Embedded Files
Some games don’t end when the lights go out. In a house where whispers linger and dolls move without hands, Nellie learns that not every haunting belongs to a ghost—and not every child’s friend is imaginary.
Word Count: 10.4k
TW: canon-level violence. brief description of accidents. use of mild language.
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The low hum of a television drifts through the Russell house, flickering blue across the living room. On the couch, Lauren, a nineteen-year-old babysitter, has her homework spread out across the coffee table. Earbud dangling, she taps her pencil absently in time with the muffled beat of her music. Upstairs, the sound of giggling drifts down; high, playful, distinctly a little girl’s voice. Lauren sighs, pulling the bud from her ear.
“Emma?” she calls up the stairs. “It’s late. Time for bed.”
The giggling doesn’t stop. Lauren rolls her eyes and pushes herself up, climbing the stairs.
The hall is dim except for the light spilling from one bedroom. Inside, six-year-old Emma kneels on a pastel rug, surrounded by stuffed animals and toys. At the center sits a wooden dollhouse, its chipped, yellowed paint and uncanny little rooms giving it an odd weight. The little girl is carefully arranging porcelain dolls inside.
“You’re supposed to be in bed, kiddo,” Lauren says, leaning against the doorframe.
Emma doesn’t look up, just moves a doll into one of the tiny windows. “I just want to finish the game.”
The babysitter sighs, stepping closer despite herself. “What game?”
“This one’s you.” The girl holds up a porcelain doll with long painted hair and a tiny painted shirt, placing it near the dollhouse window.
Lauren gives a nervous laugh. “Yeah? Kinda creepy, but I guess it works.”
Emma picks up another doll, this one faceless, its features smoothed into blank porcelain, limbs jutting stiffly. She places it just behind the babysitter doll.
“And this is the bad one.”
Her smile falters. “Okay… that’s enough. Time for bed.”
The little girl frowns but doesn’t argue, climbing into bed as the babysitter tucks her in. She switches off the light, muttering to herself as she closes the door. “That kid’s imagination, I swear…”
Downstairs, Lauren sinks back onto the couch, reaching for her homework. She has barely picked up her pencil when her body jolts, becoming stiff, unnatural. Her hand freezes midair. Slowly, mechanically, she rises to her feet.
Confusion twists across her face. “What the hell…” she whispers, but her voice is flat, strained, as though forced out of her throat.
Her limbs carry her across the room against her will. She comes to a stop in front of the living room window, her reflection pale in the glass. Her arms go limp at her sides, head tilting slightly, eyes wide and vacant.
Upstairs, in the dollhouse, the tiny porcelain babysitter doll stands posed in the exact same spot, placed there by unseen hands. A blank doll shifts into position: porcelain smooth where features should have been, its stiff arms stretching toward the babysitter figure.
Lauren’s breath catches. Her hands shoot to her throat as she staggers, choking. She claws at her own skin, gasping for air that won’t come. The faint sound of porcelain clicking carries through the house, echoing from above. Her knees buckle. She collapses onto the rug, the world fading to black as her body stills. The dollhouse upstairs goes quiet, the faceless doll now frozen in its embrace around the smaller figure.
• • •
The Impala hums along the Oklahoma backroads, her engine steady against the flat stretch of highway. The sun starts its slow descent, bleeding gold across the horizon. Nellie has the laptop balanced on her knees, tapping through tabs while Sam drives, one hand on the wheel, the other nursing a Styrofoam cup of coffee.
“So,” Sam begins, “this case popped up a couple of days ago—mostly small-town Facebook chatter and local blogs. Everyone’s calling it a haunting. Girl named Lauren Taylor, babysitter, collapsed while watching a kid in this old Crawley place. No drugs, no health conditions. Just… boom. Out cold.”
“Sounds like a seizure,” Nellie says, but her tone is more hopeful than confident.
“Doctors ran every test,” he shakes his head. “Came back clean. EMTs said she was gasping for breath when they arrived—like she was being strangled.”
She grimaces. “So, ghost.”
“Maybe. Internet’s all over it,” he replies, gesturing his head towards the laptop.
She flips through the tabs. Comment threads were full of speculation, half of them scrawled with the usual prayers for Lauren and burn that haunted house down already.
Nellie takes a sip from her own coffee cup and mutters, “Love how everybody becomes a paranormal expert the second something freaky happens.”
Sam smirks. “You’d be surprised how often local gossip ends up being right. Looks like the Crawley place has had stories attached to it for years—cold spots, bad luck, whispers about a tragedy. All unconfirmed, but people are convinced.”
She leans back in the seat, pulling a foot underneath her while she thinks it over. “So we’re heading into a classic. Old house, weird history, unconscious babysitter. If it is a ghost, I’m betting it’s tied to the property, not the family.”
“That’s what we’re going to find out. First step, we pose as law enforcement, talk to Lauren, and see what she remembers. Then we figure out if we’re dealing with just another haunting…”
“Or something worse,” she finishes for him. She drums her fingers against the coffee cup, staring out at the highway lights flicking by. “So, when we roll into town… what’s the move? House first, or hospital?”
“Hospital,” he answers without hesitation. “Lauren’s the only eyewitness we’ve got. If she remembers anything—even if it sounds crazy—it could save us time.”
“Right. Classic step one.” She smirks faintly. “Talk to the survivor.”
Sam glances over at his niece, noting the way she is sitting straighter in the seat, almost rehearsing in her head. “You’ll be fine. Same cover we’ve used before—law enforcement. You just need to ask the right questions and get her talking.”
Nellie lets out a breath. “Yeah. I just… I don’t know. Interviewing someone who’s already traumatized makes me feel—”
“Like you’re prying.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s the job,” he replies, voice steady but gentle. “We don’t dig because we like it. We dig because it helps us stop it from happening again. Lauren could be the difference between us figuring this out and someone else ending up in a hospital bed.”
She nods, letting that settle in. After a moment, she says, “Alright. Hospital first, then we check the Crawley place. That way, we’ve got her story in our back pocket when we go in.”
He gives her a small, approving smile. “Now you’re thinking like a hunter.”
• • •
The fluorescent lights of the small-town hospital buzz overhead as Sam and Nellie walk down the hall, their suits sharp, badges clipped and ready. The night-shift nurse barely blinks when Sam flashes their credentials, just points them toward a door at the end of the row.
Lauren sits propped against a pile of stiff pillows, IV in her arm and a hospital blanket draped over her lap. She looks pale, but her eyes are sharp, watching the two of them as they step inside.
“Lauren Marks?” Sam says, his tone clipped but polite.
“Yeah.” Her voice is raspier than she probably realizes.
“We’re with county,” Nellie adds quickly, producing her badge in the practiced flick Sam had drilled into her. “We’d just like to ask you a few questions about the night you were admitted.”
Lauren shifts, tugging the blanket a little higher. “Already told the cops everything.”
“We know,” Sam says, setting his notebook on the rolling tray. “This is just a follow-up. Sometimes fresh eyes catch details others miss.”
She huffs softly, then nods. “Fine.”
Nellie leans forward, voice calm. “Can you walk us through what happened that night?”
Lauren rubs at her temple as if trying to summon the memory. “I put Emma to bed. She’s a sweet kid—no trouble at all. She wanted to play with her toys a little longer, but I told her it was lights out, tucked her in, and came back downstairs. That’s the last clear thing I remember.” Her brow furrows. “I woke up here. My throat was raw, like I’d been choking. Doctors said I collapsed. They don’t know why. Some kind of seizure, maybe? But I don’t have a history of anything like that.”
Nellie’s pen hovers over her notebook. “You don’t remember… anything else? Feeling strange? Seeing something?”
The girl hesitates, her eyes flicking between them. Then she lets out a brittle laugh. “I mean, people say the Crawley house is haunted. Old family money, tragedy, murder stories—standard small-town gossip. I thought it was just a paycheck. Mr. and Mrs. Russell are good people, and I needed the extra cash.” She shakes her head. “Guess I should’ve listened to the stories.”
Sam exchanges a subtle look with Nellie—this is more confirmation than denial, the kind of thing they’d heard before a hundred times.
Lauren sinks back against the pillows. “But no… nothing else. Just… black. One second, I was fine, the next I was waking up with a tube down my throat.”
Nellie closes her notebook softly. “Thank you, Ms. Marks. That helps more than you know.”
Her lips twist into a humorless smile. “Good. Maybe somebody will figure out what’s wrong with that place.”
Sam and Nellie stand, offering her a nod before stepping back into the hallway, the sterile air heavy around them.
“So,” she murmurs, “she puts Emma to bed, comes downstairs, blacks out. No memory until she woke up here.”
He nods. “Classic spirit sign.”
“Classic?” she repeats, raising a brow.
“Sudden unconsciousness, no medical explanation, and it’s tied to a specific location,” he answers. “It points to a haunting.”
She lets out a small breath, her relief tempered by nerves. “So maybe this one’s… straightforward.”
“Maybe,” he allows, though his tone carries the usual Winchester caution. “We should dig in some more. Check the history of the place, the families that lived there before, see if there’s anyone connected to it who’d still have a reason to stick around.”
She tilts her head, half-grinning. “So… homework before we hunt?”
He shoots her a side glance, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Exactly. The boring part saves our lives. Trust me, we’re better off not walking in blind.”
They push through the sliding doors into the night air, the Impala waiting under a flickering streetlight.
Nellie crosses her arms and exhales slowly. “Alright. History lesson first, then haunted house.”
Sam gives a slight nod. “Exactly. We’ll hit the motel, dig into records, and if something lines up, we’ll figure out the next move.”
She smiles faintly as they walk toward the car. “Nothing like late-night archives and takeout to really round out the spooky vibe.”
He chuckles. “Welcome to hunting.”
• • •
The motel room is dim but warm, lit by the yellow glow of the single lamp on the table. Grease-stained takeout boxes crowd the space between Sam’s laptop and Nellie’s stack of yellowed clippings from the local paper. The smell of fried food and cheap coffee mingle with the faint musk of the room’s stale curtains.
Nellie leans back in her chair, her notebook balanced across her knees, scrolling through scanned archives on the library site. “So far I’ve got… a drowning in the bathtub, 1962. Owner’s wife. No history of illness or depression, just—poof.” She taps her pen against the page. “Then in the seventies, a little boy broke his neck falling down the stairs. Early nineties, guy dies in his sleep—heart attack—except he was in his thirties and had no medical history.”
Sam’s brow knits tighter as he scans his own findings. “That lines up. Everything ties back to the Crawleys. Henry Crawley made a fortune in oil back in the early 1900s. Big house, big name in town. Then—scandal. Both Crawley parents were murdered in their own home. No suspects were ever named, but the gossip column of the time suggests that the incident was business-related. Rivals in the oil trade, maybe.”
She looks up from her notebook. “So the family gets wiped out, and then every new family who moves in gets hit with some ‘accident.’ That’s more than a coincidence.”
He rubs a hand over his jaw. “Yeah. Haunted house fits the pattern. Something’s tied to that place—and it’s not letting go.”
She frowns, flipping through the brittle pages of one article until her eyes snag on a familiar name. “Here. Eloise Crawley—the daughter. Survived the murders. The paper says she was shipped off to relatives, then sent to an institution in New York. Labeled… ‘unstable.’” Her voice softens. “Kid loses her whole family, of course, she wasn’t stable.”
He leans over to read the clipping with her. “And she dies there years later. Alone.” He sat back, tapping his pen against the laptop. “If anything’s haunting that house, my first guess is Eloise.”
Nellie pushes her food container aside, her appetite gone. “So maybe she’s angry. Or maybe she’s just… lonely.” She chews on the inside of her cheek, unsettled. “Either way, it’s always the kids who end up in the middle.”
Sam glances up at her, hearing the weight in her tone, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he closes his laptop and nods. “Alright. We’ve got a foundation. Tomorrow, we check out the house itself. See if it feels as bad as the records make it sound.”
She lets out a sharp exhale, shutting her notebook. “Great. A visit to the haunted mansion. What could go wrong?”
Sam gave her the barest ghost of a smile. “That’s the spirit.”
• • •
The Russell place has the easy charm of a historic home — a wide porch, newly painted paneling, and fixtures that still sport that old-world charm. From the curb, it looks safe, ordinary. Inside, though, the air feels heavier, like the walls carry whispers.
Sam and Nellie are greeted at the door by Emma’s mother, Kara, with her sister, Claire, close behind. Emma’s father, Richard, appears from the hall, tightening the tie around his neck. They all look wary, though the aunt seems the most relieved when the badges come out.
“Just following up on what happened the other night,” Sam explains in his even, professional tone. “Lauren’s statement covered the basics, but we like to be thorough. Sometimes families notice details after the fact.”
Kara smooths a hand over her blouse. “Of course. Poor Lauren… we still can’t believe it.”
“She’s recovering,” Claire says quickly, voice tight. “We’re just grateful she’s alive.”
Sam nods, pulling his small notebook from his jacket pocket. He asks the expected questions first: time of night, routine, and whether Emma seemed upset. The answers line up neatly. Nothing unusual, nothing out of place.
Then Sam leans just slightly, tone casual. “Any odd disturbances lately? Cold drafts, noises you couldn’t explain? Doors opening or closing?”
Richard frowns. “We’ve only been here six months. It’s an old house, sure, you hear creaks. But nothing I’d call strange.”
The mother hesitates, arms crossing. “It’s a family home. You hear things — pipes, wood shifting. Honestly, I think people like to spook themselves about these old houses.”
Sam scribbles something into the notebook, his face neutral, but Nellie can tell he isn’t satisfied. She lets her gaze drift toward the staircase, instincts tugging. Something about the upper floor makes her chest tighten. She shifts her badge between her fingers and speaks softly, almost tentatively:
“Would it be alright if I talked to Emma?”
Kara hesitates, glancing at her sister. Claire shrugs, almost relieved at the offer. “She’s upstairs in her room. I’ll take you up.”
Nellie gives her uncle a look. He returns the smallest of nods, telling her without words that he’ll hold the downstairs while she follows her gut.
The parents move back toward the living room, Sam sliding into easy small talk with them. Nellie lingers at the foot of the stairs, staring upward. The quiet stretches just long enough for the unease to settle in her bones before she sets her hand on the banister and follows Claire up. At the top of the stairs, the aunt directs Nellie to the first room in the hallway.
The smell of crayons and fresh paint lingers in the air. The walls are painted a gentle pastel yellow, though most of the light came from the little lamp beside a twin bed. A girl sits cross-legged on the floor, her small body half-hidden by a cluster of dolls and stuffed animals. She doesn’t look up when Nellie enters, just keeps humming softly, a tune that rises and falls in an odd, uneven rhythm.
“Hey there,” Nellie says, lowering her voice to that careful tone she used when approaching shy kids at the diner years ago. “I’m Officer Nash. Your Aunt Claire said I could come talk to you for a bit.”
Emma gives the slightest shrug, still carefully setting two dolls into a little tableau by the wooden house. One doll sits stiff in a chair; the other leans against the doorway.
Nellie lowers herself onto the rug, careful not to crowd. She clasps her hands loosely, letting a moment of silence pass before she speaks again.
“Can I ask you about the other night? When Lauren got hurt?”
The little girl doesn’t answer right away. She moves one doll, sets it flat on the ground, as if it is lying down. “She was supposed to be asleep,” she says simply, still not looking up. “But my friend didn’t like her.”
Nellie blinks, her heart giving a quick, sharp thud. She keeps her tone steady. “Your friend?”
Another shrug. Emma swaps dolls again, her small fingers making them walk stiffly across the floor. “They play with me when Mommy and Daddy go away. They tell me things.”
The humming resumes, tuneless and low, like Emma is only half paying attention. Nellie leaned forward slightly, studying the girl’s face for some clue — imagination, or something else?
“What kinds of things?” she asks softly.
The girl finally looks up, her wide eyes solemn, older than her years. “They said Lauren shouldn’t boss me around. That she didn’t belong here.”
The words sit heavy in the room. Nellie tries to find something gentle to say, but before she can, Emma adds, “They said she didn’t like how Lauren smelled.” She wrinkles her nose, childlike again for a heartbeat. Then, as if it is the most normal thing in the world, she goes back to arranging her dolls.
Nellie’s fingers curl against her knees. “And… do you like when your friend comes?”
She tilts her head in consideration, then gives another little shrug. “Sometimes. They play nice.” Her voice drops to a whisper, almost conspiratorial. “Sometimes they get mad.”
The dolls clack faintly as Emma sets them in a line. She moves one to stand by the miniature stairway of the dollhouse, another at the bottom.
“They don’t like you either,” she says suddenly, her tone flat. Not cruel, not mocking, just factual, as if repeating something she’s been told.
Nellie’s stomach flips. She works hard not to show it on her face, keeping her posture relaxed. “Oh?”
Emma nods, eyes on her toys again. “They said you’re weird. Different.” She picks up a teddy bear and sets it in the center of the rug. Then, still watching the toy, she whispers, “They say you’ll see.”
The hum of the house seems to grow louder in the silence that follows. Nellie can feel her pulse in her throat. Emma doesn’t say anything more, just starts humming again, lifting her dolls one by one into the dollhouse’s tiny rooms as though nothing had happened.
Nellie stands slowly, her legs feeling unsteady beneath her. “Thanks for talking with me, Emma. You’ve been… very helpful.”
The little girl doesn’t look up.
She closes the door gently behind her, exhaling only once she is back in the hall. Nothing about this feels like the usual restless spirit case Sam had described. Something is wrong here, and whatever it is, it has already noticed her. She comes down the stairs with a practiced, polite smile, the kind she used to wear when a shift at the diner felt too long and the customers too nosy. Emma’s parents and aunt look up expectantly from the living room.
“She’s fine,” Nellie says lightly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Just a little shy. Didn’t say much.”
Kara exhales, her shoulders sagging with relief. “She hasn’t talked much about what happened. We were worried she was… bottling it up.”
She gives a small shake of her head. “She seems alright. Just distracted with her toys.”
They wrap up after a few more minutes, Sam shaking hands and thanking the family for their time. Nellie stays close, keeping her face calm until they are outside, walking toward the Impala.
The moment the car doors close and the world goes quiet around them, her mask slips. She sits stiff in the passenger seat, staring out the windshield.
“You okay?” Sam asks, voice low, watching her out of the corner of his eye.
“I didn’t feel anything,” she says quickly, almost defensively. “Not like the mill.” Her hands twist in her lap. “If it’s a spirit, I should’ve picked something up. But I didn’t.”
He drums his fingers against the steering wheel, thoughtful. “Doesn’t rule it out. Some spirits go dormant. Only flare up at certain times — anniversaries, the right trigger. Timing can make all the difference.”
Nellie nods, chewing the inside of her cheek. She opens her mouth to respond, but then shakes her head as if to shake the memory loose.
He doesn’t push; he just gives her that steady look, patient and unyielding. “We’ll figure it out. Let’s head back to the motel. Dig into the house’s history and the families who lived there. See what else lines up.”
She nods again, quieter this time. As the Impala rolls back onto the road, she presses her palm to her thigh, grounding herself in the low rumble of the engine. Sam is calm, methodical, and already thinking about research and patterns. But Nellie can’t shake the image of Emma’s solemn little face, or the way the girl had said it so casually: They don’t like you either.
• • •
The glow of twin laptops cast pale light across the cluttered motel table. Sam has spread newspapers across the bed nearest him, with a highlighter tucked behind his ear. Nellie perches cross-legged on the other bed, a takeout box balanced on her knee, tapping through digital archives with the kind of restless focus that suggests she is keeping her thoughts at bay.
“So,” Sam says, breaking the silence. He gestures with his fork at the screen in front of him. “House has a history. Couple of accidents in the ’60s, one in the ’80s. A string of ‘bad luck’ with families after that — falls, illnesses, freak fires. Nothing that ties cleanly to one spirit, but definitely a pattern.”
“Always the same house?” Nellie asks without looking up.
“Always.”
She chews, swallows, and closes her laptop with a quiet click. “Emma said she had a friend.” Her tone is careful, like she isn’t sure she wants to give the words any weight.
He straightens up and looks over at her, waiting.
“She said her friend didn’t like Lauren,” she continues. “Said it like it was obvious. And then…” Her lips press thin, her hand curling against her thigh. “Then she said this friend didn’t like me either.”
Sam’s brow furrows, the crease between his eyes deepening. “Kids have imaginary friends all the time.”
“This wasn’t… imaginary.” She shakes her head. “You didn’t see her face. It wasn’t a game. She believed it.”
He is quiet for a long beat, gaze fixing on the mess of clippings on the bed. Finally, he exhales. “Alright. If it’s a spirit, maybe it’s attached to the kid. Or using her as a conduit.” He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “But you don’t think so.”
Nellie shakes her head again. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel the same. At the mill, I felt him. This time…” She trails off, frustrated. “It’s like I’m missing something. Like the puzzle piece isn’t even from the same box.”
He gives her a slight nod, steady as ever. “Then we keep digging. Tomorrow, we go back. Talk to the parents directly. Keep an eye on Emma. See if this ‘friend’ shows up again.”
Nellie leans back against the headboard, pulling the Styrofoam carton into her lap. She isn’t hungry anymore, but eating gives her something to do. She doesn’t say it aloud, but Sam already knows from the way her eyes flick to the darkened corner of the room: whatever is in that house, it isn’t just a ghost story.
• • •
The motel room is dark, only the thin yellow glow of the streetlamp outside leaking through the blinds. Sam sits at the table with his laptop open, papers spread around him, the scratch of his pen steady against the page. Across the room, Nellie is curled beneath the blanket, her breathing slow and even—until it isn’t.
Her head jerks against the pillow, face tightening.
In her dream, Emma sits cross-legged on the floor of her room, dolls scattered across the floor. Her small hands move them in silence, arranging and rearranging. Behind her, faint sounds echoed: the sharp cry of a woman tumbling down the stairs, the thud of a body hitting the floor. A man’s gasp, ragged, then a wet cough.
Nellie turns, seeing Kara sprawled at the bottom of the staircase, eyes glassy with shock. Richard slumped in his armchair, one hand clutching his chest. And Emma? She keeps playing, smiling faintly as though nothing is wrong.
The porcelain dolls in front of her mirroring the scene perfectly.
Nellie bolts upright in bed with a gasp. Her chest heaves, her hair clinging damp to her forehead. Sam nearly drops his pen, already halfway to her side.
“Nell?” His voice is urgent but steady. “You okay?”
Her eyes are wide, panicked, unfocused for a second before locking onto him. “We have to go back. Now.”
He freezes, his mind flashing back years—Jess, the visions, the helpless certainty. “What do you mean?”
“I—” She swallows, clutching at the blanket. “I don’t know. I just… I saw it. Emma. Her parents. They’re in danger, Sam. Something’s happening right now.”
His stomach drops, but he doesn’t waste time questioning. He knows that look. He’d worn it himself, once upon a time.
“Alright,” he says, firm. Already grabbing his jacket and his keys. “If you saw it, we’ll go.”
Nellie climbs shakily to her feet, still trembling, but there is fire in her eyes beneath the fear. She doesn’t realize she’d just had her first vision, but Sam does. And that scares him almost as much as what they are about to walk into.
By the time the Impala turns down the quiet suburban street, the wash of red and blue lights already paints the night. Two ambulances sitting at the curb, back doors yawning open. EMTs wheeled stretchers down the front path: Richard strapped to one, oxygen mask pressing against his face, Kara limp but groaning as they lift her onto another.
Nellie’s breath hitches. It is exactly what she’d seen.
Sam pulls over hard and grabs their badges before stepping out. His stride is brisk, practiced authority in every line of him, while Nellie fights to keep her hands from shaking as she follows.
On the porch, Claire clutches Emma tightly against her side, her face pale with shock. “They just—both of them—” she stammers, her voice thin and ragged. “It was like something out of nowhere. He just collapsed and she—she fell down the stairs—”
“We heard,” Sam says, calm but firm. “We’ll need to take a look inside. Sometimes accidents aren’t as random as they seem.”
Claire blinks at him, still reeling, then nods numbly. “Whatever you need.” She pulls the little girl closer, as if shielding her from the night.
Emma doesn’t cling back. Her big eyes just drift toward Nellie, strangely calm, even bored, as she asks in a sing-song voice, “Can I go play now?”
Nellie’s stomach twists. She crouches down briefly, managing a soft, “Maybe in a little bit, sweetheart,” before standing again.
Sam meets the aunt’s eyes. “Let us sweep the house. Just to be sure.”
The woman gives another distracted nod, clearly desperate for someone to take control. She guides Emma toward a neighbor who’d come to help, leaving Sam and Nellie free to cross the threshold.
Inside, the air feels heavy. The staircase looms, carpet still rumpled where the mother had fallen. The living room holds a discarded blanket, a toppled mug of tea. It looks like any other house, except Nellie’s pulse is racing, her vision replaying over and over.
Sam’s EMF reader stays quiet as they begin their sweep. “Nothing yet,” he comments, glancing toward her.
They work methodically, their sweep covering the kitchen, the living room, the stairwell, even the narrow laundry room tucked behind the garage door. Salt lines, EMF readings, and careful checks of the windows and frames. Nothing. No spikes, no cold drafts, no flickers of energy.
Finally, Sam clicks the EMF off, the silence sharp in the still house. “Not a damn thing,” he mutters under his breath, frustration ghosting his expression.
Nellie rubs her arms, unsettled. “It doesn’t make sense. Something’s here—I know it is. But it’s not acting like a spirit.”
His gaze shifts to the porch where Emma sits in her aunt’s lap, humming softly to herself while the neighbor tries to make small talk. His jaw tightens.
Both step back outside, Sam stepping close to Claire, lowering his voice to something firm but reassuring. “I’d recommend you not stay here tonight. After what just happened, it’s not safe. Take Emma to your place, or a hotel, just until we can be sure this was an accident and nothing more.”
The woman’s eyes flicker nervously back toward the staircase.
Sam gives her that steady look he’s perfected over the years, the one that makes people trust him without question. “It’ll all be okay. We’ll finish up our inspection and lock the house up for you.”
The aunt nods quickly, pulling Emma closer. “Alright. I’ll take her to my place.” She gathers up a hastily packed overnight bag, still rattled, then guides Emma toward her car. The little girl glances over her shoulder once, her little hand clutching a stuffed rabbit. Her wide eyes meet Nellie’s, calm, almost knowing.
“They really don’t like you now,” she says solemnly before she climbs into the backseat.
The car pulls away, leaving the street quiet again.
Nellie stares down the street, long after the car disappeared. “I just got Sixth Sensed by a six-year-old.”
“Not the weirdest thing you’ll experience in this life,” he replies with a small smile. He exhales and looks back at his niece. “Alright. The house is ours for the night. Let’s see what we’re really dealing with.”
They walk back inside, Sam locking the front door behind them, then leans against it for a moment, exhaling slowly. “You feel that?”
Nellie frowns, hugging her arms across her chest. “Yeah. It’s not… nothing. But it’s not like the Rag Man either. That was sharp, heavy. This is…” She shakes her head, frustrated. “It’s slippery. Like whatever it is doesn’t want to be found.”
He studies her carefully, the way her expression twists between unease and determination. He knows she is picking up things he can’t. “That’s useful,” he says softly. “Even when it doesn’t feel like it. Sometimes the absence of the usual signs tells us more than a spike on the EMF ever could.”
She glances up at him, a little surprised by his calm tone. “You think it’s not a spirit.”
“I’m saying we don’t jump to conclusions,” he replies, pushing off the door. “Whatever this is, it wanted the parents hurt. And if it lines up with your dream, then it’s not finished yet.”
Her stomach twists at the reminder. “Sam, I’ve never had… a dream like that before. I don’t even know what it means.”
“You don’t have to know yet,” he tells her gently. “You trusted it enough to get us here in time. That’s what matters. We’ll figure out the rest.”
For a moment, she just nods, though the words don’t fully ease the tension sitting in her chest. The thought of Emma’s calm little eyes meeting hers on the porch won’t leave her.
He adjusts his grip on the duffel. “Come on. Let’s prep. If this thing shows its face—or whatever it is—I want us ready.”
The quiet conversation lingers between them as they move into hunter mode. Sam sets the duffel on the living room coffee table and unzips it, pulling out canisters of salt, the EMF, chalk, and a small bundle of sigils already pre-drawn onto heavy paper.
“Let’s start basic,” he says, his voice taking on that steady, methodical rhythm Nellie had started to recognize as his investigative gear shifting into place. “Salt lines on doors and windows, see if we can contain anything.”
She grabs one of the canisters without hesitation. The rhythmic sprinkle of salt along the front doorframe feels almost grounding, the granules catching in the light as she works. “It feels weird doing this when the EMF hasn’t even twitched,” she mutters.
“That’s the point,” he replies, carefully laying down chalk symbols along the window ledge. “If it is a spirit, we’ll know soon enough. If it isn’t—salt won’t hurt.”
They work through the first floor, quiet except for the scratch of chalk and the scrape of salt. Nellie’s eyes drift across the house as they move, her hand brushing along the banister as they climb the stairs. She lets her palm rest there, concentrating, hoping for that same pulse of energy she’d felt in the mill.
Nothing.
Just polished wood, cool and solid under her hand.
She frowns and tries again when they reach the upstairs hall, letting her fingertips graze the wallpaper. Still nothing. No impressions, no shadows lingering at the edges of her mind.
Sam notices her hesitation. “Anything?”
She shakes her head, her brows knitting. “No. Not like before. The Rag Man—it was like… a storm pressing against my skin. This house just feels… empty.”
He crouches by a hallway vent, sprinkling salt inside. “Then maybe it’s not a spirit,” he says, half to himself. “Or maybe whatever’s here doesn’t leave an imprint the same way.”
Nellie lingers by one of the bedroom doors, her hand hovering just over the frame. She shuts her eyes, trying to stretch that strange sensitivity farther, but all she feels is an ache in her temples and the distant creak of the old house settling.
“Whatever it is, it doesn’t want to be found,” she mutters.
Sam straightens, looking at her. “Or it doesn’t play by the same rules.”
The two of them exchange a look in the dim hallway, the faint glow of the EMF still dead in Sam’s other hand. Salt lines and sigils are in place. The house is quiet.
Too quiet.
Nellie slips into Emma’s room last, pausing in the doorway. Her eyes wander over the shelves stacked with storybooks, the scattered stuffed animals on the bed. And then she sees it, tucked against the far wall, near the window.
A dollhouse.
It is tall, almost as big as a small dresser, its yellowing white paint peeling around ornate trim and miniature windows. For a moment, she feels her chest tighten. The more she looks, the more it unsettles her. It isn’t just a dollhouse. It is this house. Every angle of the roofline, the same windows, the same narrow staircase leading upstairs.
She crouches down in front of it, studying the tiny furniture arranged neatly in each room. Someone had placed porcelain dolls in the parlor and kitchen, posed as though frozen mid-task. She pushes herself back up, brushing her palms against her slacks as though dust clings to her. “It’s just a dollhouse,” she mutters under her breath, even though the words don’t ease the prickling unease in her skin.
She steps out and joins Sam downstairs. He is hunched at the dining table, flipping through a stack of county property records he’d pulled up on his laptop.
“Upstairs is clean,” she reports, slipping into the chair across from him. “Salt’s down, sigils are up. Nothing… nothing I could feel.”
He glances up, his expression thoughtful. “Alright. Then we go at it from the history angle. If this place is tied to the Crawleys, there’s gotta be more in the record than just a scandal.”
She nods, pulling one of the printouts closer to her. “Let’s dig deeper. See what else this house has been hiding.”
It doesn’t take long for the dining room table to look more like a war desk than a place to eat. Layered in printouts, county ledgers, and Sam’s laptop, casting a pale glow across his face.
He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand, scrolling through yet another brittle record scan. “More obituaries, more rumors, and more dead ends,” he mutters. “Nothing that explains why this place is acting the way it is.”
Nellie leans back in her chair, arms folded, her jaw tight. “Feels like chasing shadows. I swear, it’s like the house is hiding its own secrets on purpose.”
He is about to agree when his eyes catch on a line in a handwritten family record. He frowns, scrolling closer. “Wait. Here—this is from Eloise Crawley’s admission file to St. Augustine’s Asylum in New York.”
She straightens in her chair. “Eloise. The daughter?”
“Yeah.” He taps the screen, reading aloud. “‘Subject exhibits obsessive attachment to miniature dwelling toy, frequently enacting elaborate scenarios with imaginary figures. Family relation reports child refuses to sleep without dollhouse in proximity.”
For a beat, Nellie just stares at him. Then she blinks, remembering the upstairs room. “Sam… I saw a dollhouse in Emma’s room. Old, real old. Looked just like this place.”
His head snaps up. “Like this house?”
“Down to the roofline,” she confirms firmly. “I didn’t think much of it. Figured it was just a toy. But if Eloise was attached to one…” Her voice trails off, unsettled.
Sam shuts the laptop slowly, the weight of the connection settling between them. “Okay. That’s not just a coincidence. If that’s the same dollhouse, or even connected to it somehow—”
“—then we might not be dealing with a ghost at all,” Nellie finishes, her eyes dark with unease.
He draws in a steadying breath, already pushing his chair back. “Alright. Let’s go take another look.”
The floorboards creak softly under their weight as they climb the stairs. Emma’s room sits at the front of the hall, its door still ajar from Nellie’s earlier visit. The space looks deceptively calm in the pale lamplight. Stuffed animals are tucked neatly against the bedspread, and pastel curtains frame the window.
But the dollhouse dominates the far wall.
Nellie steps toward it slowly, crouching down to get a closer look. Her breath catches. She hadn’t noticed before, not really. But now that she is paying attention, two porcelain dolls are posed stiffly in the miniature living room: a man slumped against a couch clutching his chest, a woman sprawled at the base of the staircase.
Just like Claire had described. Just like she had seen in her dream.
Her stomach drops.
“Sam,” she whispers, without taking her eyes off the tiny figures. “Look.”
He crouches beside her, his jaw tightening as he studies the scene.
Nellie reaches out almost without thinking, fingertips brushing one of the dollhouse’s walls.
The flash hits her instantly.
A burst of cold.
A chorus of whispers; layered voices like porcelain teeth clicking together.
Pale faces, cracking down the middle, swarm her vision.
They aren’t children’s toys.
They’re watchers. Hungry.
Nellie gasps and jerks her hand back, stumbling until her shoulder bumps the side of Emma’s tea table. Her pulse hammers in her ears.
Sam is already on his feet, steady and alert. “What happened?”
She presses a hand to her temple, struggling to shake the images. “It’s not just a toy. I… I felt it. Like it was alive. The dolls, the voices…” Her voice falters, breath hitching. “It knows things, Sam.”
He glances back at the dollhouse, expression grim. “If Eloise was tied to it, maybe the trauma got bound up in there. But the way you’re reacting… this isn’t just a spirit hanging on to an object.”
She hugs her arms across her chest, still rattled. “Then what is it?”
His eyes linger on the dollhouse, the tiny staged tableau of death within it. His voice drops low. “A cursed object.” He straightens, moving a half-step in front of his niece like a shield. He keeps his voice calm, measured. “I’ve seen plenty of cursed objects before. They usually get tethered to trauma, or blood, or intent. The thing is, destroying them depends on the material, the link. Some you burn, some you melt, some you’ve gotta dismantle piece by piece.”
She swallows, still staring at the dollhouse as though it might blink. “So… what do you think this is?”
Before Sam can answer, the lamplight above Emma’s bed flickers. Once. Twice. Then steadies again.
Her eyes dart up, her pulse tightening.
His gaze doesn’t leave the dollhouse. “That’s it,” he mutters. “It knows we’re talking about it.”
A faint creak draws Nellie’s attention back down. One of the porcelain dolls inside—the father doll—shifts ever so slightly, its stiff arm twitching like a marionette pulled by invisible strings.
“Sam…”
“I see it.” He crouches again, not daring to touch the miniature, but his hunter’s eye scans every surface. “It’s reacting to us.”
As if to prove him right, the curtains at the real bedroom window sway without a draft. On the dollhouse, the tiny painted curtains quiver too.
Her skin prickles. “It’s mirroring the house.”
He nods grimly. “Not just mirroring. Controlling.”
The two stand there in tense silence, every instinct screaming that the longer they stay in that room, the stronger the dollhouse will get.
“We’ve gotta figure out exactly what it’s tied to and fast,” Sam says. “If this thing scripts the future the way it reenacts the past, then Emma and her family aren’t the only ones in danger anymore.”
Nellie doesn’t have to ask what he means. Because on the far wall of the dollhouse, two new dolls have appeared; one tall, one small, their clothes eerily familiar.
Sam and Nellie.
Her breath catches in her throat. She backs a step away, hugging her arms to her chest. “It’s writing us in.” Her voice is tight, strained. “Sam, it’s already pulling us into the story.”
He nods grimly, scanning the dollhouse with a hunter’s practiced calculation. “That means it’s escalating. We don’t have long before it tries something.” He turns, already reaching for their duffel. “We need to move, now. No salt-and-burn is gonna cut it unless we know what this thing’s anchored to.”
Nellie presses her palms to her ears, then freezes. Not silence. Not her own pulse. A low chorus of whispers. Her hands fall, trembling, her eyes lock on the dollhouse. The whispers aren’t in her head… at least, not entirely. They seep from the tiny wooden frame, thin as wind through a keyhole.
“They’re… talking,” she whispers.
Sam glances at her sharply. “What do you mean, talking?”
“Whispers,” she replies, her voice barely audible. “Like porcelain clicking. I can’t make it out—just… fragments.” She presses her hands against her temples, shivering. “It feels like it’s trying to crawl inside my head.”
He steps between her and the dollhouse, jaw tight. “Hey, stay with me. Don’t let it pull you in. Whatever it is, it feeds off attention. We’re not giving it the chance.”
Still, Nellie’s wide eyes flick past him, toward the little figures that now bear their shapes. The whispers pressing at her mind, not words exactly, but intent, heavy and invasive.
Sam unzips the duffel, yanking out iron tools, a flask of holy water, and a small hammer wrapped in a rag. “We test everything. Wood, paint, porcelain. If it doesn’t burn, we smash it. If it doesn’t smash, we’ll find its tie to Eloise and cut it there.”
She nods shakily, trying to focus on his voice instead of the hiss crawling at the edge of her hearing. But when she looks back one more time, the Sam doll inside the house has tilted its head, just slightly, as if it is watching her.
The real Sam sets aside the duffel, glancing over at his selection of tools. “We test it piece by piece. If the thing fights back, we—”
He cuts off, realizing Nellie hasn’t answered.
“Nell?”
She stands frozen a few feet away, eyes fixed on the dollhouse. Her face is pale, her breathing shallow, her lips parting like she wants to speak but can’t.
He follows her gaze.
Beside the tiny Sam and Nellie figures in the miniature Emma’s room stands a third doll. Its porcelain head is smooth, featureless, an uncanny blank. Arms bent stiffly at its sides, its black-gloss surface swallowing the light.
“Nellie.” His voice sharpens, urgent now.
She blinks but doesn’t look at him. Her whole body trembles slightly, locked in place.
“I… can’t move,” she whispers, her voice dry, strained. “It feels like—” Her throat bobs. “Like something is holding me.”
He surges to his feet, stepping toward her. “No. You’re not. Look at me, Nellie. Not the damn dollhouse.”
But her eyes are glassy, catching in its pull, as if invisible strings hold her upright. The blank porcelain figure inside the dollhouse has lifted one of its arms, stiffly, unnaturally. Nellie’s own arm twitches in mimicry.
Sam swears under his breath, moving fast. He snatches the flask of holy water, splashing it across the dollhouse’s roof and walls. The wood hisses and smokes faintly, the whispers rising in a shrill chorus.
Nellie gasps, staggering as if something broke loose inside her chest. Her knees buckle, but he catches her before she hits the floor.
“You with me?” he demands, gripping her shoulders, forcing her eyes onto him.
She nods shakily, though her hands still clench tight, stiff from the phantom grip. “It—It had me. Sam, it had me.”
Behind them, the blank porcelain doll topples sideways inside the miniature, only to right itself again, slow and deliberate.
He pulls her back a step, putting himself between her and the dollhouse. His voice is grim. “Then we don’t give it another chance.”
The moment he pulled Nellie back, the dollhouse begins to rattle violently, its miniature furniture clattering inside like a storm had been loosed in its tiny rooms.
Then the real house answers.
The bedroom door slams shut with a deafening crack, windows shuddering in their panes. The overhead light flickers erratically, shadows twisting across the walls.
“Sam—” Her voice breaks into a cry as she stumbles, clawing at the air. Her hands raise to her head, yanking at her hair as if unseen fingers are tangled in it, pulling cruelly. “It’s—touching me!”
Sam spins toward her. Her hair lifts, tugging sharply back though nothing visible touches it. Thin red lines blossom along her arms, shallow scratches like sharp ceramic had been dragged across her skin.
“Hey! Eyes on me, Nellie. Fight it!” he barks, but he sees her beginning to seize up again, her movements stiffening as though she is being folded into that dollhouse version of herself.
His eyes cut to the miniature. The blank porcelain figure still stands; arms stretching stiffly toward the Nellie doll. The tiny replica of her is beginning to tilt unnaturally, like a puppet pulled by the wrong strings.
“No, you don’t,” he growls. He strides forward, grabbing the porcelain Nellie-doll with one hand, and hurls it to the hardwood floor. Before it can even roll, his boot comes down hard.
The porcelain shatters with a sharp crack.
The real Nellie’s body convulses, a violent jolt running through her. Then she crumples against him, sucking in air like she’s been drowning. The invisible hands tearing at her hair and scratching at her skin are gone.
Sam holds her upright, one arm bracing firmly around her. “You with me?”
Her breaths come ragged, tears streaking her face, but she nods. “Y-Yeah. It let go.”
The dollhouse goes quiet for the first time in minutes, its windows dark again. But the silence feels worse than the noise; a waiting, hateful stillness that presses in on them both.
His jaw tightens. He doesn’t let go of her as he mutters grimly, “That was round one.”
The dollhouse rattles again, its tiny lights flaring to life, each window glowing with an unnatural pale gleam. Miniature furniture scraping against miniature floors. Sam’s head snaps toward it. The porcelain figure that looks like him is thrown out of the room into the tiny hallway. At the exact same moment, he staggers violently, his back hitting the hallway wall. As he scrambles up, he is seemingly pushed towards the stairs, the banister creaking under the sudden weight, the floor groaning as if it means to give way.
“Sam!” Nellie shouts, lunging forward.
But the faceless doll is there again, looming blank and stiff in the dollhouse, its cracked porcelain head turned toward her. Invisible force clamps around her arms and chest, yanking her back, holding her in place.
Sam’s boot slips on the edge of the step. For a heart-stopping second, he is half over the railing, his weight ready to carry him down in a bone-breaking fall.
“No!” Nellie’s whole body shakes. Her chest burns, her head pounding. The porcelain grip only tightens.
And then something inside her snaps.
The pressure that has been clutching her twists against something deeper; a surge of energy she doesn’t reach for but that pours out of her anyway. White-hot and jagged, it lashed outward like a sudden current. Just like that night, her mother almost killed Sam.
The air crackles. The faceless doll jerks violently inside the dollhouse, flying against the miniature wall. The hold on her breaks.
She gasps, stumbling free, her hands trembling, eyes wide. The dollhouse lights flicker and dim as though recoiling from her.
Sam catches himself, braced hard against the wall, heart hammering. He looks at her, his expression fierce and startled all at once. “Nell… what did you just do?”
“I—” Her breath hitches, eyes darting toward the faceless doll, now split with a thin crack down its porcelain torso. She shakes her head, still buzzing from the surge in her veins. “I don’t know. It just… happened.”
He straightens, jaw tightening as his gaze cuts toward the cursed dollhouse, still humming faintly in the silence.
“Then we use it,” he says grimly. “Because I don’t think this thing’s done yet.”
The air in Emma’s room only grows heavier, thick with a pressure that presses against the walls. The dollhouse shakes violently on the floor, its windows blazing with pale light. Porcelain dolls rattling in their places, some tumbling to the floor only to jerk upright again.
Sam yanks open their duffel, tossing salt, iron, and a small silver bowl onto the floor. “We end it now.” He begins drawing a circle, his voice low and sharp with urgency. “Cursed objects—ritual destruction. We burn the link that anchors it. Once it starts, don’t stop.”
The house itself lashes out in response. The bedroom door slamming open and closed, dresser drawers flying open and slamming again. A lamp shatters, sparks flaring.
“Keep it together!” Sam barks as he lights the first pinch of herbs. The smoke curls thick and acrid, the bowl trembling in his hands.
Nellie grabs the matches, striking them against the box, her hands shaking. The flame flares just as the faceless doll twists its stiff arms toward her. Suddenly, her body locks again, her throat tightening as if invisible porcelain hands are cinching around her.
Sam grabs the shotgun from the duffel, slamming a salt round into the gun and fires. The dollhouse shrieks—actually shrieks—as a window blows apart in a spray of splinters. The grip on Nellie loosens just enough for her to stagger free.
“Nellie—help me finish this!”
She drops to her knees beside the circle, blood buzzing in her ears. Instinct rising sharp and desperate. Pressing her palms to the floor, she reaches, her psychic senses tangling with the wrongness bleeding from the dollhouse. Her nose begins to bleed, her head pounding, but she shoves harder.
The dolls inside twitch violently. Hairline cracks snake across their porcelain faces, splitting wider under her push. The replicas of Emma’s parents shatter first, then the eerie miniatures of herself and Sam. Finally, the faceless doll screams in a voice that isn’t a voice and splinters into shards.
The light in the dollhouse windows guttered, fading as Sam’s chant hit its last words. He thrusts the burning herbs inside. It convulses, with walls buckling and the roof sagging inward, until the whole structure collapses in on itself, splintering, cracking, and folding into nothing but scorched wood and porcelain dust. The oppressive force vanishes in an instant, leaving only the faint smell of smoke and silence.
Nellie collapses backward, wiping blood from her nose, breath hitching and ragged.
Sam drops beside her, his hand steadying on her shoulder. He searches her face, his chest tightening at the sight of the blood streaking down from her nose.
“Nell—hey. Look at me.” His voice is low but urgent as he tips her chin gently toward him.
She blinks hard, dazed, her breath shallow. “I’m fine…” she rasps, though the pallor in her face says otherwise.
His eyes flick toward the pile of scorched wood and porcelain shards, then back to her. “You did that. The dolls—” He shakes his head, disbelief shading his tone. “You shattered them.”
She gives a faint, unsteady laugh, but it crumples into a wince. She presses a trembling hand to her temple. “Felt like… someone wrung me out. Like I’m hollow.”
“You pushed too hard,” Sam murmurs, torn between pride and worry. He digs a clean cloth from his pocket, gently dabbing at the blood under her nose. “You’re lightheaded?”
She nods, her voice soft and thin. “Head hurts… can’t shake it. Like… like everything’s spinning.”
He swallows hard, keeping his hand firm on her shoulder, grounding her. For a second, he lets the hunter mask slip, his fear written plain. “Easy. Don’t move. Just breathe. You’re okay. You’re with me.”
Her eyes flutter shut, not unconscious but exhausted, clinging to his words as she leans into the steady pressure of his hand, just for a few moments.
It takes them longer than usual to set the house right again. Sam moves most of the furniture himself, while Nellie, pale and unsteady, insists on helping in small bursts. He doesn’t push her, only keeps a steadying hand nearby whenever she sways. Once the rooms are passable, Sam gathers up the shattered porcelain and jagged remnants of the dollhouse into a duffel, carrying it carefully down the stairs. Nellie follows, slower, gripping the railing until they step out into the cool night air.
In the backyard, they build a shallow pit and salt the remains. Sam strikes a match, flame catching quick and hungrily on the dry wood and fabric scraps. The firelight paints both of their faces in stark orange, shadows flickering as the cursed fragments crack and pop in the heat.
Nellie leaned into her uncle’s side, his arm bracing across her shoulders, half-supporting her weight. She keeps her gaze on the fire, her voice soft but thoughtful.
“The faceless doll…” she murmurs. “That was Emma’s bad friend that she told me about. But it wasn’t a friend. I think it was Eloise. Or—part of her at some point. The part that came out after…” She swallows, throat tight. “After she lost everything. That doll was her way of protecting herself. A piece of her psyche, split off and stuffed inside the house. It was like… a shield. But shields can cut too. I think after she died, that’s when the dollhouse became more violent.”
Sam’s jaw works, his expression grim as he watches the fire eat away at the porcelain, warping it black. “Not a ghost. Not Eloise’s spirit.”
Nellie shakes her head, leaning a little heavier against him. “No. Just what was left behind. A cursed object. A trauma that never died.”
The flames crackle louder, licking at the last fragile beams of the dollhouse until they splinter and collapse inward, sparks twisting up into the dark sky. Sam tightens his arm around her, the unspoken vow in his silence as steady as the burn before them.
• • •
The motel room is dimly lit, illuminated only by the yellow glow of the bedside lamp. Sam sits at the small table, a half-empty first aid kit in front of him, while Nellie perches on the edge of her bed. She looks exhausted, the shadows under her eyes deeper than usual, but she sits still while he carefully dabs antiseptic along the tiny scratches on her hands.
“You did good tonight,” Sam says finally, voice low but firm. “First cursed object case, and you trusted your instincts. That’s not something you can teach. You either have it or you don’t.”
She gives him a tired half-smile. “I also almost got turned into a porcelain doll.”
He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head. “That wasn’t your fault. You pushed through it. Most hunters would’ve panicked — you didn’t.” He packs the supplies back into the kit, looking up at her with that steady, proud gaze. “I’m proud of you, Nellie.”
For a moment, she just stares at him, unsure how to hold the weight of his words. Then she lets out a slow breath, glancing toward the window where the curtains block the faintest hint of pre-dawn light.
“It’s weird,” she admits softly. “That house, that dollhouse… it terrified me. Every second of it. But when it was about Emma… about making sure she didn’t… go through what I did as a kid… it felt right. Like this is what I’m supposed to be doing.”
Sam leans back, arms crossing, listening. He doesn’t interrupt.
Nellie rubs her palms against her knees, fidgeting. “I know I’ve still got a lot to learn. And my abilities…” She trails off, chewing the inside of her cheek. “They’re still unpredictable. Half the time I don’t know if I’m controlling them or they’re controlling me.” She swallows, voice quieter. “But if I can use them to help, if I can stop something like that from happening again—then I want to get better at this. At being a hunter.” Her lips quirk then, the barest spark of humor slipping in. “Besides, you’ve got to admit shattering those dolls with my mind was way cooler than bending spoons.”
Sam blinks, then lets out a short laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing with it. “Yeah,” he said, shaking his head. “Way cooler.”
The smile on her face lingers only a moment before fading into fatigue. His eyes soften. He reaches out, resting his hand lightly on her shoulder. “Then we’ll figure it out. Together. You don’t have to do this alone.”
For the first time since they’d stepped foot in that cursed house, Nellie’s shoulders ease. She leans back on the bed, pulling the thin blanket over herself. “Good,” she whispers, eyes already sliding shut. “Because I don’t think I could.”
Sam watches her for a moment longer, making sure her breathing evens out before turning off the light. The motel sinks into darkness, the last echo of the dollhouse fire lingering only in the quiet promise between them. He lies on his own bed, one arm folded under his head, staring up at the cracks in the motel’s plaster ceiling. He should be closing his eyes, should be resting after the long night. But his thoughts won’t let him.
Shattering dolls with my mind was way cooler than bending spoons. The line echoes, pulling the corner of his mouth upward despite the heaviness in his chest. It is so her; that mix of honesty and self-conscious humor, as if she is testing whether she is allowed to joke about herself and be proud of herself. Sam can almost hear Dean’s bark of laughter in response. Dean would’ve run with it — spoon-bending jokes, probably a Star Wars quip or two. But underneath the teasing, he knows what would’ve been there in his brother’s eyes. Pride. Pure, unshakable pride.
Sam blinks hard, his throat tightening. God, he wishes Dean had lived to see this, to see her standing in the middle of a hunt, terrified but still pushing through. Dean had always believed hunting wasn’t just about saving people, but about making damn sure kids never had to grow up the way they did. And Nellie… she is proof of why that fight matters. Proof that even when the world failed her, family could step in and give her a chance.
He turns his head slightly, watching her sleep in the other bed. Her hair has fallen across her cheek, her hand curling protectively beneath her chin. She looks younger, fragile in a way she will never admit while awake. Sam feels the same tug in his chest that he always has when he looks at her: the pull between wanting to protect her from everything and the bittersweet pride of knowing she doesn’t need it as much anymore.
For a moment, he lets himself imagine Dean sitting in the rickety chair by the window. Beer in hand, cocky grin in place, eyes soft in that way only family ever got to see. He can picture his brother tipping the bottle toward Nellie in a silent toast.
Sam’s jaw clenches, his voice low and rough when he finally speaks into the empty room. “Yeah. She’s ours. You’d be proud.”
The words break something open inside him, the grief and the love tangling together the way they always do when he thinks of Dean. His eyes sting, but he doesn’t fight it this time. He lets the silence carry his words, like maybe, somehow, his older brother can hear him.
He leans back again, closing his eyes. Tomorrow, there will be more work to do, more dangers, and more nightmares to unravel. But for tonight, Nellie is safe. Safe, and asleep, and still here. And that is enough.
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