Embedded Files
Some patterns don’t reveal themselves until the third body hits the ground. By then, guilt has teeth, anger has learned how to move, and silence has already chosen its next target. As Nellie and Jack step into their first hunt side by side, they learn that not all ghosts linger where they died and not every reckoning waits patiently to be understood. Some hauntings don’t want justice. They want witnesses.
Word Count: 12.4k
TW: canon-typical violence. brief descriptions of violent deaths. use of mild language.
- - - - - -
The apartment is quiet in the way only lived-in places get at night. Not empty, just settled. Mark closes the front door with his hip, juggling his keys and a paper bag of takeout. The porch light flickers as it always does, buzzing faintly overhead. He doesn’t notice. He never does.
“Home,” he mutters to no one.
Inside, the air smells faintly of lemon cleaner and old carpet. He sets the bag on the kitchen counter, toeing off his shoes as he goes. The TV hums to life in the living room, some late-night rerun he won’t really watch. He exhales, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. It’s been a long day. Long week. Long few months, honestly.
The floor creaks as he crosses the living room, muscle memory guiding him through the familiar layout. A framed photo on the hallway wall catches his eye: him and a few friends, arms slung over shoulders, grinning like idiots. He pauses. Something about the air feels… off. Cooler than it should be. Not cold exactly. Just wrong enough to notice.
Mark frowns, glancing toward the thermostat. “Seriously?” he mutters. “I just paid the bill.”
The hallway light flickers. Once. Then steadies.
He shakes his head, a little embarrassed at the way his pulse jumps. “Get it together,” he tells himself, heading down the hall toward the bedroom.
That’s when he hears it. Footsteps. Not his. They come from the other end of the hallway, slow and deliberate, like someone pacing just out of sight.
He stops short. “Haley?” he calls, forcing his voice to stay level. “If this is a prank, it’s not funny.”
No answer. The temperature drops sharply, goosebumps prickling along his arms. His breath fogs faintly in front of his face. The footsteps stop. Then a voice speaks from behind him.
“You shouldn’t have let me.”
Mark spins around. The hallway is empty.
His heart slams against his ribs. “Okay,” he says, louder now. “Okay. I’m calling the cops.”
His phone slips from his fingers as something slams him backward into the wall. Pain explodes through his shoulder blades as the air is knocked clean out of his lungs. He gasps, scrambling, but his feet lift off the floor. Invisible pressure wraps around his throat, crushing, tightening. His hands claw at his neck, nails scraping skin as he chokes.
“I—I didn’t—” he wheezes.
The lights in the apartment flicker violently now, bulbs bursting one by one down the hall. Shadows stretch and warp, pulling toward a shape forming in front of him. A figure stands there. Human once. Twisted now. Its face is contorted with rage and something worse, certainty.
“You knew,” it snarls. “You walked away.”
Mark’s eyes go wide, recognition crashing into terror. “I told you not to —” he manages, voice breaking. “I tried —”
The pressure increases. Bones creak.
“You didn’t stop me,” the spirit hisses. “You let me die.”
Mark screams as the force snaps his neck sideways with a sickening crack. His body collapses to the floor, limbs twisted at an impossible angle. The house goes still. The temperature rises slowly, creeping back to normal. The shadows retreat. On the hallway wall, the framed photo rattles once, then falls, glass shattering across the floor beside the body.
• • •
The highway hums beneath the Impala, steady and familiar, the landscape flattening out into long stretches of open land. Morning light spills across the dash, catching dust motes that have probably been there since Dean’s day. Nellie drives one-handed, coffee balanced in the other. She looks more awake than she has any right to be, jaw set, eyes sharp. Hunting mode. Jack recognizes the subtle shift in her posture, the way her focus narrows, the way that all hunters he knew got when the hunt begins.
She reaches between the seats and pulls out a thin manila folder, tapping it once against his leg. “Alright,” she says. “You’re up.”
Jack startles slightly, then takes it. “Already?”
“Yeah,” she replies. “I’ve done the deep dive. You haven’t. I want to hear what you think.”
He opens the folder carefully, like it might bite him. Inside are printed articles, screenshots from local news sites, social media posts, even a few comment threads where speculation has started to curdle into paranoia. The first headline is blunt. LOCAL MAN FOUND DEAD IN APPARENT ACCIDENT — POLICE INVESTIGATING. He frowns and starts reading.
“Mark Ellis. Twenty-six. Found at home. No forced entry. No suspects.” He flips the page. “Cause of death… undetermined.”
Nellie hums, noncommittal.
He keeps going. “Second one’s Daniel Reeves. Similar age. Found in his apartment. Also ruled accidental.” His brow creases. “Different locations. Different circumstances.”
“But…?” she prompts, voice calm.
“But both deaths were violent,” Jack finishes. “And they happened close together.”
She nods once, approving.
He flips to a printout from a local forum. Comments spiral between grief and conspiracy. “Some people think it’s drugs. Others think it’s carbon monoxide. One guy’s convinced it’s black mold. A few people say it just feels wrong.”
“Those people usually end up being right,” she mutters in reply.
He glances at her, then back to the pages. “They knew each other. Same town, same high school. Stayed in touch.”
“Yes.”
“There’s nothing about debts or feuds or anything that would make someone target them specifically.” He hesitates. “At least not on the surface.”
Nellie lets the silence stretch, giving him space to sit with that.
“So,” Jack continues slowly, “if this is supernatural, it’s deliberate. But it’s not loud. Not yet.”
She steals a quick look at him, something like approval flickering across her face. “Go on.”
“The timing’s strange,” he says, warming up now. “A week apart. That feels… intentional. Like whatever it is isn’t lashing out randomly.”
“Good,” she says quietly.
He exhales, shoulders dropping a fraction. “I think it might be a spirit. But I don’t know why yet. And I don’t know what kind.”
“That’s fine,” she replies. “You’re not supposed to know yet.”
He closes the folder, resting it on his lap. “What do you think?”
Nellie considers for a moment, eyes fixed on the road. “I think something violent doesn’t want to be seen. And I think the people who died are part of a bigger story.”
Jack nods, absorbing that. “So, we start with the people closest to them.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Mark’s girlfriend first. Daniel’s brother after that. We listen. We don’t jump to conclusions.”
He shifts in his seat, nerves finally creeping in now that the case feels real. “You’re really letting me take point.”
She snorts softly. “Don’t get cocky. I’m right here.”
“That’s… not what I meant,” he says quickly. “I just —” He searches for the right words. “I’m rusty. I don’t want to slow you down.”
Her grip tightens briefly on the wheel before relaxing again. “When I started hunting, I didn’t know which end of an angel blade to hold.” A beat. “Sam didn’t rush me. He didn’t talk down to me either. He let me figure things out.”
He looks at her, surprised.
“I’m serious about this,” she continues. “About hunting. About you being here. And if we’re doing this together, I’m not going to treat you like a liability.” That lands harder than she probably intends.
Jack swallows. “Thank you.”
Nellie shrugs, but there’s intent behind it. “Just don’t lie to me if you’re unsure. And don’t try to be something you’re not.”
He nods firmly. “Deal.”
She glances over at him, a small smirk forming. “Welcome back to the field.”
• • •
They pull into a gas station just outside town limits, the kind with flickering fluorescent lights and a convenience store that hasn’t changed brands since the late ’90s. The Impala settles into a space near the side, away from the pumps.
“Okay,” Nellie says, killing the engine. “Quick change. Five minutes.”
Jack nods, already reaching for the garment bag in the backseat, nerves fluttering again now that pretending is about to become doing. They split up briefly, bathrooms on opposite sides of the building. Nellie is back first. When she steps outside, she stops short. Jack is standing by the car, suit jacket on, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact. He’s staring down at his tie with deep concentration, fingers fumbling, the knot sitting crooked and wrong no matter what he does to it. He looks… uncomfortable. Like he’s borrowed someone else’s skin and isn’t sure where to put his hands. She watches him struggle for a second longer than she means to.
“You’re gonna strangle yourself like that,” she says dryly.
He startles. “Oh — sorry. I thought I had it, but then it did… this.” He gestures helplessly at the tie.
She sighs, sets her coffee on the roof of the car, and steps closer. “Hold still.”
He does. Immediately. Too still.
She reaches up, fingers quick and practiced despite herself. She straightens the collar, loosens the knot, reties it with efficient movements she half-remembers from watching Sam do it in motel mirrors. Muscle memory by proxy. “There,” she says, giving the knot a final tug. “Better.”
He blinks down at her. “You’re… really good at that.”
She shrugs, already stepping back. “I watched Sam do it enough on the road.”
Only then does he really look at her. The flannel and worn jeans are gone. In their place: tailored jacket, neutral blouse, badge clipped cleanly to her belt. Her hair is pulled back, posture subtly altered, more closed off and authoritative. Her face is calmer, sharper, like she’s already halfway into the role.
“You look… different,” he says carefully.
She raises an eyebrow. “Different how?”
“Like you belong to the suit,” he says, then winces. “Not— not in a bad way. I just mean—”
“I know what you mean. It’s easier when there are rules.”
He nods slowly. “You commit. Even when you’re not pretending.”
Nellie doesn’t respond to that, just reaches for her coffee and takes a sip. “You okay?” she asks instead.
Jack adjusts his jacket, straightening it a little too much. “Yeah. Just… relearning how to lie convincingly.”
She snorts. “Rule one: don’t think of it as lying. Think of it as… redirecting.”
“That sounds like lying,” he says.
“Welcome to law enforcement cosplay,” she replies. A beat passes. Then she pulls a laminated badge out of her pocket, handing it to him. “Alright. You’re Detective Nolan,” she says. “I’m your partner. We’re polite, thorough, and mildly annoying.”
He exhales, squaring his shoulders again. “I can do mildly annoying.”
She smirks. “Let’s hope so.”
They get back into the Impala, the doors closing with familiar weight. As she pulls back onto the road, he glances at his reflection in the window one last time; tie straight, role settling into place. He might be rusty. But he’s back in it. And Nellie, watching him out of the corner of her eye, realizes that trying isn’t as bad as she chalked it up to be.
• • •
Mark’s girlfriend, Haley Dobson, lives just over the county line, in a quiet subdivision where all the townhouses look like they were ordered from the same catalog and assembled in a hurry. Lawns trimmed too neatly. Porch lights still on though it’s full daylight.
Nellie parks at the curb and kills the engine. “You good?” she asks, already reaching for her badge.
Jack nods, though his shoulders rise with a steadying breath. “Yeah. I think so.”
She gives him a look that says take point and steps back half a pace as they walk up the path. He knocks. After a moment, the door opens to a young woman with red-rimmed eyes and a tired face that suggests she hasn’t slept properly in weeks. She’s dressed like she hasn’t decided yet whether today is a day she’s going to function or not.
“Yes?” she asks.
Jack lifts his badge. “Ma’am, I’m Detective Nolan. This is my partner. We’re following up on the Mark Ellis’s case.”
Her expression falters, grief and resignation tangling together. “I already talked to the police.”
“Yes,” he says gently. “We just have a few follow-up questions. If that’s okay.”
She hesitates, then steps aside. “Yeah. Okay.”
The house smells like cold coffee and stale flowers. Condolence bouquets line the counter, wilting slowly. Nellie stays quiet, observant, letting Jack set the tone. They sit at the small dining table. Haley twists her hands together, gaze drifting toward the hallway as if half-expecting Mark to step out.
He keeps his voice calm, unhurried. “We’re sorry for your loss. I know this is difficult.”
Her eyes well slightly. “Thank you.”
“Can you tell us about the last time you saw him?”
She nods, swallowing. “The night before. He stayed over. Everything was… normal. He was tired. Work’s been rough lately.”
“Did he mention anything unusual? Any stress, fear, arguments?”
“No. Mark wasn’t like that. He was careful. Always the responsible one.”
“And the day he died?”
“I was on a night shift,” she answers. “I got the call from his roommate. They said he collapsed. That they tried to help.” Her voice cracks. “By the time I got there, it was already over.”
Jack doesn’t rush her. Lets the silence do its work.
“Did Mark ever talk about being sick?” he asks eventually.
“No. He hated doctors,” Haley says with a sad, fleeting smile. “But he wasn’t sick.”
Nellie watches him closely. He’s still relearning the rhythm, but there’s something natural in the way he listens, not interrogating, just present. It puts people at ease.
“Did Mark have any conflicts with anyone?” he asks. “Anyone who might’ve wanted to hurt him?”
Her brow furrows. “No. God, no. He wasn’t into drama.”
“Did he spend time with friends recently?” Nellie asks softly, easing into the conversation.
“Yes,” she says. “His old college group. They still hang out.”
“Anyone in particular?” Jack prompts.
She lists a few names: Daniel and Michael Reeves, Chris Bennett, Jenna Morales. Mentions they were all close, even if life got busier after graduation. “He always said they were like family,” she adds quietly.
He nods, filing that away. “Did Mark ever mention anything strange happening? Feeling watched? Followed?”
She shakes her head again. “No. If he did, he would’ve told me.”
They wrap up soon after. There’s nothing explosive, nothing that screams monster. Just grief. Loss. Normalcy. At the door, Haley pauses. “If you find out anything… please let me know.”
Jack meets her eyes. “We will.”
Back in the Impala, Nellie exhales slowly. “You did good.”
He rubs his hands together, nerves finally easing. “She didn’t really have much.”
“Sometimes that tells you just as much,” she replies, starting the engine. “Mark wasn’t hiding anything. That matters.”
He nods, glancing back at the house as they pull away. “I just… wanted to help her.”
Nellie flicks him a look. “That’s not a flaw.” She now knows something for sure: Jack may be rusty, but his instinct to care might be one of the sharpest tools he’s got.
• • •
The Reeves apartment is located not too far from the local business park. Nellie and Jack climb the stairs, slowing as they approach the unit.
“Alright,” she murmurs, low enough that only Jack can hear. “You keep it moving. Ask questions, don’t let it stall.”
He nods, straightening his jacket. “Got it.”
She adds quietly, “This one’s recent. People talk more when things are still raw.”
He exhales once, then knocks. The door opens to a man with the same dark hair as Daniel, though his is unkempt, his face drawn tight with exhaustion. His eyes flick to the badges immediately.
“Yeah?” he says.
“County sheriff’s office,” Jack begins, lifting his badge. “Detective Nolan. This is my partner. We’re following up on your brother’s case.”
Michael’s shoulders tense. “I already talked to the police.”
“Yes, sir, we know. We just have a few follow-up questions. It won’t take long.”
There’s a pause, then he steps aside with a sigh. “Fine.”
The apartment is small and crowded, like two lives compressed into too little space. One couch. Two desks. A jacket still hangs by the door, untouched. A mug sits on the counter like someone meant to come back for it. They sit at the kitchen table. Nellie leans back slightly in her chair, adopting the posture of a quiet observer. But beneath the surface, she lets her focus widen. Carefully. Not pushing, just listening. She keeps her eyes on Michael as her senses drift, like lowering a hand into dark water. She feels the space rather than the person, takes in the weight of the room, the emotional residue clinging to it.
“First,” Jack says, measured, “we’re sorry for your loss.”
Michael nods once, jaw tight. “Yeah.”
“When was the last time you saw Daniel?”
“The night before. We had dinner. Watched some dumb show. Nothing out of the ordinary. The next day I was in classes all day and then had test prep for a few hours.”
“Did he mention feeling sick? Worried?”
“No,” Michael snaps, then catches himself. “Sorry. No. He was fine.”
Jack doesn’t react, just nods. “Did he have any recent conflicts? Anyone he was upset with?”
He shakes his head. “Daniel wasn’t confrontational. He kept his head down.”
“Who did he spend the most time with outside of work?”
“We have a friend group. Grew up together in high school and all went to college together.”
“Which friends?” Nellie asks evenly, stepping in just enough to keep things flowing.
“Mark Ellis. Chris Bennett. Jenna Morales. And occasionally Mark’s girlfriend would join us.”
Jack makes a note. “And Mark, when did you last see him?”
Michael’s expression tightens. “Before he died.”
“Did anything seem off about either of them in the weeks before?”
He leans back in his chair, rubbing at his temples like the conversation itself is giving him a headache. “I mean,” he says slowly, “the only thing that really got to Daniel lately was… death.”
Jack looks up. “Mark?”
He shakes his head. “Not just Mark. That was recent. But before that, months before, there was someone else.”
Nellie’s attention sharpens, though her expression stays neutral. “Someone close to him?”
“Yeah,” Michael says. “Someone else from the friend group. Ethan Cole.” The name lands heavier than the others. “Ethan was… different. Couldn’t really let go of stupid stuff. Sneaking into places, doing risky crap like we were still eighteen. A few months back, he went poking around an abandoned place outside town. By himself.”
Nellie feels something ripple faintly at that, like a disturbance far below the surface. Not enough to name. Just… pressure. “And?”
“The police found him dead inside. I don’t know all the details, but it was brutal.”
Jack exchanges a brief glance with her, careful not to give anything away. “Did Daniel talk about it much?” he asks.
Michael nods. “Yeah. It messed him up. He kept saying if Ethan had just listened, if he hadn’t gone in alone, maybe he’d still be here.”
The room feels quieter somehow, like the air itself is paying attention.
“Did anyone else feel the same way?” Nellie asks.
His jaw tightens. “We all did. Ethan was… stuck,” he says, choosing the word carefully. “High school. College. That whole phase. Partying, sneaking into places, doing stupid stuff just for the rush.”
“Even after you all graduated?”
“Yeah. Most of us moved on. Senior year. Jobs. Bills. Real life.” He shrugs. “Ethan never really got that memo.”
Jack leans forward slightly. “Do you know why he went to that structure?”
Michael hesitates. “He said it was just exploring. That it was nothing new.” His mouth tightens. “We told him it was a bad idea. That places like that weren’t just hangout spots anymore.”
Nellie lets her senses stretch just a little further, careful not to overreach. What she feels isn’t anchored to Michael, or even the apartment itself. It’s like an echo that passed through, left an imprint, and moved on. Anger. Not explosive. Focused. She draws back slightly, grounding herself, then leans in. “But he went anyway.”
“That was Ethan. He always meant well. He just… didn’t listen.”
Jack asks, “Do you think it was really an accident?”
His gaze drops to the table. “I don’t know. That’s the thing.” He looks up again, eyes tired but sharp. “We used to mess around in the woods and abandoned buildings all the time when we were younger. Ethan knew what he was doing. He wasn’t reckless like people think. Just stubborn.”
The pressure in the room tightens, coiling just enough to make her spine prickle. Jack glances at her briefly, subtle. He’s starting to notice the rhythm now. The way she asks a question right when something shifts. The way she goes quiet when the air feels wrong.
“So, something felt off,” Jack continues the conversation.
“Yeah,” Michael admits. “The cops said it was structural failure. Old building, unsafe.” He shrugs. “Maybe that’s all it was. But… it never sat right with me. The way they described the body… it almost didn’t sound like an accident.”
He nods, making a note. “Did anyone else think that?”
“Daniel did. He wouldn’t stop talking about it for weeks after.”
Nellie files that away, keeping her face neutral. “Thank you. This helps more than you know.”
Michael gives a tired smile. “If it helps figure out what happened to Daniel, it’s worth it.”
They stand after that, the weight of the conversation settling between them.
As they step back into the hallway, the door closing softly behind them, Jack exhales under his breath. “You were doing two things at once,” he murmurs, once they’re out of earshot.
She keeps walking, expression composed. “Easier to do now that I’m not doing this alone.”
They slide back into the Impala, the doors closing with a familiar, solid thunk. For a moment, neither of them speaks. The air feels different now, denser, like the case has finally taken a breath.
She reaches for her seatbelt, then pauses. “I should tell you something,” she says, starting the engine. “I saw an article about Ethan when I first went digging. I flagged it as secondary information, no immediate red flags.”
He looks at her. “You didn’t think it was connected.”
“Not at the time,” she admits. “Two deaths a week apart felt louder than one old one.” She pulls out into traffic. “Turns out quieter things matter just as much.”
He nods, already opening a laptop. “I’ll look for it.”
“Search local papers,” she says. “Obituaries, accident reports, media posts. Anything archived.”
He types for a moment, then glances up. “Where are we headed?”
“Police station,” she replies without hesitation. “I want the autopsy reports for Mark and Daniel.”
He raises an eyebrow. “And they’re just going to hand those over?”
She smirks faintly. “I’m going in as an insurance adjuster. Processing claims, verifying causes of death, determining payout eligibility for the families. People hear ‘insurance’ and suddenly they’re very cooperative.”
He watches her for a beat, impressed. “You’ve done this before.”
“Unfortunately. More than once.”
He nods, then looks back to the screen. “Okay. I’ll dig into Ethan — see what really happened. And I’ll pull addresses for Chris Bennett and Jenna Morales.”
“Good,” she says. “If this is a spirit, we need to know who’s still breathing.”
He pauses, fingers hovering over the keys. “You think they’re in danger.”
“I think,” she replies carefully, “that whatever killed Mark and Daniel didn’t stop because it felt better.” That lands quietly between them.
The Impala rolls through town now, slower, streets tightening around them as they head toward the police station. Jack scrolls through search results, the glow of the laptop reflecting faintly off the windshield.
After a few minutes, he glances up. “Can I ask you something?”
Nellie keeps her eyes on the road. “You just did.”
He huffs softly, then tries again. “Did you… feel anything back there? At Daniel’s place?”
She’s quiet for a beat longer than necessary. Then, honestly, “Yeah. It wasn’t from him or his brother. It was… leftover. Like whatever killed Daniel passed through and didn’t bother cleaning up after itself.”
“Anger?”
“Yeah. A lot of it. Heavy. Directional. Not scattered.”
He nods slowly. “So not a haunting.”
“No,” she replies. “If it were tied to Daniel or the apartment, I’d feel it anchored. This was more like… a wake.”
“So, something mobile.”
“Something pissed.”
Jack glances back down at the laptop, fingers already moving. “You think it’s a vengeful spirit.”
“That’s my leading theory,” Nellie answers. “Ethan dies in a bad place. Mark and Daniel die months later. Feels like a delayed reaction.”
“Okay. I’ll look into the building. History, previous accidents, deaths. Anything that could’ve primed it.”
She flicks him a glance. “Even though Mark and Daniel never went there.”
“Especially because they didn’t,” he replies. “If Ethan woke something up or became something himself, it might not care where it started.”
Her mouth tightens slightly. “Good thinking.”
The police station comes into view ahead, squat and unassuming. She signals and turns in. “Alright,” she says, shifting into park. “You dig. I charm.”
She takes a moment before getting out of the Impala, smoothing her jacket, checking her reflection in the side mirror. The hunter fades; the professional steps forward. By the time she reaches the sidewalk, her posture has shifted; shoulders squared, expression composed, purpose written into every step. Inside, the police station is exactly what she expects: fluorescent lights that hum just a little too loudly, scuffed linoleum floors, a desk that’s seen better decades. A uniformed officer looks up as she approaches.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“Yes,” she says, pleasant but efficient. She reaches into her bag and produces a folder and a business card, sliding the card across the desk. “Colleen Brooks. I’m an insurance adjuster contracted through a regional firm out of Wichita. I’m following up on a couple of open claims — Mark Ellis and Daniel Reeves.”
The officer picks up the card, reads it, then looks back at her. “Insurance, huh.”
“Yes, sir,” she replies smoothly. “Both cases are pending final verification before funds can be released to the families. I just need to confirm cause and manner of death.”
He taps the card against the desk, thinking. “We don’t release copies of autopsy reports to outside agencies.”
“That’s completely fine. I don’t need copies. I can review the reports here and complete my documentation on-site.”
Another pause. He studies her, her calm, her certainty, the way she’s clearly done this before. “Alright,” he says finally. “You can look, but you stay in the building. No photos, no scans.”
“Of course,” she says, offering a grateful smile. “I appreciate it.”
He stands and motions down the hall. “We’ve got a spare office you can use.”
Nellie follows him, heels clicking softly against the floor, passing framed commendations and a corkboard cluttered with notices. He opens a door to a small, windowless office. There’s a desk, two mismatched chairs, and the faint smell of old coffee soaked into the walls. He places a folder on the desk.
“I’ll go grab those files for ya,” he says. “Holler if you need anything.”
“Thank you.”
He soon returns with some thin file folders. Once door closes with a quiet click, she exhales slowly, the smile slipping away as she sits and opens the folders. She settles into the chair, sets her bag at her feet, and pulls out her notebook. The pen clicks once before she starts.
Mark Ellis.
Age: 26.
Found at residence. No forced entry.
Cause of death: Undetermined.
Manner of death: Pending.
Her jaw tightens. She flips to the coroner’s notes.
Subject presented with extensive internal trauma inconsistent with reported circumstances. Multiple contusions noted beneath the skin without corresponding surface injury. No evidence of blunt force object. No signs of prolonged struggle.
Her pen moves quickly now. She’s seen this before. Not often, but enough. There’s a paragraph about petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes. Another about damage to the heart and lungs that looks almost… compressed. Like something applied force evenly, all at once.
She exhales slowly through her nose. “That’s not an accident,” she murmurs under her breath. She turns the page.
Daniel Reeves.
Age: 27.
Found at residence. No forced entry.
Subject suffered catastrophic internal injuries including ruptured organs and skeletal fractures inconsistent with a fall or impact with environmental structures.
Her pen hesitates. Fractures. She flips back, checks the diagrams. Ribs fractured inward. Sternum cracked. No lacerations to suggest a blade. No defensive wounds. No blood spatter consistent with a physical altercation. It reads like Daniel was crushed — briefly, violently — by something that left no mark behind. Her chest tightens. Time of death places it at night. No neighbors heard anything. No screams. No crash. Just… silence. She writes again, faster now. Force without contact. Sudden. Targeted. She leans back slightly, eyes closing for half a second. Two men. Two separate locations. Same kind of damage. That’s not coincidence. That’s intent.
Nellie flips back to the summary pages, comparing timelines. Mark died first. Daniel a week later. Her pen taps once against the paper. “Okay,” she whispers. “What are you?”
When she closes the folder, she doesn’t feel relief, only confirmation. Whatever they’re hunting isn’t subtle, but it is careful. It knows how to hurt without being seen. It knows how to leave doctors shrugging and writing undetermined. That’s when another name surfaces again, insistent now. Ethan Cole.
She gathers her notebook and stands, walking back to the front desk with measured calm. “Sorry,” she says politely to the officer when he looks up. “One more thing. Do you happen to have records on an Ethan Cole? Accident from a few months back?”
The officer’s expression shifts immediately. Not hostile. Just guarded. “Why?”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Related claim review. Same social circle.”
He shakes his head. “That case is closed. And it’s old. Doesn’t fall under what you asked for.”
She nods, backing off smoothly. “Understood. I figured I’d ask.”
He watches her a second longer than necessary, suspicion lingering. “If you’re finished,” he says, “I’ll need the files back.”
“Of course.” She hands them over without hesitation. As she turns away, she feels it settle in her gut, not frustration, not fear. Certainty. Whatever killed Mark and Daniel didn’t start with them. And Ethan’s death wasn’t just an accident someone walked away from.
• • •
The diner sits just off the main road, all chrome trim and sun-faded signage, the kind of place that smells like coffee no matter what time of day it is. Nellie slides into a booth by the window, jacket shrugged off, shoulders loosening a fraction now that they’re out of the station and out of character. Jack follows, looking around like he’s cataloging the place without meaning to. Vinyl seats. A jukebox in the corner. A waitress who calls them hon without knowing their names. They order — coffee, a burger for Nellie, a sandwich for Jack, fries he’ll definitely eat — and only once the waitress disappears does she lean back against the booth. “Alright,” she says. “What’d you find?”
He reaches into his bag and pulls out a small notebook. He flips it open and slides it across the table toward her. “Addresses first,” he says. “Chris Bennett lives on the east side, closer to the river. Jenna Morales is a few blocks from him, same neighborhood.” He taps the page. “They’ve dated on and off. Currently together.”
She nods, scanning the neat handwriting.
“And the building Ethan died in,” he continues. “That was harder. It’s not officially listed anymore. Condemned and pulled from most public records. But I found references in older zoning maps and a couple of forum posts.”
“What kind of building?” she asks.
“Old manufacturing warehouse,” he replies. “Shut down years ago. Locals call it ‘the silo,’ even though it isn’t one. There were complaints about it being unsafe long before Ethan went in.”
Her jaw tightens. “Figures.”
He flips the page. “As for Ethan himself… there’s not a lot. Social media’s pretty bare. He wasn’t a big poster. But he seemed like a decent guy. Worked part-time jobs. Didn’t stick with any of them long. Spent more time outdoors. Rock climbing, hiking, exploring. Lots of pictures of trails, abandoned places. More invested in experiences than… stability.”
She hums quietly. “Too chill for his own good.”
He looks up at her, searching her face. “Nothing that screams violent. Or angry.”
“That’s usually how it starts,” she says. “People don’t come back wrong because they were monsters in life. They come back wrong because something broke.”
He nods slowly.
She closes the notebook and slides it back to him. “This is good work.”
He blinks. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says honestly. “You didn’t just pull surface-level stuff. You connected dots.”
He relaxes a little at that, shoulders dropping. “I like research. It makes things feel… manageable.”
She smirks. “Careful. You’re gonna steal my job.”
The waitress reappears, setting down plates and refilling their coffee mugs. They eat for a few minutes in relative quiet, the low murmur of the diner filling the space between them. It’s the kind of normal that almost feels borrowed.
Nellie reaches into her bag and pulls out her notebook, flipping past earlier pages until she finds the ones she wants. She slides it across the table toward Jack, her finger holding the page in place. “Alright,” she says. “Your turn to look at my homework.”
He wipes his hands on a napkin and leans in, careful, attentive. His eyes move steadily over her notes; tight handwriting, arrows, underlines, shorthand that’s clearly meant for someone who already knows the language.
“Mark Ellis,” he murmurs. “Internal trauma without external cause. No weapon. No prolonged struggle.” He shifts to the next page. “Daniel Reeves. Similar injuries. Compression. Force applied evenly.” He looks up at her. “You wrote sudden here.”
“Yeah,” she says. “Both deaths happened fast. No defensive wounds. No signs they saw it coming.”
He nods slowly and keeps reading. “No signs of poison. No allergens. No underlying medical issues.” He sits back slightly, thinking. “This lines up with a spirit. Vengeful, probably. Something that doesn’t need to touch to hurt.”
“That’s where I landed. Something angry enough to lash out but controlled enough to pick targets.”
“And whatever it is, it’s not bound to a single place. Otherwise, you’d see clustering.”
“Exactly,” she says, a hint of satisfaction in her voice. “It’s moving.”
He flips back to the first page again, rereading. “And it’s escalating. First one death at a time. Then faster.”
Nellie watches him closely as he works through it, the way his brow furrows, how he tracks patterns without needing to be told where to look. Sam used to do the same thing; quiet, thorough, relentless.
“So,” Jack says finally, looking up, “we’re dealing with a spirit. Strong enough to cause this kind of damage. Focused enough to choose.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “But I don’t think it’s random.”
He nods. “Me neither.”
The waitress swings by again, topping off coffee. He waits until she’s gone before speaking. “After we talk to Chris and Jenna, are we going to the building?”
“That’s the plan. See if there’s anything there we’re missing. Objects. Symbols. Remains. And once we step onto that site, things might get loud.”
He straightens, resolve settling in. “Then let’s make sure we’re ready.”
• • •
They don’t argue about splitting up. Nellie pulls the Impala to the curb a block away from Chris Bennett’s place, idling while Jack gathers his jacket and notebook. There’s a brief look between them, confirmation more than concern.
“Text if anything feels off,” she says.
“I will,” he replies. “You too.”
She watches him head up the sidewalk before easing the car back into gear and driving the few blocks over to Jenna Morales’s address.
Her place is a small duplex with a narrow porch and wind chimes that clink softly in the afternoon breeze. She straightens her jacket, adjusts her badge, and knocks. It takes a moment before the door opens. Jenna looks exhausted; not just tired but worn thin by grief that hasn’t had time to settle.
Her eyes flick to the badge, then back up. “Yes?”
“Detective Brooks,” Nellie says smoothly. “Mind if I ask you a few questions? It won’t take long.”
Jenna hesitates, then steps aside. “Yeah. Okay.”
Inside, the living room is neat but quiet, like someone hasn’t quite figured out how to exist in it yet. Photos line the walls, Jenna and Chris smiling somewhere sunny, Mark in the background of an old group shot, Daniel with an arm slung around someone’s shoulders. They sit.
Nellie starts where she should. “I’m sorry about Mark,” she says gently. “And Daniel. I know losing two people so close together is… a lot.”
The young woman exhales, nodding. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”
“Can you tell me the last time you saw either of them?”
Jenna answers carefully. Mark had stopped by the week before he died. Daniel had called Chris the night before, nothing unusual, just checking in. No fights. No threats. No fear. “They weren’t acting strange. If that’s what you’re asking.”
“It is,” the hunter replies. “Anything at all that seemed off?”
She shakes her head. “No. That’s what’s so messed up. They were just… normal.”
Nellie lets a beat pass before shifting the angle. “They were both close with the same group of friends, right?”
“Yeah. We all were.”
“Anyone else in that group have something happen recently? Anything stressful? A falling-out?”
“…Ethan.”
She keeps her expression neutral. “Ethan Cole?”
The young woman nods slowly, eyes dropping to her hands. “He died a few months ago.”
“What happened?”
“Accident,” she answers, though the word doesn’t sit comfortably. “He went into one of those abandoned buildings outside town. Everyone warned him it wasn’t safe.”
“Why was he there?”
Jenna shrugs. “That was Ethan. Always chasing the thrill. He never really left college behind. Never wanted to.” She hesitates, then adds, “Chris took it really hard.”
“How so?” Nellie asks.
“He wishes he’d gone with Ethan that night,” she says quietly. “Or tried harder to stop him. He keeps saying if he’d been there, maybe Ethan wouldn’t have panicked. Maybe he wouldn’t have tried to run.”
“Would Ethan ever blame anyone for what happened?”
“He hated being told what to do. Hated feeling like he was behind everyone else.”
The silence that follows is heavy with things left unsaid.
“Thank you,” Nellie says finally. “I know this isn’t easy.”
Jenna nods, eyes glassy. “If it helps… if it stops this from happening again… I’m glad you’re asking.”
• • •
Jack takes a steadying breath before he knocks. Chris Bennett answers the door in sweats and an old college hoodie, eyes red-rimmed like sleep has been optional for a while now. He looks Jack up and down, the badge, the suit. He is hesitant but resigned.
“Yeah?” Chris asks.
“Detective Nolan,” he says, holding up the badge the way Nellie showed him — confident, not aggressive. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
He hesitates, then steps back. “Sure. Yeah. Come in.”
The apartment smells like cold coffee and something burnt. Clothes are draped over chairs and there is an unopened stack of mail on the counter. Jack clocks it all automatically, grounding himself in the details. They sit at the small kitchen table.
“I’m sorry about Mark,” he says first. “And Daniel.”
The man exhales hard, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah. That’s… that’s been rough.”
“When was the last time you saw either of them?”
“Mark, a few nights before he died. Daniel called me the night before his death.” He shakes his head. “Nothing weird. No fights. No threats.”
Jack nods, jotting notes. “They weren’t acting scared of anyone?”
“No,” Chris says immediately. “That’s the messed-up part. If someone had been after them, I would’ve known.”
He lets a beat pass before continuing. “Were they both part of the same friend group growing up?”
“Yeah. Since high school. College, too.”
“Anyone else in that group have something happen recently?”
The man stiffens. “Yeah… Ethan.”
He keeps his voice even. “Ethan Cole?”
Chris nods, jaw tightening. “Died a few months ago. Accident.”
“What kind of accident?”
“He went into that old building outside town. The warehouse thing. Everyone told him it wasn’t safe. He didn’t listen.”
Silence stretches.
“You were close?” Jack asks gently.
He lets out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. I was. Which makes this worse.”
“In what way?”
He stares down at the table. “I should’ve gone with him. Or stopped him. I told him it was a bad idea, but I didn’t push. I just… let him brush it off.”
Jack feels the weight of that settle. “Did Ethan seem angry before he died? At anyone?”
“Not angry. Frustrated, maybe.”
“Frustrated how?”
“He never really adjusted after college,” Chris admits. “Didn’t want to. The rest of us got jobs, schedules, responsibilities. He hated that.” A pause. “Sometimes he’d get pissed that we weren’t as fun anymore. That we couldn’t just drop everything and hang out like before.”
“But nothing serious?” Jack asks.
“No. Nothing bad. He was still a good guy. Just… more into fun than work. More into then than now.”
He nods slowly, writing it down. “Thank you. I know this isn’t easy.”
The man shrugs, eyes shining. “If it helps figure out what’s going on… it’s worth it.”
When Jack steps back outside, the air feels heavier than before. Two interviews. Same guilt. Same name. He has a sinking feeling Ethan just as part of this as the victims.
• • •
The motel is the kind with doors that open straight to the parking lot and a flickering vacancy sign that’s seen better decades. Nellie parks, cuts the engine, and for a moment they just sit there, both of them letting the weight of the interviews settle. Inside, they change quickly. She trades the suit for flannel, jeans, boots; the uniform she actually breathes in. By the time she steps back out of the bathroom, she looks different. Looser. More herself.
They sit at the rickety table, notes spread between them.
“So,” she says, breaking the silence. “Jenna told me basically the same thing.”
He nods. “Yeah. A lot of guilt. A lot of if I’d just done one thing differently.”
“About Ethan,” she adds.
“Always about Ethan.”
She flips open her notebook, tapping the page where the names are written. “No other weird deaths in town. No history of accidents or violence tied to that area. If this were a local spirit, we’d have more bodies.”
He leans back in his chair. “Which means Ethan didn’t just stumble into something that was already there.”
Her mouth tightens. “He woke something up. Or… became something.”
They let that sit.
He glances at her then, really looks at her now that she’s out of the suit. The way her shoulders aren’t drawn tight. The way she moves like she’s on familiar ground again. “You look more comfortable,” he says carefully.
She snorts softly. “Yeah. The suit’s a costume. This is more me.”
He nods, understanding more than she probably expects.
“You did good today,” she adds after a beat. “Both interviews. You didn’t rush them. You listened.”
Jack blinks, then smiles; small, genuine. “Thanks. I was worried I’d be rusty.”
“You weren’t,” Nellie replies. “You jumped back in fast.”
He exhales, something like relief in it. “I think I’m starting to remember why I liked this. Helping people. Figuring things out.”
She watches him for a second, then nods. “You’re doing fine, Jack.”
• • •
Night has fully settled by the time they reach the site. The Impala crunches over gravel and weeds, headlights washing over a sagging chain-link fence and the skeletal outline of the building beyond it. Concrete juts at odd angles, rusted rebar exposed like broken bones. One side has partially collapsed inward, the roof dipping low enough that Nellie can already tell the interior would be a death trap if they pushed too far. She cuts the engine. For a moment, neither of them moves.
“That’s it,” she says quietly, eyes tracking the silhouette.
Jack studies it, unease prickling beneath his ribs. “Feels… wrong,” he admits.
She nods. “Yeah. That’s usually how this starts.”
They grab their gear and step out into the cool night air. Crickets chirp somewhere nearby, the sound sharp against the stillness. The building looms closer now, its presence heavy; not loud, not dramatic, just there, like it’s been waiting.
“We stay shallow,” she reminds him as they approach. “Ground floor only.”
“I promise,” he says. “I don’t plan on testing gravity.”
That earns a faint, quick smile from her before it fades back into focus.
Up close, the structure smells like damp concrete and old rust. Water stains streak the walls, and fragments of glass crunch softly under their boots. Nellie slows, her steps more deliberate now, instincts sliding into place. She sets her pack down near the wall and cracks her knuckles.
“I’m going to try something,” she says. “Just… keep an eye out.”
He positions himself a few steps back, watching her carefully, not just the space around them, but her. The way her shoulders square. The way her breathing evens out.
She crouches and presses one palm to the concrete wall, the other flattening against the ground beneath her. The surface is cold, rough, vibrating faintly with the distant hum of the earth. She closes her eyes. The night seems to draw inward. At first, there’s nothing. Just stone, dust, silence. Then something shifts, subtle but unmistakable. A pressure blooms beneath her hands, like a held breath finally being released. She exhales slowly and leans into it. The concrete hums not audibly, but in a way that rattles her bones. Images flicker behind her eyes: flashes of movement, the echo of footsteps where none exist anymore. Fear, sharp and sudden. A spike of adrenaline. The memory of running. Her fingers curl slightly against the wall. Anger follows. Not targeted. Not precise. Just raw, roiling frustration. Directionless and violent, like a storm that doesn’t care where it strikes. It surges against her senses, recoils, then presses again, aware now that it’s been noticed.
Jack shifts uneasily as the air thickens around them. He can’t see what she’s seeing, but he can feel the change, the way the space tightens, the way the building seems to lean closer.
She starts moves along the outer wall, slow and deliberate, testing other sections of the building. Never rushing, never assuming the first answer is the only one. She kneels again near a collapsed doorway, presses her palm to a fractured support beam, then to the ground where weeds have forced their way through concrete. The moment her skin makes contact, the reaction is immediate. The pressure slams back at her, harder this time. She sucks in a sharp breath as the anger surges, no longer distant or ambient but focused. It coils around her senses, sharp and hot, like something just realized it’s been cornered.
“Okay — okay,” she mutters, trying to pull back.
Too late. The force shoves her backward, violent and sudden. She stumbles, barely catching herself on one knee, palms scraping gravel.
“Nellie!” Jack moves toward her.
Something else moves faster. A shape tears free from the darkness near the doorway, human-sized, human-shaped, but wrong around the edges. It flickers like a bad signal, features blurring and reforming too fast to settle. Jack barely has time to register it before it hits him. The impact throws him sideways. He slams into a stack of broken pallets, air knocked clean from his lungs.
“Jack!” she shouts, already scrambling to her feet.
The figure looms for half a second, anger radiating off it in waves, wild and unfocused. It lifts an arm like it means to strike again.
He rolls, instincts snapping into place. He flings salt in a wide arc, shouting, “Hey!”
The grains cuts through the air. The shape recoils instantly, letting out a sound that’s half scream, half static. It jerks backward, fury flashing across its indistinct face and then it hesitates. It sees the weapons. The sigils. The readiness. With a violent snap, it dissolves into mist and shadow, ripping itself away from the space like it’s been burned. Silence crashes down around them.
He pushes himself up, breathing hard. “That — was that the —”
“Yes,” Nellie says, already hauling him to his feet. Her face has gone pale, eyes sharp with something like dread. “That’s it. That’s the source.”
He steadies himself. “It ran.”
“Not because it’s scared,” she snaps. “Because it knows.” She looks back at the building, chest tight. The anger is still there. Retreating, regrouping, seething. “It’s not done,” she says, voice low and urgent. “And it’s not tied to the building. That thing is hunting again.”
They sprint across the gravel, adrenaline pounding, the night pressing in around them. Nellie fumbles the keys, yanks the door open, and practically throws herself into the driver’s seat.
The engine roars to life and tears down the road, engine humming hard beneath them as she grips the wheel. She doesn’t head straight for any one place, just angles them back toward town, keeping her options open. Her eyes flick constantly between the road, the mirrors, the dark shapes of houses slipping past.
“It could be any of them,” Jack says, steady but tense. “Chris. Jenna. Michael.”
“I know,” she replies. Her jaw is tight. “Whatever that thing was, it’s not bound anymore. It’s moving on anger alone.”
She tries to reach for it again. To feel that pull, that pressure that usually whispers where danger is headed. But doing that while driving is like trying to hear a single voice in a storm. The sensation comes in fragments, static and heat behind her eyes, nothing she can lock onto. “Damn it,” she mutters.
He watches her for a beat, then reaches forward and flips a familiar switch. The police scanner crackles to life. For a few seconds there’s nothing but background noise. Dispatch chatter from neighboring towns, codes that don’t matter. She exhales sharply through her nose, fingers tightening on the wheel.
“—units respond, possible disturbance at a residence on Maple Street. Caller reports noises, signs of forced entry. Officers en route.”
Her breath catches. “Maple Street.”
His head snaps up. “That’s Jenna’s place.”
“Yeah,” she says, already turning the wheel hard. The tires squeal as she cuts onto a side street, accelerator pressed down. “Hold on.”
Red and blue lights strobe across the narrow neighborhood street, painting the houses in frantic color. Two police cruisers sit angled near the curb, doors open, radios crackling. A small knot of neighbors has gathered at the end of the block, arms folded tight against the cold night air, whispering to one another in low, frightened tones. An ambulance screams toward them from a few streets over.
Nellie parks the Impala hard and kills the engine. For half a second, neither of them moves. Then training clicks in. She’s already pulling the badge from her jacket as she steps out, shoulders straightening, expression smoothing into something official and controlled. Jack mirrors her a beat later, breath steadying as he falls into step beside her.
“Remember,” she murmurs as they approach the tape, “we’re already looped in. Confident. Calm.”
He nods. “Got it.”
A uniformed officer intercepts them near the walkway. “Scene’s contained —”
“Detectives,” she says, flashing the badge just long enough to register. “We’ve been following a pattern connected to the earlier deaths.”
The officer hesitates, eyes flicking between them, then sighs and steps aside. “They’re inside. It’s… bad.”
The front door is open. The moment she crosses the threshold, her breath stutters. The air inside the apartment feels wrong. Thick, oppressive, like a storm cloud that never discharged. Her senses flare instinctively, every nerve lighting up at once. Anger. Not faint, not residual in the way old hauntings usually are. This is fresh. Violent. Lingering. Her chest tightens as the sensation crashes over her; the same one she felt in Daniel and Michael’s apartment. The same one that screamed back at her from the abandoned building. It presses in from every surface as if the space itself remembers what happened here.
Jack feels her falter and immediately slows, eyes scanning the room. “What —” he starts. Then he sees them. Jenna lies near the couch, her body twisted unnaturally, eyes glassy and wide, frozen in terror. One hand is clenched tight in the fabric of the rug, knuckles white even in death. Chris is farther back, near the hallway. His body is slumped against the wall, one arm outstretched toward her, fingers curled as if he’d tried to grab hold of something, or someone, just out of reach. No blood. No weapon. No forced entry. Just violence carved into the room like a signature.
Nellie closes her eyes for a brief second, letting her senses push past the shock, past the grief clinging to the room. The anger here is sharp, feral, but it’s also moving. Stretching outward. Pulling away. Like a tide already turning. Her stomach drops.
“This isn’t the end,” she says quietly.
He turns to her, concern etched into his face. “What do you mean?”
She opens her eyes, meeting his gaze. “It’s not done. There’s too much rage left.”
She scans the room again, the names lining up in her mind like a terrible equation. Mark. Daniel. Chris. Jenna. One name left standing.
“No,” she whispers, dread blooming fast and certain. “Michael.”
His posture snaps rigid. “Daniel’s brother.”
“Yes.” She’s already backing toward the door, pulse hammering. “He’s the last one. And this thing isn’t blaming them for killing it anymore, it’s blaming them for not stopping it.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He turns with her, already slipping the badge back into his jacket as they move past the officers, past the flashing lights and murmuring voices.
The Impala tears through side streets, Nellie cutting corners tight, Jack bracing one hand against the dash as the buildings blur past. Her jaw is set, eyes sharp, senses stretched thin.
“It hit twice in a row,” Jack says, steady but urgent. “That’s not nothing.”
“No,” she agrees. “Which means it’s burning hot. But even vengeful spirits need a second to regroup.” She presses harder on the gas. “We’ve got a window. I just don’t know how big it is.”
Michael’s apartment complex comes into view far too quickly and not quickly enough all at once. She skids into a parking spot, barely waits for the car to stop before she’s out, Jack right behind her. They take the stairs two at a time. By the time they reach the door, she can feel it again, that crawling pressure under her skin, sharper now, focused. Her pulse roars in her ears.
She pounds on the door. “Michael! Open the door!”
Nothing.
She pounds again, harder. “Michael, it’s the police — open up!”
There’s movement inside. Footsteps. A muffled voice is heard, confused, scared. Then a sudden crash from within, followed by a strangled gasp.
Her blood goes cold. “Jack—”
He’s already moving. He slams his shoulder into the door once. The frame shudders but holds. She joins him without hesitation, both of them hitting it together, adrenaline burning away restraint. On the third impact, the door bursts inward. They spill into the apartment in full hunting mode. A salt canister is already in her hand. He grips the iron bar like it’s an extension of his arm. The lights flicker violently, shadows jerking along the walls as if the room itself is panicking.
Michael is pinned against the far wall. A human-shaped figure looms over him, taller than life, edges blurring and warping, face indistinct but furious. Its hands are locked around his throat, lifting him just enough that his feet scrape helplessly against the floor. His face is red, eyes bulging, fingers clawing uselessly at wrists that aren’t fully there.
“HEY!” Nellie shouts. She flings salt in a wide arc.
The spirit shrieks an ugly, distorted sound, and recoils just enough for Jack to charge in. He swings the iron bar hard, connecting with the thing’s shoulder. The impact sends a ripple through its form, like hitting something made of smoke and rage. The grip loosens. The young man collapses to the floor, coughing violently, dragging in air like it’s the first time he’s ever breathed. She plants herself between him and the spirit, salt raised, eyes blazing. The figure snaps its head toward her, rage spiking so sharply it makes her vision blur. It surges forward.
Jack intercepts it, iron raised again. “Back off!”
He swings. The spirit staggers, fury splintering into something wild and uncoordinated. It looks between them and snarls before dissolving into shadow, ripping itself free of the room with a force that rattles the walls. The lights stabilize. Silence crashes down.
Michael lies curled on his side, coughing, shaking, alive.
Nellie drops to a knee beside him. “Hey. Hey, you’re okay. You’re safe.”
Jack moves to the door, scanning the hallway, iron still in hand, then back to the man. “Can you breathe?”
He nods weakly, still gasping. “Y-yeah… yeah, I—” He swallows hard, eyes darting around the room. “It was— it was Ethan.”
She stills.
“What?” Jack asks gently.
His voice trembles. “I — I don’t know how, but it was him. He was screaming. Saying I should’ve stopped him. That I let him die.”
She looks up at Jack, the understanding settling heavy between them.
They help the young man sit with his back against the wall. His knees pull up, hands shaking so badly he has to lace his fingers together to steady them. His throat is already bruising, red marks blooming where fingers that weren’t quite solid had wrapped around him. He looks between the hunters like he’s afraid they might disappear too.
“…Am I crazy?” he asks hoarsely. “Because I swear to God that was Ethan.”
She crouches in front of him, keeping her voice calm and level. “You’re not crazy.”
Jack steps in beside her, iron bar lowered but still in hand. “What you saw was real.”
Michael lets out a broken laugh that borders on hysteria. “That’s not reassuring.”
She meets his eyes. “We deal with things like this. Things that don’t make sense until they do.”
The silence stretches. He swallows hard. “So… he’s dead. Ethan’s dead. How can he —” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Why would he do this? Why would he be angry at us?”
Jack exchanges a quick look with Nellie before asking gently, “Was there anything unresolved between you and Ethan before he died?”
He frowns, thinking. “No. I mean… he got frustrated sometimes. About life. About us not wanting to party all the time anymore. He hated that we grew up.” His voice cracks. “But angry enough to kill us? No. He wasn’t like that.”
She nods slowly. “Maybe not when he was alive. Sometimes people don’t realize how deeply something affects them until it’s too late. Feeling left behind. Feeling ignored. Feeling like everyone else moved on without you.” Her voice softens. “That kind of anger can twist when there’s nowhere else for it to go.”
Michael stares at the floor, guilt flashing across his face. “We warned him. We told him not to go into that building.”
“And you couldn’t force him to listen,” she says firmly. “That matters.”
He presses his palms into his eyes. “Then why is he blaming us?”
“Because accepting responsibility is harder. Even in death.” She hesitates, then asks, “Michael… I need to ask you something. It’s going to sound strange.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “After tonight? Try me.”
“Where is Ethan buried?”
He stiffens. “Why?”
Jack answers before she can soften it. “Because that’s how we stop him. Before he hurts anyone else.”
The words hang heavy in the room.
He looks between them again, fear and hope warring on his face. Finally, he nods. “Greenwood Cemetery.” His voice drops. “You’re really going to end this?”
She stands, resolve settling into place. “Yes.”
Michael pushes himself to his feet, still shaky but determined. His jaw sets in a way that tells her exactly what he’s about to say. “I’m coming with you.”
Nellie turns on him immediately. “No.”
“I was involved,” he says, voice rough but firm. “Whatever this is, it’s about us. About him. I’m not hiding while you fix it.”
Jack opens his mouth to help back her up, but she beats him to it.
“This thing just tried to kill you,” she snaps. “Coming along puts you directly in its path.”
Michael meets her stare. “So does staying behind.”
She exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “You don’t have the training.”
“I have guilt,” he replies quietly. “And I’m not letting that be the reason someone else dies.”
The anger still hums in the back of her skull, restless, impatient. She can feel it pulling, tugging them toward its anchor like a hook in her ribs. Time is not on their side.
Jack steps closer, lowering his voice. “Nellie… we’re running out of time. And it’s already hurt him once.”
She looks at the man again. Sees the fear, yes, but also resolve. The kind that won’t be talked down. “Fine,” she says at last. “But you do exactly what we say. No heroics. No wandering off.”
He nods immediately. “Deal.”
They pile back into the Impala, the engine roaring to life as Nellie peels away from the curb. Michael gives directions with shaking fingers, guiding them out of town and toward the edge of the cemetery where old trees crowd the fence line. Greenwood Cemetery is too quiet. The moon hangs low, pale light catching on headstones and wrought-iron fences. They park near the tree line and pops the trunk. Michael stops short. Inside is a carefully organized chaos: duffel bags, shovels, iron bars, salt canisters, gasoline, lighters, a saw wrapped in cloth. Practical. Intentional.
“…You carry all this around?” he asks, stunned.
“Most of it,” Nellie replies, already grabbing a shovel and the duffel. “You get used to it.”
Jack takes the other shovel, slinging the duffel over his shoulder with practiced ease. He just stares for a second longer before following them through the gate.
They move quickly now, footsteps crunching softly on gravel. The air grows colder with every step, the anger she felt earlier coiling tighter, closer. They don’t waste time once they reach the grave. She plants herself a few steps back from the headstone, eyes scanning the shadows between the trees while Jack and Michael start digging. The soil is soft, recent, but that almost makes it worse. Every scrape of the shovel feels too loud, too slow.
“We move fast,” she says under her breath. “He’s going to come back. And when he does, he’ll try to stop this.”
Michael grips the shovel tighter. “Because of me.”
“Yes,” she says honestly. “So, stay close to Jack. If he shows up, do not run. You do exactly what I say.”
Jack shoots her a look. “You sure you’re good?”
She nods once. “I’ll keep him off you.”
The hole deepens quickly. Sweat beads on the guys’ brows, Michael’s hands tremble, but he keeps digging, jaw clenched like the motion itself is penance.
Then she feels it. The air thickens, pressure slamming into her senses like a sudden drop in altitude. Rage coils tight and hot, so sharp it makes her teeth ache. “He’s back.”
The night answers with a scream. Ethan’s form rips into existence near the tree line, more defined now, features clearer, eyes blazing with something feral and accusing. The temperature drops instantly, breath fogging in the air. Michael freezes.
“You,” Ethan snarls, voice distorted but unmistakable. “You let me die.” He lunges.
Nellie reacts without thinking. She steps forward, hands lifting as if to push against an invisible wall. Power surges through her chest, down her arms, burning and focused.
“No,” she grits out.
The air between Ethan and the grave shudders, a silvery ripple snapping into place just as he slams against it. The impact reverberates through her bones, knocking her back a step, but the barrier holds.
Jack stumbles but keeps digging. “Almost there!”
Ethan turns on Nellie, fury intensifying. “You don’t belong in this.”
“Funny,” she snaps, straining to hold the block. “I was thinking the same thing about you.” She lets the barrier bend, just enough. “Come on,” she taunts, forcing her voice steady. “You want someone to blame? Try me.”
It works. Blind rage snaps toward her, Ethan’s form tearing away from the grave as he surges in her direction. The pressure on her senses spikes, pain flashing white behind her eyes, but it gives the guys space.
Michael straightens suddenly, shovel dropping from his hands. “Ethan! Stop!”
The spirit whirls on him, face twisting. “You should have been there. All of you. You knew it wasn’t safe!”
“We warned you!” he shouts, fear breaking into anger. “We tried to help you. You never listened!”
“That’s a lie!”
“No, it’s not.” A couple tears stream down his face. “You didn’t want help. You wanted things to stay the same. And when they couldn’t, you blamed us.”
“You let me die!”
“You made a choice. Your death was an accident. But it was your accident. Not ours.”
For a fraction of a second, the rage wavers. Then it explodes. The spirit surges toward Michael, fury eclipsing everything else.
“Jack, now would be nice!” Nellie shouts.
Jack vaults out of the grave, hands moving fast. He scatters the last of the salt, then drenches the exposed remains with lighter fluid in one practiced motion. Without hesitation, he flicks the lighter and tosses it. Flames roar to life. Ethan lets out a scream that is pure fury and agony as the fire takes hold, his form unraveling, edges burning away into ash and light.
“No—!” The scream cuts off abruptly as the spirit collapses inward, consumed by the fire and its own unresolved rage.
Silence rushes back in, the flames carrying smoke and the dry rot of death and anger. The crackling coffin is the only sound for a long moment. Nellie stays where she is, boots planted, breathing slow and deliberate. The dizziness comes in waves; manageable, but insistent. Her hands still shake, betraying how much she poured into holding Ethan back. She stares at the embers as if she expects the spirit to rise out of them.
Jack notices everything. He doesn’t rush her. He just shifts closer, enough that his presence is solid at her side, grounding without pressing. “You don’t have to push through it,” he says quietly. “We can wait.”
She snorts weakly. “If we wait too long, cemetery security’s gonna be the next monster we have to deal with.”
That earns a faint smile from him, relief flickering through his eyes. “You did amazing,” he adds, softer now. Not praise-for-the-sake-of-it, but recognition.
She swallows, nodding once. “Thanks. I’m okay. Just… shaky.”
“If you need to sit —”
“I’m good,” she insists, though she shifts her weight to catch herself.
Michael finally finds his feet. He looks wrecked — eyes red, face streaked with tears and dirt — but there’s something else there now, too. Relief. The kind that comes after the worst possible answer finally arrives. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he says, voice rough. “You didn’t just… save my life. You explained it. I’ve been replaying that night over and over in my head for months.”
She turns to him. “That’s normal.”
“Is it?” he asks bitterly.
“Grief doesn’t care if something was an accident. It just wants somewhere to land.”
He nods slowly. “Ethan always thought we’d abandon him. Guess… guess that stuck deeper than we realized.”
Jack speaks up gently. “That doesn’t make this your fault.”
The man looks at him. “He said it was.”
He meets his gaze, steady and unflinching. “Anger lies. Especially when it’s afraid to admit the truth.”
Michael exhales, shoulders sagging. “So, you two really do this? All the time?”
Nellie huffs. “More than we’d like. Less than the world probably needs.”
Jack adds, “It’s not exactly a career people line up for.”
He almost laughs at that, then shakes his head in disbelief. “I don’t know how you live like this. Seeing things like that. Carrying it.”
She considers him for a second. “You don’t carry it forever. You learn how to set it down. Over and over again.”
There’s a beat of silence, the cemetery finally feeling… still. She rolls her shoulders again, then winces. Jack’s hand lifts instinctively, stopping just short of her arm.
“You sure?” he asks again, quieter.
She glances at him, catches the careful restraint there, and something eases in her chest. “Yeah. I promise. You’re doing the respectful hovering thing, though.”
He blinks. “I am?”
“Yeah,” she says, managing a small smile. “You and Sam are both sappy ones.”
That one lands. He smiles properly this time.
Michael clears his throat. “So… what happens now?”
“Now,” Nellie says, “we leave before someone with a flashlight and a lot of questions shows up.”
Jack nods. “And we get you somewhere safe.”
She gestures toward the path back to the car. “We’ll drop you at your place. We’ll secure it, but you should be in the clear. And if anything feels off — anything — you call the police. Or you call us.”
“You’d really come back?”
He answers without hesitation. “Yes.”
Michael nods, emotion flickering across his face. “Thank you. Both of you.”
They start walking back to the Impala. Nellie’s steps are slower now, but steadier. Jack stays close, matching her pace, a quiet anchor at her side. As they near the gate, she glances back once at the grave, now nothing more than disturbed earth cooling under moonlight. It’s done. Her first hunt with her new partner. Messy, but successful.
• • •
The motel room hums softly once the door shuts behind them, the old air conditioner rattling in protest as if it, too, has had a long night. Nellie drops her keys onto the narrow dresser with a dull clatter and leans there for a second, shoulders rolling as she tries to shake the leftover tension out of her limbs. The adrenaline is gone now, burned clean by the fire at the cemetery, and what’s left behind is the familiar ache. The kind that seeps into her bones after she pushes too hard. Jack notices the pause. The way she exhales through her nose. The faint wince she doesn’t quite hide.
“You should shower first,” she says, breaking the silence, nodding toward the bathroom. “You were the one in the grave.”
He sets their hunting duffel down slowly instead of answering right away. “Nellie,” he asks carefully, “are you sure you’re okay?”
She straightens almost immediately, instinct kicking in. “Yeah. I’m fine.” A beat. “Just a headache. Happens sometimes.”
He studies her, not accusatory, just observant. Her posture is controlled, but a little too controlled. Like she’s bracing against something invisible. “It looked like it took a lot out of you,” he says quietly.
She shrugs one shoulder. “It’s been a while since I used my abilities like that on a hunt. I’ll sleep it off.”
He can tell that’s only part of the truth. But he also knows when someone is asking to be believed rather than questioned. “I don’t mind waiting. You should go first.”
Her brow furrows. “Jack —”
“I mean it,” he adds quickly, hands lifting a little in surrender. “I’m not in a rush.”
She stares at him for a long moment, weighing whether to argue. The old instinct to push back flares, then fizzles out under the weight of exhaustion. “…Fine,” she mutters. “But if you complain about smelling like a corpse later, I will pretend I never heard it.”
He smiles, soft and sincere. “Deal.”
The shower is hot — almost too hot — but Nellie lets it run over her anyway, steam filling the cramped bathroom and loosening something in her chest she didn’t realize she’d been holding. She rests her forehead against the tile, breathing, letting the residual energy bleed off slowly instead of all at once. By the time she steps out, the headache has dulled to something manageable. She pulls on an oversized T-shirt and returns to the main room, collapsing onto the bed with a sigh that borders on a groan.
Jack slips past her into the bathroom, careful not to jostle the space. Before he closes the door behind him, she catches his eye again.
“Hey,” she says, voice rough with fatigue.
He pauses. “Yeah?”
“You’re doing good,” she tells him. Then, as if the words feel too exposed, she adds lightly, “So far, anyway.”
His expression brightens immediately. “So far?”
She turns onto her side, facing away from him. “Guess I can keep you around.”
He laughs under his breath, warmth blooming in his chest. “I was hoping you would. I think we’re… good at this. Together.”
She hums noncommittally, already half-drifting. “Don’t let it go to your head."
By the time he comes back out, hair still damp and the room smelling faintly of soap and steam, Nellie is barely awake. Curled on her side, breathing slow and even, the sharp edges of the night finally dulled. He moves quietly, changing and settling into his side of the bed with care, as if loud movement might break the fragile calm. The hunt plays back in his mind. The fear, the rush, the moment they almost didn’t make it in time. He knows better than to think they’ll all end like this. He’s seen what happens when they don’t. But tonight? Tonight worked. She is trusting him. Letting him step in. Letting him help.
As the motel light clicks off and the room sinks into darkness, Jack lets himself hold onto that feeling just a little longer. First hunt back. First win. First proof that this partnership might actually last. And for the first time since he came back to Earth, he falls asleep feeling like he belongs exactly where he is.
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