

Nearly two full minutes slipped past, still no one dared move.

The third knock didn’t ease its way into the room like the others had. It exploded through the silence.

KNOCK.

The sound slammed through the lounge like someone had struck a slab of wood with a mallet. The picture frames on the wall shivered. The radiator gave a metallic twitch, as though startled.

Harper sucked in a sharp breath and immediately clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

Jordan’s posture snapped forward in an instant. His elbows dug into his knees, hands clasped so tightly that his knuckles blanched. He stared at the dark doorway leading into the hall, jaw clenched, muscles coiled like he was ready to spring at whatever dared make another sound.

Elliot didn’t realise he’s tightened his hold on Sam until her fingers wrapped around his forearm. He could feel her heartbeat through her back, fast, fluttering, each pulse a reminder that she was as frightened as he was. He lowered his head slightly, trying to breathe steadily against the crown of her hair, but his own pulse was uneven.

No one dared speak. No one even shifted.

Seconds crept by with agonising slowness, each one stretched thin. The silence didn’t ease anything; it wound around them, tense and expectant.

One minute. Two.

Not a single person attempted to explain it away this time. The knock hadn’t been the house settling. It had been deliberate and every one of them knew it.

The next knock hit with unbelievable force. 

A single brutal KNOCK slammed through the house, not just a sound, but a physical jolt.

The floorboards shivered under their feet. The walls tremored. The glass in the windows quivered in their frames. A thin sprinkle of plaster dust sifted down from the corner like shaken snow. Their mugs rattled sharply against their coasters. 

Everyone flinched at once.

Sam twisted in Elliot's arms instinctively, burying her face against his chest with a broken gasp. Her fingers clutched at him like she expected the floor to give way beneath them. Elliot wrapped his arms around her protectively, holding her tight enough to steady both of them.

Harper’s whisper broke the stunned silence, small and trembling. “…That wasn’t the house.”

Jordan’s eyes were wide, locked on the dark rectangle of the lounge doorway as if expecting something, anything, to appear there. His hands were pressed so tightly together, his knuckles had drained of all colour.

No one moved.

No one dared to breathe too loudly.

A heavy, ringing stillness filled the room, the kind that comes only after something has hit and struck true. Every instinct told them that another knock might follow… or a voice… or footsteps… or something worse.

But nothing came.

Nothing at all.

They remained frozen, exactly as they were; Elliot holding Sam, Harper gripping the edge of her blanket, Jordan staring unblinking toward the stairs, waiting for the next horror to announce itself.

Only silence answered. A cold, airless pause, every single one of them understood. Whatever haunted Room 2 was no longer just rattling doors. It was demanding to be heard.

They didn’t speak for a long time after the fourth knock. Nobody even shifted in their seat.

Eventually, when enough slow minutes passed to convince them nothing else was going to slam, creak, or whisper, the tension in the room sagged into something exhausted and trembling. Elliot felt Sam loosen her grip only a little, her cheek still pressed into his chest; Harper wiped her eyes with the back of her hand; Jordan stared at the floor as though waiting for it to move.

No one suggested going upstairs. No one wanted to. The idea of bedrooms, all of them, felt suddenly wrong. Too far. Too dark. Too close to the landing where every nightmare in the house seemed to anchor itself.

So they stayed.

They gathered blankets from the armchair, back of the sofas, and the little storage basket by the TV. Harper fetched pillows from the cupboard under the stairs without being asked. Sam didn’t leave Elliot's arms once; she shifted only enough to curl sideways on the sofa, pulling him down with her so he lay behind her, arms still firmly around her.

Jordan took the armchair. Harper stretched out along the opposite sofa, legs tucked in tight. They left the living room lamp on, dimmed low but still glowing. No one was willing to sit in darkness.

No one talked much after that. The silence wasn’t peaceful, but it was shared, and that made it bearable.

Sam’s breathing evened out first, a soft rhythm against Elliot's chest. He held her carefully, kissing the top of her head once, more to convince himself she was real and safe than anything else.

Jordan shifted in the armchair, muttering something about needing a chiropractor in the morning. Harper murmured that she didn’t care, she wasn’t going upstairs tonight, full stop. None of them disagreed.

Bit by bit, exhaustion won. Every blink lasted longer than the one before. Every exhale felt like a thread coming undone.

Elliot was last to drift off.

Just before sleep pulled him under, he heard it. The faintest creak from somewhere above like a floorboard adjusting under a slow, deliberate weight.

He didn’t open his eyes.

He just pulled Sam closer and let the darkness take him.