BETWEEN ME AND YOU

NOT ALONE

Back in the house

Banjo’s breath came in shallow bursts. He pressed his hand to the swollen wall. Beneath the paper, something pulsed, soft, wet, steady. Not a heartbeat. More like… breathing.

He stepped back, chest tight. “Kristine,” he whispered, “if you can hear me…”

The compass shard on the table behind him flared suddenly, just for an instant, casting a ghostly glow that rippled through the room. The wallpaper rippled with it.

Then, from within, he heard a whisper: "Banjo, my love.”

He staggered backward. “No… no, not again.” But this time, the voice wasn’t taunting. It sounded pleading.

He placed his palm flat against the wall again. “Kristine? Is that you?”

A faint warmth met his touch. Then another voice, deeper, overlapping hers. "Choose quickly.”

The wall bulged sharply, as if something was trying to break free. Banjo Gomez stumbled back just in time to see the wallpaper split right down the middle, peeling away with a wet, and tearing sound. A pale hand shot out, trembling, fingers stretching toward him.

It was her hand. And yet, not hers. The skin shimmered faintly, shifting between shades of flesh and light.

Banjo’s world tilted. “Kristine!”

From somewhere beyond the breach came her voice, weak and echoing. “Banjo, don’t let her take my name…”

He took her hand, gripping it firmly. The chill stung like ice. The walls howled with the wind, and for a brief moment, he felt that strange tug, as if gravity had flipped, pulling her toward the abyss lurking behind the plaster.

“Banjo!” she cried again.

He held on harder, teeth gritted. “I’m not going to lose you!"

But then, that deeper voice returned, softly whispering in his ear, impossible, intimate, and somehow enveloping him all at once.

“Give her back to me..."

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Inside, Kristine saw Banjo’s outline flicker in the fog, faint, fragile, like a reflection on water. She screamed for him, but the mist dragged her voice away. And Rico stood between them, face breaking with pain.

“He can’t pull you both out,” he said softly. “If he tries, you’ll both be lost.”

Kristine shook her head violently. “No. There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t.” Rico’s voice cracked. “The door only closes when one love lets go.”

The world trembled around them. The mist rose higher, swallowing her waist, her shoulders.

“Tell him,” Rico whispered. “Tell him to choose.”

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In the study room, Banjo’s grip was slipping. His hand was fading, light dissolving between his fingers.

“Kristine!” his voice reached him through the roar.

“Banjo… choose!”

The wind died...as if the silence killed it. The room went still. The wall sealed itself as if nothing had ever broken it. Seems like everything is under control, the reason why it suddenly stop.

Banjo fell to his knees, breath ragged, her name a whisper that barely escaped his throat.The compass lay shattered nearby, its faint glow gone completely. But on its cracked surface, written in condensation like a ghost’s breath, were two words: “Not alone.”

Later, he found himself waking up on the floor. The storm had finally moved on. The only sound that filled the house was the steady ticking of the clock, thin and patient, like someone counting their breaths. The wall that had opened up the night before was smooth once more. No cracks. No blood. Just wallpaper, damp and cold to the touch, yet intact. Banjo pressed his palm against it anyway, and there was nothing.

He turned toward the bed. It was empty. Sheets tangled, pillow indented, but she was gone. The air still smelled faintly of rain and candle smoke, and something else, something faintly metallic, like the scent of a struck match.

“Kristine?” He called. His voice was smaller than he meant it to be.

The only sound that filled the air was the house settling around him, the slow creak of the timber. Then, from the corner of the room, he heard it: tick, tick, tick. He glanced down and saw the compass. It shouldn’t have been there; he had watched it shatter into pieces. Yet, there it was, perfectly intact, the glass unbroken, and the needle twitching wildly, pointing from north to nowhere.

Banjo crouched beside it. “If you’re still here,” he whispered, “show yourself.”

But the needle stopped.

Then it turned slowly, deliberately pointing north, not toward the lake, but down. To the floorboards beneath his knees.

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Kristine walked, though her feet touched nothing. Each step sends ripples through the mist like rings on water. There was no floor here, only light. She could still feel his hand. The warmth lingered, the echo of his heartbeat. Somewhere behind the veil, she could hear him whispering her name. And someone else’s.

“Rico,” she said. The name tasted strange now, like smoke she wasn’t supposed to breathe. “Where are you?”

“I’m close.” His voice came from everywhere. “You shouldn’t have let him touch you. The bridge is rebuilt.”

Kristine turned in slow circles. “I don’t want a bridge. I want to go home.”

Rico finally appeared then, a shape forming from fog, familiar shoulders, and a familiar smile. But his eyes were dimmer now, and something moved inside them, in the shadows.

“You can’t go back alone,” he said. “You are bound to me all.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” He stepped closer, reaching for her. “But meanings don’t matter here. Only promises.”

Kristine stepped back. “Banjo’s trying to reach me.”

Rico nodded once, sadly. “And something else is trying to reach him.”

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Bank to Banjo;

He carefully pried up the first floorboard, and a cloud of dust erupted around him, making it hard to breathe. Below lay a dark, empty crawl space, no light, no signs of life. He held the compass over the opening, and it flickered with a soft glow, pulsing like a heartbeat.

Then, something seemed to breathe back. Banjo stumbled, nearly dropping the compass in his hand. The breath came again, slow and deep, almost human. He quickly grabbed a flashlight from the shelf, clicked it on, and leaned over the gap. At first, all he could see was dirt. But then, in the corner of the beam, he noticed the faintest shimmer, like a reflection on water. Leaning in closer, he saw a handprint on the underside of the floorboard, perfectly aligned with his own palm. He could feel the cold seeping through the wood.

“Kristine…” he whispered.

The flashlight flickered. Then, just beneath the sound of his own breath, a second voice murmured:

“She’s not the only one here.”