Chapter 5: The House at the edge of Town (5)
The house seemed to relax once Lena took the lead.
That was the strangest part.
As she drifted back into the hallway, brushing her fingers along the wall as if reacquainting herself with an old friend, the oppressive tension that had been pressing down on Mark’s chest eased, just a little.
The lights steadied. The creaking settled into the normal complaints of an aging structure. Even the air felt warmer, less sharp.
Evan noticed it too, and that scared him more than when the house was loud.
Lena glanced over her shoulder, catching their hesitation, and smiled. Not the bright, eager grin she’d worn all evening, but something slower. Softer. Intimate.
“Come on,” she said. “You’ve shown me all the scary parts. Now show me where you actually live.”
Her tone changed the word live into something else entirely.
Mark shot Evan a look. Evan shrugged weakly. His head still throbbed, but the edges of the fear had dulled, replaced by a strange floaty warmth. Maybe it was adrenaline finally burning out. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was her.
They followed her into the living room again, the familiar furniture grounding in its mundanity. Lena perched on the arm of the couch, crossing her legs deliberately.
“You know,” she said, “I always thought haunted houses were wasted on people who were alone.”
Mark snorted despite himself. “That’s… one way to put it.”
She laughed, a low sound this time. “Fear’s better shared. Makes everything feel more intense.”
Her gaze lingered on Evan. He felt it like a touch.
“You look better already,” she added. “Less… hunted.”
Evan swallowed. “I don’t feel it.”
“That’s okay,” she said softly. “I do.”
She reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Mark raised an eyebrow.
“Didn’t peg you for a smoker,” he said.
“I’m not,” Lena replied. “Usually.”
She tapped one out, rolled it between her fingers, then produced a lighter. The flame flared briefly, illuminating her face from below, throwing shadows up her cheekbones, making her eyes look impossibly dark.
She inhaled deeply, shoulders rising, then exhaled slowly. The smoke curled through the air, thick and sweet, carrying a scent that wasn’t quite tobacco.
Mark frowned. “That doesn’t smell like-”
“Clove,” she said.
“Relax.”
She held the cigarette out toward Evan first.
He hesitated. Every alarm bell in his body rang at once, faint but insistent. Don’t. But he was tired.
So tired.
And she was right there, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her.
“One puff,” she said. “Take the edge off.”
He took it.
The smoke burned his throat, harsher than he expected, but beneath it was something else, something soothing. His muscles loosened almost immediately, tension bleeding away like water down a drain.
Mark watched him, then sighed.
“Screw it.”
He took the cigarette when Lena offered it, coughing slightly as he inhaled. The room seemed to tilt, just a fraction.
Lena leaned back, satisfied, watching them both with open amusement.
“So,” she said casually, “ever done anything like this before?”
Mark laughed, a little breathless.
“In a haunted house? No.”
Evan shook his head. “Not exactly my… scene.”
“Shame,” Lena said. “I’ve always wanted to.”
The way she said it made Mark’s ears heat. The fear that had been coiled tight in his gut loosened further, replaced by something far more familiar. Simpler.
Evan felt it too.
The house faded into the background, its watchful presence dulled, like it had stepped back to observe rather than intervene. His headache softened into a pleasant pressure, his thoughts drifting.
Lena stood, closing the distance between them. She reached out, straightened Mark’s collar, then brushed imaginary dust from Evan’s shoulder.
“You’re both cute when you’re nervous,” she said.
Mark chuckled.
“You’re not exactly helping.”
She leaned closer. “I think I am.”
For a moment, the world narrowed to her smile, the warmth of her breath, the soft hum of the lights overhead. Evan’s fear felt far away. Manageable. Unreal.
His knees buckled without warning.
The sensation was sudden and absolute, muscles locking, strength draining from him like someone had pulled a plug. He tried to speak, to warn Mark, but his tongue felt thick, unresponsive.
Mark staggered too, grabbing for the back of the couch and missing. “What the-”
He hit the floor hard, vision blurring, the ceiling spinning lazily above him.
Panic flared too late.
Lena watched them fall with calm interest, the cigarette still burning between her fingers. She took one last drag, then stubbed it out carefully on the coffee table.
“Shh,” she murmured, as Evan’s eyes fluttered shut. “It’s okay. You did great.”
She crouched beside them, checking their pulses with practiced efficiency. Satisfied, she pulled out her phone.
The screen lit her face in cool blue as she snapped a picture, Mark sprawled awkwardly, Evan half-curled on his side, both unconscious.
She typed quickly, then lifted the phone to her ear.
“It’s done,” she said quietly.
She listened, nodding. Her smile returned, sharp, pleased.
“Yes,” she added, glancing toward the darkened hallway. “The house cooperated.”
A pause.
“No,” she said. “They have no idea.”
***
Lena moved them like luggage.
That was the first thing the house seemed to notice.
Mark’s body dragged across the floor with a dull, continuous scrape, boots bumping softly against doorframes, shoulders knocking into walls hard enough that any normal person would have woken instantly. Evan came next, one of Lena’s arms hooked beneath his shoulders, the other gripping Mark’s ankle with casual ease, as if weight were a suggestion rather than a rule.
She didn’t strain.
Didn’t grunt.
Didn’t pause.
Her steps were measured, unhurried, boots falling with soft, confident thuds against the floorboards. The house creaked once in protest, then fell silent again, as though it understood that resistance was unnecessary.
She chose the room at the end of the upstairs hallway.
Not Evan’s bedroom.
This one had been empty when he’d moved in, no furniture except a narrow bed, its frame iron-dark and cold to the touch, a dresser with no mirror, and a single overhead light that hummed faintly even when switched off.
Evan had never liked the room.
It felt… finished.
Complete in a way the rest of the house wasn’t.
Lena kicked the door open with her heel.
It swung inward and stopped on its own, settling at exactly ninety degrees, waiting.
She dragged Mark inside first and dropped him onto the bed without ceremony. His body landed with a dull whump, limbs heavy and uncooperative. Evan followed, placed, not dropped, on top of him, their unconscious forms stacked awkwardly, breathing shallow but steady.
Lena stepped back and observed them the way a surgeon studies a patient before incision.
“Perfect,” she murmured.
She reached into her bag and withdrew a squat metal container, its lid worn smooth from repeated use. When she twisted it open, the sound was sharp in the quiet room.
Salt spilled into her palm, thick-grained, irregular, not the fine white powder of a kitchen shaker.
Each crystal caught the light differently, some clear, some cloudy, some faintly pink or gray, as if harvested from more than one place.
She knelt and began to pour.
Not quickly.
Not carelessly.
She moved clockwise, arm extended, wrist steady, letting the salt fall in an unbroken line around the bed.
Her pace never changed.
The circle grew smooth and precise, its edge clean and intentional, no gaps, no overlaps.
When the container ran low, she adjusted without hesitation, tipping it just enough to maintain consistency.
The salt didn’t scatter.
Didn’t roll.
It landed where she intended and stayed there.
When she reached the point where she’d started, she stopped exactly on the same grain she’d begun with, completing the circle without a visible seam.
She snapped the lid shut and set the container aside.
Then she reached into the bag again.
This time, she pulled out a narrow glass vial filled with liquid that glowed faintly blue-green, like foxfire trapped in water. The light it gave off wasn’t strong, but it pulsed subtly, as if responding to something unseen.
She uncorked it.
The room’s temperature dropped a fraction, not enough to fog breath, but enough to make the skin tighten. The overhead light flickered once, then steadied.
Lena dipped a thin paintbrush into the liquid, letting the excess drip back into the vial before lifting it.
Her hand didn’t shake.
She knelt just outside the salt circle and began to paint.
The first symbol curved outward, a slow, deliberate arc that ended in a sharp hook.
The liquid soaked into the floorboards instantly, glowing brighter for a moment before dimming to a steady, low radiance.
She moved on without pause.
Each symbol was different. Some angular and aggressive, all sharp corners and intersecting lines.
Others flowed like script, looping back into themselves, layered with strokes so precise they looked rehearsed.
She spaced them evenly, each one placed at a mathematically exact distance from the next, forming a secondary ring just beyond the salt.
Her movements were economical.
Efficient.
Unmistakably practiced.
She never stepped inside the circle. Never crossed a line. Her knees avoided smudging the symbols by margins so small they looked impossible.
As she worked, the house responded.
Not violently.
Not yet.
The floor creaked softly beneath her weight, not in complaint but acknowledgment.
The walls ticked as they cooled. Somewhere below them, something shifted, slow and heavy, then stilled again.
Lena didn’t look up.
She finished the last symbol and lifted the brush cleanly, not a single drop spilled.
Only then did she stand.
She corked the vial, wiped the brush carefully on a cloth from her bag, and returned both to their places.
Everything went back exactly where it had been taken from, arranged with obsessive care.
She stepped to the door.
Before closing it, she turned back and looked at the two unconscious men on the bed.
Their chests rose and fell in uneven rhythm.
Mark’s brow was furrowed, as if his body knew something was wrong even if his mind did not. Evan’s fingers twitched once, then stilled.
“Sleep,” Lena said quietly.
She closed the door.
The click of the latch sounded final.
She lifted the glowing vial once more, dipped her fingertip into the liquid, and drew a single symbol on the door itself, centered, symmetrical, precise.
It flared briefly, then faded into invisibility, leaving behind a faint sense of pressure, like air sealed too tightly.
She locked the door.
The lock turned smoothly, decisively.
Lena stepped back and exhaled.
Then she pulled out her phone.
Her thumb hovered over the screen for a second before she tapped a contact. The phone rang once.
Twice.
She rolled her eyes.
“Where the hell are you?” she snapped the moment the call connected.
Her tone had lost all warmth now, irritation sharp and genuine.
