They were in it now.

Not just the curse. Not just the bloodlines.
Not just the sick little web that had been spinning beneath Shadyside since the 1600s.

This.

This room.

This group.

This moment, strung tight between grief and defiance.

Heather’s voice still rang in Max’s ears, rough and quiet and steady.

Benji, too—soft but sharp, saying the thing no one else would’ve had the guts to say until it was too late.

And Eli—cold, cutting, correct.

No one gets carved into that wall again.

Max knew what that meant.

It meant they had a deadline.
A pattern.
A playbook written in blood and silence and bones.

And she was going to break it.

She stepped back to the table, flipping another page in the binder. Her handwriting—meticulous, dense, underlined three times in red—glared up at her like a warning.

The timeline is accelerating.

They didn’t have weeks.

They might not even have days.

“We go in tomorrow,” she said, voice clear, final.

Not a suggestion. A command.

“Same tunnel. Same grate. We photograph the wall, every inch of it. We don’t just document the names—we look for what connects them. Placement. Spacing. Order. There’s a code in there. I can feel it.”

She didn’t have proof. Not yet.

But Max had stopped doubting her instincts the second Heather’s name appeared.

She looked up, eyes locking with each of them in turn.

“Something down there wants her. Wants to finish the story it started centuries ago. But if we understand the pattern—if we break the chain—we don’t just save Heather.”

A beat.

“We end the curse.”

Her voice softened slightly, but not much.

“That wall isn’t just a graveyard. It’s a map. And tomorrow, we start reading it.”

She turned to Eli first.

“You’re on point. Take the lead when we’re in. You see something we don’t, speak it.”

He nodded once, sharp and controlled.

To Caleb:

“Crowbar. Knife. Backup flashlight. You’re the line between us and the thing that lives down there.”

Another nod.

Then Alice:

“Heather doesn’t go. She stays up top, with you. Guard the tunnel. Keep lookout. If something comes out that doesn’t have our voice—don’t wait.”

Max didn’t add kill it. She didn’t need to.

Alice Mae just nodded, jaw tight.

Then, finally, Benji.

“You stay with her. Keep her grounded.”

Max’s gaze flicked back to Heather.

And for the first time all night, she let herself say something that wasn’t tactical.

“You’ve got more fight in you than most people do in a lifetime.”

A pause.

“But that fight’s only going to matter if we buy you enough time to win.”

Another beat. Her voice dropped to a low, certain hum.

“So we’ll buy it.”

Max shut the binder with a firm snap.

That was the plan.

Tomorrow, they went back.

And this time, they weren’t going in just to look.

They were going in to learn.

To challenge.

To change the ending.

Because if the curse wanted Heather?

It picked the wrong girl.

And the wrong crew.

She didn’t flinch when Max said it.

“Heather doesn’t go. She stays up top, with you. Guard the tunnel.”

She didn’t argue. Didn’t ask for more. Didn’t blink.

Because she already knew.

That was always going to be her role.

It had been since day one.

Since Heather stepped into this cursed town with glitter eyeliner and a chip on her shoulder, dragging a history she didn’t even know she carried. Since the first dream. Since the first crack in her smile.

Alice had been preparing for this long before Max said the words.

But hearing them out loud?

It still hit different.

Not because she doubted herself.
But because this wasn’t just about protection anymore.

It was about prevention.

Because if something tried to crawl out of that tunnel—if something decided tonight was the night Heather Goodwin finally broke—
Alice Mae was going to be the thing standing between her and the dark.

She looked at Heather, who sat just a few feet away—tired, burning, raw—but still here.

Still breathing.

Still fighting.

God, she looked so young.

And so old.

Alice’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

She couldn’t fix the dreams.

Couldn’t reach into Heather’s chest and rip the curse out like a rotten root.

But she could do this.

She could stand.

She could guard the threshold with fire in her bones.

She glanced at Max, voice low but steady:

“We’ll be ready.”

Not I. We.

Because Heather didn’t get to be a passenger anymore.

Alice wasn’t babysitting.

She was barricading.

Max gave a single nod—like a general acknowledging another commander—and turned back to the binder.

Alice sat again, this time closer to Heather. Not touching. Just… there.

It wasn’t a gesture. It was a warning.

To anything listening.

Anything creeping in through the cracks.

Anything waiting for the moment Heather faltered.

Not tonight.

Not while I’m breathing.

The living room was quiet.

Too quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that soothed—protected—but the kind that made her feel like the silence itself was holding its breath.

The streetlamp outside flickered against the blinds, casting faint slashes of orange light across the old hardwood floor, the chipped coffee table, the edge of the pullout sofa. The air smelled like dust, eucalyptus from Max’s cheap diffuser, and something vaguely metallic beneath it all—like rain on rusted metal that hadn’t seen the sun in weeks.

It was Shadyside.

And even though they were safe—for now—even though Max had locked every door and shoved a chair under the front knob, even though Eli had curled up in Max’s bed like a tiny, exhausted heat source and Max had insisted they take the living room, it still didn’t feel right.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust them.

She did.

She trusted Max with her life. Trusted Eli to wake up screaming if something so much as brushed the wrong window. Trusted Caleb, most of all, because he was right here—warm and solid beside her beneath the worn blanket, back turned slightly, breathing slow.

But trust wasn’t the same as peace.

And she hadn’t had that in days.

Alice Mae lay on her side, one leg curled close to her chest, the other stretched awkwardly to keep pressure off her ankle. Max had wrapped it carefully earlier, fussed over her like an older sister even while pretending not to. It throbbed now. Dull and hot. A constant reminder.

She stared at the ceiling. At the cracked paint and the shadow of the hallway nightlight flickering with every shift of the power-hungry old heater.

This wasn’t Sunnyvale. There were no manicured lawns here. No silence for the sake of civility. No pretending things didn’t exist if you just didn’t say them out loud.

But the fear followed anyway.

Maybe because the curse started here.

Maybe because it belonged here.

And maybe—because a part of her did, too.

Her hand reached out across the dip in the pullout, searching through tangled sheets until it brushed the soft cotton of Caleb’s sleeve. She let her fingers rest there—just enough to feel him breathe. Just enough to know he was real.

Her voice barely left her throat.

“Are you awake?”

A pause.

“Caleb.”

The name hung there, fragile in the dark.

She didn’t wait for a response.

“I’m scared.”

It felt childish. It felt honest.

Because even here—in Max’s trailer, with the doors locked and her best friends just down the hall—her chest still felt too tight. Her ears still strained for footsteps. Her muscles were still wound too tense to let go.

Because he had come into Sunnyvale. Because he had broken the boundary that wasn’t supposed to break.

And because now they were in Shadyside.

In the dark.

Waiting.

She swallowed hard, eyes on the ceiling.

Not asking Caleb to fix it.

Just needing him there.

He was already awake.

Had been for a while.

Lying still. Listening to the hum of Max’s heater, the creak of old pipes shifting like bones, the buzz of a fridge that sounded like it was dying one wheeze at a time.

It wasn’t the noise that kept him up.

It was the quiet underneath it.

That thick, heavy quiet that settled over Shadyside like a second skin—one that never stopped itching. Like the walls remembered too much. Like the shadows never quite let go.

He heard her breathing change before she spoke.

That faint hitch. The slight shift in the sheets. The way her hand moved, searching until it found his arm, fingers brushing the cotton of his shirt like she was checking if he was still real.

He didn’t move.

Not right away.

Just let her find him.

Let her hold on.

Then her voice—so soft it nearly got swallowed by the dark.

“Are you awake?”

He was.

But she didn’t wait.

“Caleb.”

And then—“I’m scared.”

That cracked him open.

Because she didn’t say it like someone looking for comfort. She said it like someone admitting the thing they’d been swallowing all night. Like she thought maybe saying it out loud made her weak.

But to him?

It made her unstoppable.

He turned toward her slowly, careful not to jostle the thin mattress or bump her ankle. His arm slid out from under the blanket and found her hand—curling around it, warm and steady, no room for questions or conditions.

He didn’t say don’t be scared.

Didn’t lie to her with soft reassurances that it would be fine. Because they both knew better.

He just held her hand tighter.

Then—quiet, low, raw from everything they’d survived:

“I know.”

His thumb brushed over her knuckles once.

And then, after a beat:

“But I’m here.”

Simple.

Final.

Like it was a rule written in something older than any curse.

He didn’t offer promises he couldn’t keep.

He just stayed.

Let her breathe.

Let her feel him there—anchored beside her in a town that reeked of memory and rust and blood in the floorboards.

Because if she was scared?

Then he wasn’t sleeping.

Not until she could.

She didn’t cry.

Not because she wasn’t close—God, she was—but because that small, steady pressure of his hand around hers was enough.

For now.

The moment his fingers curled around hers, her chest loosened. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe without it catching in her throat. Just enough to feel the blanket under her, the rough fabric of Max’s couch, the ache in her ankle, the rawness behind her eyes.

Just enough to remember she was here.

Not on the porch. Not in the woods. Not watching that axe drag across the sidewalk like a death sentence that had come early.

Here.

She squeezed his hand in return—small, but intentional. Like a signal flare she didn’t have to send with words.

He didn’t speak at first. Didn’t rush to fill the quiet or chase the fear away with empty noise.

And when he finally did?

“I know.”

That was all it took.

Her throat went tight again, but it didn’t close. Because it wasn’t pity. Wasn’t a lie.

It was understanding.

And then—But I’m here.

She turned her face toward him in the dark. Not all the way—her body still stiff, her heart still trying to catch up—but enough. Enough to feel the warmth of his shoulder near hers. Enough to hear the breath he let out as if he’d been holding it for hours.

“I hate this,” she whispered. “I hate that it followed us. That it touched Sunnyvale. That it got in.”

The hand he held twitched in his—reflexive. Angry. Scared.

“I hate that I don’t know where’s safe anymore.”

She let out a shaky breath. Looked at the ceiling like it might give her answers.

“Max is sleeping ten feet away. Eli’s here. You’re here. And I still feel like if I close my eyes too long, he’ll be at the window again.”

Her voice cracked, just slightly.

“I don’t wanna feel like that forever.”

Her fingers tightened around his.

“I don’t wanna be scared every time it gets quiet.”

She paused, then added more softly:

“But if you’re here… it’s less.”

She wasn’t asking for it to go away. She wasn’t stupid. She knew the curse didn’t care how tired they were or how much they’d already lost.

But it was less with him beside her.

Even in Shadyside. Even in the dark.

Even now.

He didn’t let go.

Not when her hand twitched. Not when her voice cracked. Not when she looked up like the ceiling might crack open and finally let the sky fall down where it was supposed to.

He just held on.

Tighter, when she needed it. Looser, when she didn’t. Like he could read the rhythm of her fear in the curl of her fingers.

And maybe he could.

Because he wasn’t guessing anymore.

He knew what haunted her now. Knew what it looked like. What it sounded like. How it moved.
And he knew exactly how it had looked at her.

That hadn’t left him.

Wouldn’t leave him.

She said she hated that it got in—that it touched Sunnyvale. But Caleb? He hated that it had touched her.

That it had come that close.

That it had chosen her.

And he hadn’t been fast enough to stop it.

He swallowed hard, his eyes on the ceiling too, like if he stared long enough maybe he could keep the darkness from pressing in.

“I know,” he said again, softer this time. Not as a response—just as a thread. Something to stitch them together in the dark.

Her fingers squeezed his.

He felt it all in that one touch.

The fear.

The exhaustion.

The need to just feel less.

And the worst part? He understood it.

Because he felt it too. Every time it got quiet. Every time he closed his eyes and saw blood instead of sleep. Every time the silence wrapped too tight around the world and made him wonder if the killer had ever really stopped following them.

But he didn’t say that.

Didn’t pile weight on top of hers.

Instead, he moved closer.

Not much. Just enough that their knees brushed beneath the blanket, just enough that his shoulder bumped hers gently. The kind of contact that didn’t take. That didn’t crowd.

Just reminded.

“You’re not gonna feel like this forever,” he said, voice low and steady and meant. “I don’t know how I fix it, but… I’ll stay. ‘Til it’s less.”

He turned his head just enough to see the outline of her face. Pale in the dark. Eyes wide open.

“And then I’ll stay longer than that.”

Because it wasn’t about making it all go away.

He couldn’t promise that.

But he could promise her this:

That he wouldn’t go away.

That even in Shadyside, even after the boundary broke, even in the kind of night that made your chest lock and your blood feel too loud—

He’d be there.

Still.

Real.

And holding on.