Chapter 7

Saturday morning drifted into Elliot’s awareness slowly, like sunlight warming its way across a duvet. He woke to the soft glow of light pressing through the window of Room 5, casting a pale gold stripe across the floorboards and the foot of his bed. For a moment he lay there blinking at the ceiling, letting himself float in the comfortable in-between state where he wasn’t quite awake but no longer asleep either.

And then the memory of the night before nudged its way back in.

Sam.

Her head on his shoulder. Her laughter soft against his collarbone. Her hand shyly finding his under the blanket.

A warm, impossibly light feeling spread through his chest. Not excitement exactly, but something gentler, something that made the world feel less sharp at the edges. He hadn’t expected their movie night to turn into what it had, but now, replaying it in his mind, he found himself smiling like an idiot at the ceiling.

His phone buzzed on the bedside table.

He reached for it, thumb brushing across the screen.

A new message from Sam.

Sam: Morning :) thanks for last night.

Elliot's smile widened helplessly.

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to smother the grin and failing entirely.

He types back

Elliot: Morning. I had a really good time too.

He hesitated, staring at the blinking cursor, unsure if he should add more.

Before he decided, his phone buzzed again

Sam: …Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I felt that relaxed.

That made something warm twist in his chest, protective, fond.

He typed:

Elliot: I’m glad. You… looked really comfortable.

The three little dots appeared almost instantly.

Sam: I was. And I didn’t want to move.

He reread the message three times before answering, fingers suddenly clumsy.

Elliot: Same here.

Another beat.

Then she replied with nothing but: 

Sam: :)

Simple. But it landed in him like a spark.

He let the phone drop onto his chest and exhaled a long, slow breath.

Somehow the room looked different. Brighter, lighter, as if the house itself had decided to grant him one good morning after a week of strange tension.

He stretched beneath the covers, muscles loosening pleasantly, the last of sleep clinging to him like warm cotton. For a few more minutes, he let himself just be, wrapped in the quiet, wrapped in the memory of her leaning into him, wrapped in the knowledge that she had enjoyed it as much as he had.

Sam was the one thing in his life he felt was moving in the right direction.

The house felt unusually still when Elliot left his room, the kind of quiet that didn’t belong to a Saturday morning. No kettle boiling. No pipes humming. No distant footsteps from Harper or Jordan across the hall.

He yawned, rubbing a hand over his face as he descended the stairs, expecting at least the soft crackle of someone making toast. But the kitchen was empty, sun spilling weakly across the counter and catching the dust in the air. David was already at work, his early shifts always stole him away before dawn, and it seemed Harper and Jordan had gone out as well.

Elliot opened the fridge, pulled out eggs, butter, and a loaf of bread, and set about making breakfast for both himself and Sam. He wasn’t sure when that had become a habit, but after yesterday, it felt natural. Even comforting.

His phone buzzed on the counter.

Sam: Almost ready! Be down in a min x

He smiled without meaning to.

He cracked an egg into the pan, and that’s when he heard it.

A soft, muted thump from the first-floor landing. Not loud enough to be alarming. Not loud enough to justify a reaction. But distinct. Physical.

Elliot froze, spatula halfway to the pan.

Another faint sound followed, lie the whisper of weight shifting on floorboards. Near Room 2.

He held his breath, listening harder.

Nothing.

Just silence. Stillness. The house settling.

Elliot exhaled slowly and forced himself to look away from the doorway.

He didn’t go check. He didn’t call up for Sam. He just flipped the eggs and told himself old houses made noises, even though yesterday’s dragging sound still tightened something in his chest.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Light, quick ones. Sam appeared in the doorway, hair slightly tousled from sleep, pulling a cardigan around herself.

“Morning,” she said, and the smile she gave him made the kitchen feel less hollow instantly.

“Hey,” Elliot said, returning it. “Breakfast’ll be done in a minute.”

She crossed the room, the faintest blush warming her cheeks as she hopped up and sat on the counter. “I like this arrangement” she teased softly. “Me getting fed, you doing all the work.”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the grin. “Trust me, this is barely work.”

Sam tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and looked at him with quiet warmth, the same kind he’d felt last night when she’d leaned into him during the movie.

“I meant what I said yesterday,” she murmured. “About yesterday. I… missed you.”

Elliot felt his heart catch. “I missed you too.” She dropped her gaze, smiling, and gently nudged his elbow. “Well… in that case,” she said, lighter now, “I was thinking… after we eat, do you want to go into town with me? I need some new stationary. And coffee. And maybe… company.”

The last word was softer than the rest. Hopeful.

Elliot set her plate down in front of her. “Yeah,” he said, trying now to sound too eager. “I’d like that.”

Sam’s grin blossomed fully, bright and unguarded. “Good. It’s a date. But, you know… not a date.”

“Right,” he said, heartbeat a little too loud in his ears. “A not-date date.”

She laughed, the sound cutting right through the lingering quiet of the house, warm enough to finally push away the unease from upstairs.

Elliot stacked their empty plates by the sink, rinsed them quickly, and set them down to dry. The kitchen felt strangely bright for such a quiet house, sunlight pushing through the small window above the counter and pooling across the tiles.

Sam hopped down from the counter, stretched her arms above her head until her jumper rode up just enough for Elliot to glance away automatically.

“I should go get changed,” she said, smoothing the hem back down. “If we’re going into town, I should probably look less like I just rolled out of bed.”

“You look fine,” Elliot said, then immediately wanted to slam his head into the fridge door.

Her smile turned amused, a little shy. “Yeah, well. I can look fine but also not like a cryptid who lives in the library stacks.”

“Respectfully,” he said, “I’d still go into town with you if you were a cryptid who lives in the library stacks.”

Sam laughed, rolling her eyes as she backed toward the doorway. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Ward. I’ll be-” she pointed upward with a vague gesture “-like fifteen minutes. Try not to burn the house down while I’m gone.”

“No promises.”

She shook her head, still smiling, and disappeared into the hallway. A moment later, he heard her footsteps on the stairs, heading up to the first floor.

The kitchen settled into quiet again.

Elliot wiped the table down more thoroughly than it needed, then checked his phone. No new notifications yet, just the little thread of messages from Sam, still open at the bottom of the screen. He re-read her last one from earlier “almost ready, be down in a minute” and felt that now-familiar, stupidly warm feeling stir in his chest.

Fifteen minutes hadn’t sounded like long. It suddenly felt like ages.

He headed upstairs himself, the house creaking lightly beneath his steps. The first-floor landing was empty when he passed it; Sam’s door was closed, a faint rustle of movement and drawers from inside. Room 2’s door stood like a black mark down the corridor. Still, mute, somehow heavier than the rest.

Elliot kept his eyes on the stairs ahead and took the next flight up.

In his own room, the air felt cooler. He crossed to the wardrobe and pulled the one remaining door open, staring at his clothes like they might offer guidance. It was just town. Not a date. Except it sort of was. Maybe. He grabbed a dark t-shirt that didn’t look too old, a clean overshirt, and his least-battered pair of jeans. Nothing special. Nothing trying too hard.

He changed quickly, ran a hand through his hair in the crooked mirror, grimaced, and tried again. It didn’t really improve, but it looked intentional now, at least.

His phone buzzed.

Sam: Ready when you are

Sam: In the hallway

Elliot shoved the phone in his pocket, grabbed his wallet and keys, and headed back out.

On the second-floor landing, the light from the small window at the far end fell in a slanted rectangle across the carpet. Dust motes drifted lazily in it. When he reached the top of the stairs down, Sam was already there waiting, leaning against the banister.

She’d changed into high-waisted jeans, white trainers, and a soft green jumper that made her eyes look a shade brighter. She’d tied her hair up into a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping around her face. There was a tote bag on her shoulder, already bulging with notebooks.

“You clean up well,” she said, giving him an exaggerated once-over.

“You say that like I was a disaster before.”

“You were just… very ‘I work from home and forget what outside looks like’ earlier.”

“That’s slander,” he said. “Accurate slander, but still.”

She grinned and stepped aside to let him join her. As they started down the stairs together, their shoulders brushed, neither of them moved away.

The first-floor landing greeted them with the usual stretch of corridor and closed doors. Room 3 stood near and unassuming. Room 1 was still shut. Room 2 loomed opposite, its dark paint dull in the morning light, brass number catching the dim glare from the single overhead bulb.

Sam’s gaze flicked toward it, just for a second, then dropped to the carpet. Elliot felt the shift beside him, the way her posture tightened, the way her hand brushed the banister a little too carefully as they passed.

“Still quiet,” he said lightly, before he could stop himself.

“Let’s keep walking,” she replied, equally light, but her voice had that thread of tension in it.

They did.

The ground floor felt like a different house altogether. Warmer, brighter, smelling of coffee and toast now instead of old dust. The hallway tiles clicked under their shoes as they crossed to the front door. Elliot unlocked it and pulled it open, the hinges giving their familiar protest.

Cool air drifted in, laced with the faint smell of damp earth and distant traffic. The world outside sounded ordinary: a car driving past, someone shutting a bin lid down the street, a dog barking once and then losing interest.

Sam stepped out first, squinting against the light. She tilted her face up toward the sky for a moment, eyes closed, as if recharging in the daylight.

“Okay,” she said, opening her eyes again and flashing him a quick smile. “Stationary, coffee, and then we just wander until we find something interesting?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Elliot replied. “Lead the way, Patel.”

She bumped her shoulder gently against his as they walked down the path together, leaving 12B behind them for a little while. The house watched then go with its tired windows and crooked lean, giving nothing away.

They fell into step naturally, side by side along the quiet residential street. Sometimes they drifted a little apart, only for their hands or arms to brush as they came close again. Each accidental touch sent a warm, noticeable ripple through Elliot’s chest. Sam seemed to feel it too, her smile twitched higher every time.

The conversation stayed light at first. Sam groaned dramatically about the mountain of essays she still had to write.

Elliot seized the chance to joke back. “You know, you’d finish faster if you weren’t buying more stationary than actual words you write.”

She elbowed him gently. “I’ll have you know I’m investing in my future.”

“Oh yeah, that’s what the desk was.” Elliot said. “An investment in your ability to laugh at me.”

“That too,” she said brightly. “But mainly it was a lesson in why you should never be left unsupervised with a screwdriver.”

He clutched his chest theatrically. “You wound me, Sam. I built that desk with my bare hands.”

“And I held it together with my sheer willpower,” she countered.

They both laughed. Easy, natural, comfortable.

Every few minutes, Sam gave him a playful bump with her shoulder, sometimes with a timed joke, sometimes for no reason at all. The quiet moments between jokes weren’t awkward either; they just walked in companionable silence, listening to the breeze and the distant hum of traffic, stealing glances they pretend not to notice.

For the first time in a long while, Elliot realised he wasn’t thinking about work, or the house, or Room 2, or anything heavy at all.

He was simply… happy to be walking next to her.

They reached a narrow side street lines with old brick shops and hanged flower baskets, and Sam pointed ahead with excitement.

“There. That one. Best coffee in town.”

The café was mall and warm, all mismatched wooden chairs and amber lights strong across the ceiling beams. The smell of roasted beans drifted out the door, richer and sweeter than anything instant coffee had ever dreamed of being.

Inside, Sam insisted on paying. “You cooked breakfast,” she said, already tapping her card before he could open his mouth. “This is the least I can do.”

Elliot protested, but her glare was fierce enough to silence him.

They carried their drinks to a table by the window. Golden light spilled across the wood, painting Sam in soft, warm tones that made Elliot's breath catch for a second before he hid it behind his mug. 

She curled into her seat with the comfortable familiarity of someone who had spent half her life in cafés. “So,” she asked, “how are you settling into the house?”

Elliot shrugged. “Good, actually. Weirdly good. Better with…” he caught himself before saying because of you.

Sam rested her chin on her hand, eyes glowing with curiosity. “Better with what?”

He sipped his coffee to avoid answering.

Sam rolled her eyes with a teasing smile. “Fine. Gatekeep your thoughts. See if I care.”

He laughed softly, then told her about his move from up north, the pace of freelance work, and how the house felt, equal parts comforting and strange. She talked about uni deadlines, her favourite professors, and the stress of balancing everything she wanted to do. As she talked, she leaned forward without realising it, drawn closer in little increments until their forearms nearly touched on the table.

At one point their knees brushed under the table.

Neither of them moved away.

Sam’s smile softened, hanging there like she wasn’t fully aware she’d been holding it in for minutes.

Elliot found himself memorising that expression.

The little stationary shop Sam liked “Paper Petals” sat tucked between a bakery and a charity shop, its windows crowded with pastel displays and artfully messy stacks of notebooks. The bell chimed as they stepped inside, and the smell of paper, ink, and vanilla-scented candles wrapped warmly around them.

Sam brightened instantly.

“This is my happy place,” she said, already drifting toward a display of highlighters arranged in a rainbow gradient.

Elliot followed, amused. “You’re aware you have, like… eight sets in your room already?”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “And I will continue to buy highlighters until I reach my final form.”

“Fully fluorescent?”

“Exactly.”

“She selected a pack, then added sticky notes, then, after approximately four seconds of thought, a notebook she did not need under any definition of the word. Elliot raised an eyebrow. She elbowed him lightly.

“It’s called being prepared.”

“It’s called a stationary addiction.”

She gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. “You take that back.”

He didn’t.

They moved into the next isle, Sam comparing pastel sticky note shades with the seriousness of someone evaluating gemstones. Elliot leaned against the shelf, watching her with a small smile. She looked so completely in her element that he didn’t even tease her for choosing two nearly identical shades of yellow.

She was mid-debate with herself when a voice shrieked “SAM!”

Sam jumped so hard she nearly threw the sticky notes. Elliot straightened.

A girl appeared at the end of the isle, tall, a hijab wrapped nearly in soft lilac, eyes wide with delight.

“Aisha?” Sam squeaked, voice higher than Elliot had ever heard it.

Aisha squealed back and practically launched herself into Sam’s arms. “Oh my god, hi! It’s been ages!”

Sam hugged her tightly, but the moment they separated, she seemed to remember Elliot existed and blanched,

Aisha’s gaze swung to him.

And lit up.

“OHHHH>” her smile widened wickedly. “So this is him.”

Sam froze.

Elliot blinked.

Aisha looked like Christmas had come early.

“Oh my god, Sam,” she laughed, “you didn’t say he was cute.”

Sam made an inhuman sound, somewhere between a whimper and a wheeze. “Aisha, please-”

But Aisha was unstoppable, hands clasped like she’d been waiting for this moment her whole life.

“She talks about you CONSTANTLY.”

Elliot’s eyebrows shot up.

Sam covered her face. “Aisha, I swear to God, I’m going to walk into the sea-”

“No really!” Aisha continued brightly, completely ignoring the death glare Sam was giving her from behind her fingers. “It’s always ‘Elliot said this’ and “Elliot did that’ and ‘Elliot helped me with- ‘”

“OKAY!” Sam practically lunched to clamp a hand over Aisha’s mouth.

Aisha ducked away laughing.

Elliot stood there, stunned, trying (and failing) to hide the pleased flush rising in his cheeks.

Aisha leaned in conspiratorially, stage-whispering to him, “She really likes you.”

Sam made another soft dying noise.

“Can we go? Please? Before I melt into the floor?” she begged, mortified.

Aisha hugged her again, still giggling. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry… kind of. I’m happy for you!”

She waved at Elliot as she walked backwards toward the door. “Take care of her!”

Then she disappeared out of the shop, leaving behind a very red Sam and a very dazed Elliot.

For a long beat, neither spoke.

Then Elliot, quietly but definitely grinning: “So… I guess you talk about me?”

Sam let out a strangled groan. “I’m never showing my face in that shop again.”

“But you love this shop.”

“NOT ANYMORE.”

Elliot laughed, warm and genuine, earning a tiny reluctant smile from Sam as they made their way to the till, her arms full of stationary she no longer remembered picking up.

Leaving the stationary shop felt like stepping out of a blast furnace of second-hand embarrassment. Sam practically power-walked onto the pavement, her face still the colour of a ripe tomato, clutching her new notebook to her chest as if it could shield her from the memory of Aisha’s ambush.

Elliot followed a step behind, trying and failing to not look too pleased.

She groaned into her hands. “Please don’t say anything.”

“I didn’t say anything” Elliot replied, though he couldn’t keep the laugh out of his voice.

“That’s worse,” she muttered. “You’re quietly judging me.”

“I’m quietly flattered, actually.”

Sam froze in her tracks, eyes wide, mouth parting just slightly in shock.

Elliot instantly felt heat rise to his cheeks.

“I- I didn’t mean- I mean, I meant it, but not like- not to make you-”

Sam’s lips curved slowly upward, the mortification easing into a soft smile. She nudged him gently with her shoulder.

“Elliot Ward… stop digging before you bury yourself alive.”

He laughed, a warm, helpless sound, and they resumed they resumed walking.

They wondered through town for another hour or so, drifting into whatever shop caught Sam’s interest: a thrift store full of mismatched picture frames and outdated vinyl, a cosy bookshop that smelled faintly of dust and vanilla, a small market stall selling homemade candles.

They didn’t buy much, but they lingered everywhere.

Sam kept stepping closer to him without seeming to realise she was doing it. Her hand brushed his arm. Then her shoulder. At one point, when they crossed a road, she looped her arm through his for half a second, a small and instinctive gesture, before letting go as though suddenly aware of herself.

Elliot pretended not to notice how fast her breath has caught, or how much he missed the feel of her arm once she let go.

By the time they turned down the long road back toward the house, the sky had softened into a pale, early-afternoon glow. The air was cool and comfortable, the kind of temperature that invited closeness rather than discomfort.

Sam exhaled through a laugh, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Aisha is never going to let me live that down.”

Elliot grinned. “I don’t know. I thought she seemed very subtle.”

Sam gave an outraged little scoff and swatted his arm. “Oh my god, shut up-”

“I’m just saying,” he added lightly, “I’m honoured to be the subject of your… what was the word she used? Gushing?”

“ELLIOT.”

He laughed, and eventually she joined in, burying her face in her hands again but peeking at him between her fingers, eyes sparkling.

Their laughter faded into a comfortable quiet as they reached the familiar row of houses. The closer they got to number 12B, the more their steps slowed. Not from exhaustion, but from the quiet contentment neither of them wanted to end.

When they reached the gate, Sam’s hand brushed his again. This time, it didn’t move away so quickly.

Elliot and Sam had barely stepped back through the front door when the familiar sound of keys jingling came from the hallway. A moment later, Harper appeared at the far end, hip nudging the door shut behind her as she struggled to hang up her coat with one hand. The other hand was occupied by a bulging folder; thick, weathered, and stuffed with papers that definitely didn’t belong to any casual afternoon errand.

She spotted them and lifted the folder slightly. “There you two are. I’ve been looking for you.”

Her tone wasn’t tense, but it held that distinct Harper-curiosity she got whenever she was about to unveil something she probably wasn’t supposed to have. Elliot exchanged a glance with Sam. Sam looked delighted at the idea of a mystery, Elliot slightly less so.

“Is everything okay?” Sam asked.

Harper stepped closer, lowering her voice as though the calls might be listening. “My contact from City Hall called. You remember, the one who said he’d check the archives for me?” She gave a tight little grin. “He had time to dig. And he found a lot.”

Elliot blinked. “Already?”

“Apparently he owed me a favour,” Harper said matter-of-factly. “Anyway, I printed everything he sent me. Wanted to show you immediately.”

She tilted her head toward the stairs, before climbing them herself.

Sam gave him a small smile and squeezed his arm before peeling off towards the kitchen, leaving him to climb the stairs alone. 

Room 4’s door was open just a crack, warm lamplight spilling through it. He knocked lightly and Harper’s voice beckoned him inside.

When he entered, Harper was sat on the bed, her laptop open beside her and the thick manilla folder resting across her knees. She looked up at him with an expression that was equal parts excitement and something more serious.

“Okay,” she said, patting the edge of the bed in invitation. “Come look at this.”

Elliot sat, feeling the mattress dip beneath him. “I thought we already found everything there was to find. Built in 1886, Thomas and Eleanor Caldwell, passed down through the family… pretty standard stuff.”

“That’s what I thought too,” Harper said, flipping open the folder, “until one of my contacts at City Hall called me back.”

She couldn’t hide her satisfaction. The thrill of chasing down a mystery and catching the scent of something new.

“She did some digging in the archived files,” Harper continued, turning the folder so he could see. “And it turns out there’s a bit more to the Caldwell story than just their names and a date.”

Elliot leaned in, watching as Harper carefully spread out several photocopied documents between them: snippets of registry entries, faded planning notes, old council reports. Some pages were no bigger than postcards, other full sheets covered in neat, looping handwriting from over a century ago.

“These,” Harper said, tapping the top page, “are later documents, dated about ten years after the house was built.”

Elliot scanned the lines, brow furrowing.

“Thomas Caldwell… merchant…retired at forty-eight?”

“That’s unusually young,” Harper said, nodding. “And apparently ‘without explanation.’ That’s the wording.”

She pulled out another page; thinner, more brittle-looking even as a copy.

“And Eleanor Caldwell,” she added softly, “was listed in several files as having an unspecified illness.”

“Unspecified?”

“Yeah. No diagnosis. Just vague comments about her condition worsening. You know how records were back then.”

Harper hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek, then reached back into the folder. “That’s not all,” she murmured, sliding another document free; a thin, yellowed sheet with architectural markings in precise black ink.

Elliot leaned in closer.

It was the original floor plan of the house. Not a reproduction. An actual surviving copy, complete with old surveyor stamps and the sharp, slanted handwriting typical of the era.

Harper tapped a spot near the centre of the layout.

“There,” she said. “Look at how the rooms were labelled.”

Elliot's eyes followed her finger.

On the first floor, one room was marked clearly in faded script:

MASTER BEDROOM

And it was unmistakably the same position, same dimensions, same outline as…

“Room 2,” Elliot whispered.

Harper nodded. “Exactly. It used to be the master bedroom.”

He traced the rectangle on the page with his eyes again, feeling an odd prickling at the back of his neck. The room had always felt out of place. Colder, quieter, heavier than the rest of the landing. But seeing it labelled like this made that unease settle deeper.

Harper flipped the page over and held up a smaller slip of paper; a work order or construction note, the ink smudged slightly from age.

“And look at this,” she added. “This is the part that made me pause.”

The note was brief. Only a few lines written in a neat but urgent hand:

Separate door to the master bedroom must be reinforced.

E insists.

Additional cost approved.

Elliot frowned. “Reinforced? For… privacy?”

“I thought that too,” Harper said, “but then I checked earlier plans. This door?” She pointed again. “It wasn’t supposed to be any different. Just a standard interior door. Something changed during construction.”

“And whoever ‘E’ is… insisted on upgrading it.”

Harper nodded again, more slowly this time, her expression tightening. “Probably Eleanor. She was the only family member noted with an ‘E.’ But there’s no explanation.”

Elliot stared at the words, the ink, the imprint of a decision made nearly a century and a half ago. “Reinforced for what, though?” he asked quietly. “Or for who?”

Harper didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she placed the document gently atop the others, smoothing a corner with her thumb.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “But it means that room… Room 2… was important. Important enough to alter.”

The silence between them thickened, not ominous, but charged with the weight of history suddenly growing teeth.

Room 2 hadn’t just belonged to someone in the past. It had been protected. And that thought alone made the tiny room feel suddenly much less empty.

Elliot leaned closer over the papers spread across Harper’s duvet, his eyes tracing the lines of the old architectural sketch. He’d expected the plans to be crude, maybe yellow or brittle, not unsettling. Yet the longer he stared at the drawing of the master bedroom, the heavier something sat in his chest.

Room 2.

Not a bedroom.

The bedroom.

The room that now stood in silence beside Sam’s.

He swallowed and pointed to a tightly drawn cluster of lines around the doorway. “Those… those are all beams?” he asked.

Harper nodded, pulling the document closer to her. “Looks like it. Theres even a note about ‘metalwork inserted as instructed,’ but no explanation why.”

That cold, sinking feeling in Elliot's stomach grew heavier, almost physical. Reinforcing a master bedroom door wasn’t normal. Not for a home like this, not for a Victorian family in a quiet Victorian neighbourhood.

“Why would they even need that?” Elliot murmured.

Harper exhaled through her nose. “Your guess is as good as mine. They clearly weren’t building a fortress. Everything else in the house is standard. Doors, floors, roofing… all normal. Except this.”

Elliot sat back, arms loosely folded, suddenly aware of the faint prickling at the back of his neck. The same feeling he always got when walking past the closed door of Room 2.

Harper noticed the shift in his expression. Her voice softened. “Hey. You okay?”

He nodded, though the gesture felt stiff. “Just… I’ve been hearing things from that room. Not just creaks. Actual sounds.” He hesitated, then added quietly, “Writing. Like… like someone dragging a pen slowly across paper.”

Harper didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. She simply went still, thoughtful, the papers rustling quietly between them.

“Alright,” she said, finally. “Then it’s not just the house being old.”

The acknowledgment made something in Elliot's chest tighten, a mix of fear and relief.

They stayed sitting on Harper and Jordan’s neatly made bed, the documents spread across the duvet between them like puzzle pieces that didn’t quite belong together. Harper’s brows were drawn, her usual breezy confidence replaced by the kind of quiet focus she only ever used for exams or difficult edits at work.

“So,” she said, tapping one of the older documents with the back of her pen, “we have: house built in 1886, Thomas and Eleanor Caldwell, a reinforced master bedroom door, and absolutely nothing else. No letters. No journals. No renovations. No family gossip.”

“Feels… intentional,” Elliot muttered.

Harper nodded slowly. “Victorians loved paperwork. If someone sneezed too loudly, they documented it.” She looked at the faint reinforcement sketch again. “But this? This is vague. Too vague.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the discovery settling between them.

Harper pushed her hair behind one ear. “Okay, theories. Maybe the reinforcement was to keep valuables safe? Merchants travelled, sometimes left their wives alone.”

“Maybe,” Elliot said, but his voice lacked conviction.

“Or…” Harper hesitated, searching his expression, “maybe Eleanor had some sort of illness. They didn’t diagnose things well back then. Some people wandered at night, got confused. Reinforcing the door might’ve been a misguided attempt to keep her safe.”

Elliot shook his head lightly. “Nothing about this house feels like a simple explanation.”

Harper frowned thoughtfully. “You’re right. And I hate how right you probably are.”

Harper gathered the scattered documents with the careful precision of someone handling something fragile or dangerous. She slid them back into her folder and closed it with a soft, decisive movement.

“We’ll find more,” she said, her voice a mixture of determination and unease. “There’s always more if you know where to look. And now we actually know where to look.”

Elliot nodded, though his stomach tightened. The reinforced door sketch, the missing records, the strange noises. It all pressed on him at once.

He stepped into the hallways. The air felt heavier somehow, as though the house itself had shifted slightly under the weight of its own history.

From here, Room 2’s door was just visible down the stairs. Closed. Perfectly still. Perfectly ordinary.

But now, it looked different. Not a room that was simply “occupied,” but a room that had once belonged to someone who needed to be contained… or someone who needed to contain something.

Elliot exhaled slowly and forced himself to turn away. 

“Good luck,” Harper called gently from her room.

“You too,” he replied.

Elliot left Harper’s room with a head full of documents and a stomach full of unease. The door clicked softly behind him, sealing away the old papers, but not the questions they’d stirred up. For a moment, he stood still on the second-floor landing, trying to slow the thoughts that kept looping back to the same place. Room 2.

He began his descent.

The first flight of stairs creaked under his weight, the old wood responding with its usual tired sighs. But as he reached the last few steps before the first-floor landing, the air seemed to thicken just a little, and Elliot felt his pulse speed up.

Room 2 sat directly opposite the stairwell, exactly where it always had, its black-painted door blending too well into the thick shadow cast across it. From here he could see the faint unevenness in the frame, the way its hinges seemed older than everything else on the landing, darker metal, almost iron in tone.

He hadn’t meant to look at it, he told himself he wouldn’t, but his eyes were drawn to the door the same way one glances at the edge of a cliff. Just to check it’s still there. Just to check nothing had changed.

He paused on the second-to-last step, hand tightening on the banister.

Room 2 was still. Closed. Silent.

But the silence felt aware.

He swallowed, tearing his gaze away, and forced himself down the final step onto the landing. The house felt colder here, colder than the second floor, but he pushed that thought away before it could snowball into paranoia.

He passed Room 2 quickly, almost without breathing, then turned the corner and began the last staircase down to the ground floor,

Halfway down, he saw her.

Sam was leading over a textbook, pen tapping absently against her bottom lip as she read. At first, she didn’t see him and Elliot found himself stopping for a moment, half from relief and half from something softer. The gently domestic sight of her felt like a rope thrown across a widening chasm.

The fear of room 2 retreated, not gone but muted.

She looked up then, blinking once before her face lit up.

“Hey,” she said, smiling softly. “You’re back.”

The warmth in her voice wrapped around him more tightly than the lamplight did.

Elliot took the last few steps down toward her, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease with each one. Sam pushed her textbook aside and sat up properly, tucking her legs beneath herself. The air smelled faintly of old fabric, a hint of citrus washing-up liquid from the nearby kitchen, and whatever perfume Sam had on; light, clean, something with jasmine maybe.

“Harper keeping you hostage upstairs again?” she teased lightly.

“Pretty much,” Elliot said with a small laugh, stepping into the lounge. “We found some more documents. Nothing dramatic, just… old house stuff.”

Sam tilted her head, eyes sharpening in interest. She always listened like every word mattered.

“Find anything interesting?”

“More than I expected,” he admitted. “And probably more than I wanted.”

Her smile faded a little, replaced by concern. She scooted to the far side of the sofa, patting the empty spot beside her. “Come sit down. Tell me?”

Elliot crossed the room, winking into the two-seater next to her. The cushions dipped beneath his weight, tilting him slightly toward her. She didn’t move away. If anything, she shifted a little closer, her thigh brushing lightly against his.

“What happened?” she asked.

Her voice was soft, warm, and grounding.

Elliot let out a shaky breath. “It’s not so much what we found,” he said. “It’s what we didn’t. There’s… a lot of missing pieces. And Room 2 keeps feeling like one of them.”

Sam’s brow furrowed slightly, but not in disbelief. In worry. In understanding.

“You don’t have to talk about it now,” she said quietly. “You look like you could use a break.”

Elliot blinked at her, surprised by her gentleness.

Sam offered him a small smile, the kind that felt like a hand reaching out even without touching.

“I made tea earlier,” she said. “Theres still some left if you want it.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Tea sounds good.”

Sam stood, pausing only long enough to touch his arm lightly before heading toward the kitchen.

That touch alone was enough to make his heartbeat slow, then quicken again in an entirely different way.

Elliot had already sunk deeper into the sofa by the time Sam reappeared from the kitchen, two steaming mugs in her hands. She nudged the door to the lounge open with her hip and crossed the room with an easy, familiar warmth that hit him harder than expected.

“OI made yours the way you like it,” she said, offering him a mug with a proud little smile. “One sugar, but I put a bit more milk because you never let it cool before drinking it.”

Elliot accepted it, fingers brushing hers in the handover. “Thanks. You didn’t have to-”

“I wanted to,” she said simply before settling beside him on the sofa, tucking one leg beneath her as she turned toward him.

He took a careful sip and then asked, “How’s the studying going?” there was a small gentle tease in his tone, just enough to make it clear he wasn’t truly asking about the notes spread across her laptop earlier.

She groaned dramatically, flopping back into the cushions. “Slow. Painful. Full of academic betrayal.” She leaned forwards again, smirking. “But I was kind of hoping you’d come down sooner.”

“Oh.” Elliot tried very hard not to sound too pleased. Or too surprised. “I didn’t want to interrupt you. You looked focused, and I know I can be… distracting.”

Sam’s eyes lit with mischief. “You absolutely can. And you should never apologise for it.” Then, softer, “You can come find me whenever you want. Seriously.”

Heat climbed up Elliot's neck at the way she said it. Light, playful, but absolutely sincere.

He tried to play it cool. Failed. “Good to know.”

They shared a small laugh, easy and warm, the kind that closed the distance between them without either of them moving an inch.

“So,” Sam said, nudging his knee lightly with hers, “aren’t you glad it’s the weekend?”

“Oh, definitely. I think my brain tapped out around Wednesday.”

“Mine tapped out the moment I got out of bed on Monday.” She admitted. “But it’s fine now. I have tea. And good company.”

Elliot's stomach fluttered. “Same here.”

A soft smile tugged at her lips before she looked down at her mug and traced a finger along the rim, shy in a way she only allowed herself to be around him.

After a moment, she cleared her throat. “Do you… want to stay down here with me for a bit? Just hang out for a while?”

Her voice was casual, but hopeful.

“Yeah,” Elliot said quickly, then tried to slow it down, adding, “I mean- yeah, I’d like that.”

Sam bit her bottom lip to hide a smile, then leaned back beside him, shoulders brushing.

The lounge felt softer now that the lamps had warmed the room fully. Gentle pools of amber light spilling across the carpet and catching faint flecks of dust drifting lazily in the air. Elliot shifted his position just a little to get comfortable, stretching is arm along the back of the sofa. Sam didn’t seem to notice at first… or maybe she pretended not to, because her shoulders slowly, naturally, drifted closer as their conversation deepened.

They’d been talking for a while; longer than either of them planned. Time had begun slipping quietly between their words, unnoticed.

Sam curled her feet beneath her and angled herself toward him, her knee brushing this thigh every so often. On any other day, Elliot might have second-guessed it, chalked it up to coincidence, but today it felt deliberate. Or at least not avoided.

“So, she said, tapping her mug lightly against his. “Cheers to surviving an entire week in this house.”

He huffed a laugh. “Barely. I think I’ve aged five years.”

“Oh? And here I was thinking you looked younger lately,” she teased, lifting a brow.

He blinked, heat creeping into his cheeks. “You’re definitely lying.”

“Maybe.” She sipped her tea, hiding a small smile behind the rim. “Maybe not.”

Their eyes held for a beat longer than casual friendliness allowed before she looked away, nudging his knee again with a light, playful bump.

Elliot felt his heart give a small, traitorous jump.

She talked about her coursework, half joking, half genuinely stressed, and he teased her about buying her fifteenth notebook earlier that day. She groaned dramatically, swatting his shoulder with the back of her hand.

“That wasn’t my fifteenth. Maybe my thirteenth.”

“Ah. Much more reasonable,” he said with mock solemnity.

Sam tilted her head, eyes narrow in pretend suspicion. “Are you saying I’m disorganised, Elliot Ward?”

“I would never,” he deadpanned.

She leaned in closer, shoulder brushing his chest. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Every small touch between them carried a little more weight. A warmer spark. An unspoken understanding they were both beginning to recognise.

Their conversation drifted easily from light jokes to rambling stories about childhood quirks; how Sam used to “interview” her plush toys for imaginary talk shows, how Elliot once broke his neighbours garden gnome and then tried to glue it back together backwards in panic.

Sam laughed so loudly she had to set her tea down so she wouldn’t spill it. “Oh my god- Elliot no- backwards? With the face on the wrong side?”

“It was dark and I was terrified!”

“You absolute menace!”

She doubled over in laughter, and Elliot couldn’t help smiling wide. Wider than he had in months. Maybe years.

When she finally caught her breath, she leaned back. Except this time, instead of sitting upright, she let herself settle right against him.

Her head rested warm and soft against his shoulder. Her thigh pressed lightly against his. She exhaled a small, contented sigh.

And Elliot froze for a single second.

His arm still resting along the top of the sofa, close enough this his fingertips almost brushed her upper arm.

Almost.

She didn’t move. didn’t shift away. Didn’t apologise. Didn’t make it seem accidental.

Slowly, cautiously, he let his arm drop a little until it rested gently, hesitantly around her shoulders.

She responded immediately, subtly, but deliberately by nesting in closer, tucking herself against his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He felt her smile against his shirt. A quiet, barely-there curve of her lips.

The room felt warmer. Softer. Calmer. A pocket of peace carved out from everything strange lurking in the halls upstairs.

They stayed that way, talking in lowered voices and brushing fingertips occasionally, each little moment drawing them closer and closer, until conversation faded naturally into a quiet, steady closeness neither wanted to break.

They had lost track of time completely.

One moment, Elliot and Sam were curled together on the lounge sofa, talking in circles about nothing and everything, teasing each other, drifting into comfortable quiet, her head nestled under his chin, and the next, Sam glanced at her phone and jolted upright.

“Elliot… it’s nearly midnight.”

Her voice was soft but startled, the kind of tone that snapped reality back into place far too quickly. She rubbed at her eyes, already tired, already wishing she didn’t have to move.

Elliot blinked at the clock across the room, surprised at how late it really was. “Oh. Wow. Uh… yeah. We should probably…” he trailed off, because standing up meant the moment ended, and neither of them seemed quite ready for that.

But Sam sighed, reluctantly, and stood.

“I really should try and get some sleep,” she murmured, though she didn’t move far from him.

They walked out of the dim, cosy lounge together, side by side. Their arms brushed once, then again. Not accidental either time.

The house was quiet around them, that thick late-night silence where every small sound felt louder. The air was cooler too, the kind of cool that made you instinctively stand closer to the person beside you.

They stepped onto the staircase that led up to the first floor, climbing slowly. Halfway up, the angle shifted just enough that the landing came into view. And with it, Room 2’s door.

It was open.

Just a sliver, barely an inch, but unmistakenly open, when it had been firmly shut earlier.

Both of them froze.

For a split second, they only stared, breath caught in their throats, as if the slightest sound might draw attention from whatever was, or. Wasn’t, behind that black door.

Then.

BANG.

The door slammed shut with a violent source that made the entire frame shudder, the sound echoing down the stairwell like a gunshot. The floor vibrated beneath their feet.

Sam yelped a sharp, terrified sound, and without thinking, she grabbed Elliot's hand in both of hers, clinging tightly, her fingers trembling.

Elliot's heart rocketed into his throat, adrenaline spiking hot and cold at the same time, but he squeezed her hand back instantly. Protective. Anchor-steady.

Sam stared at the now-silent door, her breathing shallow, panicked.

“Elliot…” she whispered, voice cracking.

And with both of them frozen halfway up the stairs, her hand gripping his like it was the only solid thing left in the world, everything warm and romantic evaporated replaced by something darker, much closer.

Something inside Room 2 had moved. And it had noticed them.

Sam didn’t let go of Elliot's hand.

If anything, her grip tightened as the echo of the slammed door faded into the stillness of the landing. Her breath shook; her eyes fixed on the black door of Room 2 as though it might open again at any moment.

“Elliot…” she whispered, voice thin and trembling. “I- I can’t… I can’t sleep in my room tonight. Can I-” her voice stumbled, but not from hesitation. From fear. “Can I stay with you again? Please?”

She didn’t try to soften it or play it off. There was no shy smile, no embarrassed laugh. Just honesty and panic and a need for safety.

Elliot didn’t even think about it.

“Of course,” he said immediately, steadying his voice for her sake. “Yeah. Come on.”

They moved quickly, almost without deciding to, up the remaining stairs to the second floor. Sam stayed close to him, shoulder brushing his arm with every step, her hand clinging to his as if letting go might give Room 2 permission to do something worse.

The house felt different now, heavier. Watching them.

When they reached the second-floor landing, Elliot glanced back once. The view down the stairwell seemed longer than usual, shadows stretching strangely across the walls. Sam followed his gaze for half a second before shaking her head, as if refusing to give the house any more of her attention.

“Just- just get the door,” she breathed.

He fumbled the key slightly; his hands weren’t exactly steady either but managed to unlock Room 5. They stepped inside together, crossing the threshold as if escaping something outside.

Elliot shut the door behind them with a firm, deliberate click. Louder than necessary but neither of them commented. The lock slid into place beneath his thumb, a small metallic assurance in a house that had just reminded them how little control they truly had over it.

Only then did Sam loosened her grip on his hand.

They stood there for a moment, breathing shallowly, as though sound itself might provoke Room 2 from below. Sam’s eyes were wide and glassy, the fear still fresh and trembling beneath the surface. Without speaking, she crossed the small room and perched on the edge of his bed, hands clasped tightly in her lap.

Elliot forced his own pulse to slow, inhaling deeply before moving to the window. He pulled the curtains shut with a sweep that felt almost ceremonial, closing off the night, the hallway, the memory of that violent slam. The bedside lap flickered on with a warm, amber slow. Small, enclosed, safe. Or close enough.

Sam watched him quietly; her shoulders still tense beneath the soft fabric of her jumper.

He turned to her, voice gentle. “You okay?”

She let out a shaky exhale, half-laughing, half-disbelieving. “No. Not even slightly.” A pause. “You?”

Elliot sat beside her, close but not too close. “Absolutely not.”

That earned a tiny, rattled laugh from her. Small, but real. The kind that loosened something in his chest.

They stayed like that for a few beats, their nervous smiles softening into something more natural. The fear didn’t vanish, but it settled, cushioned by the quiet presence of one another. The lamp hummed faintly. The room’s shadows retreated to the corners. For the first time since the slam, Elliot felt the world begin to right itself.

Sam finally broke the silence with a breathy, embarrassed laugh. “I’m sorry I grabbed you like a koala on caffeine.”

“You can grab me like that anytime,” Elliot said before his brain aught up, and then he froze in horror as the words hung in the air,

Sam blinked, and then grinned, cheeks warming. “Oh? Good to know.”

He groaned softly, rubbing the back of his neck, but she nudged him with her shoulder, the teasing light returning to her eyes. The tension in the room thinned even more, replaced with that familiar warmth that always bloomed when they were alone.

After another lingering pause, she looked up at him with a shy vulnerability that stopped his breath,

“…Elliot?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you… hold me? Just for a while?”

The question landed softly, but it hit him like a heartbeat skipped.

He nodded immediately. “Yeah. Of course.”

They climbed under the covers, shifting awkwardly at first, adjusting arm and angled until Sam nestled against him with her head tucked beneath his chin. Her hand rested lightly on his chest; his arm curled around her back, drawing her gently into the warmth between them.

The lamp cast a soft pool of gold over them, and their breathing began to sync without effort. Slow, even, calm. Sams body loosened gradually, the tremor fading from her shoulders as she settled fully into him, trusting him with her fear, with her closeness, with her quiet.

Elliot closed his eyes.

Little by little, in the gentle swat of breath shared and warmth held, they slipped into sleep.

Elliot woke to a faint sound he couldn’t place. A soft brush, or a scratch, barely more than a breath against the quiet. For a moment he lay still, disoriented, the room washed in the dim, early blue light of a morning that had only just begun.

Sam was warm against him, her cheek resting on his chest, their legs loosely tangled beneath the duvet. She hadn’t stirred; her breathing rose and fell in slow, peaceful waves. Whatever the noise had been, it hadn’t woken her.

Elliot listened again.

Nothing. Just the old house settling. just the faint hum of morning. Just… quiet.

He eased himself up carefully so as not to wake her, sliding out from beneath her arm with slow, steady movements. The air outside the blankets was cold, brushing against skin and making him shiver.

He turned and froze.

There, on the surface of his desk, lay a single sheet of paper.

It hadn’t been there last night.

It couldn’t have been.

The edges were yellowed, the fibred warped with age, as though it has been pulled from a journal long forgotten. Ink curled across the page in looping, uneven strokes. Unmistakenly old-fashioned. The handwriting trembled in places, letters thinned or blotted like they’d been written by an unsteady hand.

Three lines.

Three breaths of a life long gone:

I must not let her forget me.

She drifts further each day.

I cannot lose her.

A cold ripple travelled down Elliot's spine.

He stared at the note, the air feeling suddenly thinner, the room smaller. Behind him, Sam shifted in her sleep, giving a quiet sigh as she curled into the warmth he’d left behind.

He glanced toward the bedroom door.

Closed.

Locked.

The note sat there, waiting. Calm, deliberate, as if placed with care.

Elliot swallowed hard, the weight of the words sinking like stones through his chest.

Not a scare. Not a threat. But a plea. A heartbreak trapped in ink.

He turned back to Sam, still sleeping deeply in his bed, unaware of the quiet intrusion. For a moment, the urge to wake her flickered. But he couldn’t. not yet. Not until he understood what this meant.

The morning felt colder now, the room holding its breath around him.

And Elliot realised, with a slow glowing dread: whatever lived in Room 2… was reaching out.