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1432 Words
"Do you believe in ghosts?" the strange boy asked quietly.
We stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at the nine-foot figure at the end of the hall.
It was too tall.
Too thin.
Its edges flickered like something unfinished. The air around it felt distorted, heavy — as though the building itself was struggling to breathe.
"Maybe… a projection," I said.
But even as I spoke, I knew it wasn't.
There were no wires. No machines. No logic that explained the pressure crushing my chest — or the overwhelming certainty that if it moved, it would choose me first.
The ground shook violently.
Scratches screamed across the walls. Stone cracked. Dust rained down.
The figure tilted slightly.
Toward us.
"It's time to run," I whispered.
"Or not," he said at the same time.
We looked at each other.
And something strange passed between us — not fear.
Recognition.
Then the ceiling collapsed.
We ran.
We burst outside seconds later, coughing, blood streaking my leg where I'd scraped it.
He grabbed my wrist without thinking — not roughly, but firmly — pulling me farther from the entrance as the structure groaned behind us.
"Are you hurt?" he demanded.
The urgency in his voice startled me.
"I'm fine."
He didn't let go immediately.
His fingers were warm. Steady. Like he was grounding himself.
Then he seemed to realise and slowly released me.
"I have holy water," he said, almost absently, pulling a small bottle from his bag.
"You just carry that around?"
"Habit."
I poured it over my wound.
It burned sharply — but not wrong.
As if something unseen had been clinging there… and didn't want to leave.
He was watching me again.
Not casually.
Intensely.
"Who are you?" I asked.
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he studied my face like he was searching for something he'd lost.
"You're not from here," he said quietly.
"That's not an answer."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"I should know you," he said under his breath.
A chill ran down my spine.
"What?"
He blinked — like he hadn't meant to say it aloud — then forced a half smile. "Nothing."
But his eyes didn't match the smile.
They were unsettled.
Drawn.
Before I could press him—
"Allan! Are you okay?"
A tall, confident guy jogged toward us.
Allan.
So that was his name.
"I'm fine," Allan replied, but his gaze never left me.
Peter glanced at my bleeding leg. "You're hurt."
"She's with me," Allan cut in smoothly.
The words weren't loud.
But they carried weight.
Peter hesitated, then left to get supplies.
When he was gone, Allan exhaled slowly.
"You heard that thing too, right?" I asked.
"Yes."
No hesitation.
"And you still want to go back inside?"
He looked toward the broken entrance.
"I have to."
"Why?"
He turned back to me.
And for a second, the teasing version of him disappeared entirely.
"Because I've been having dreams," he said quietly. "About this place."
My breath caught.
"Dreams?"
"About a house that shouldn't exist." His voice lowered. "And about someone standing inside it."
The air shifted.
I forced a laugh. "And you think that someone is me?"
He didn't smile.
"I don't think," he said.
He stepped closer — not enough to touch, but enough that I could feel his warmth.
"I know."
My pulse stuttered.
"That's insane."
"Probably."
"But you still ran in after me," he said softly.
I had no answer for that.
Because he was right.
We went back inside together.
The shadow was gone.
Only debris remained.
We found the injured cat tangled near chewed backup wiring.
"That explains the tremors," I said, relief flooding me.
But Allan looked almost disappointed.
Like he had expected something else.
Or someone else.
He lifted the cat gently.
"You shouldn't have been there," he murmured — and I couldn't tell if he meant the cat…
Or me.
We carried the injured cat outside.
The night felt unnaturally still. Even the wind had quieted, as if the forest were holding its breath.
"That explains the tremors," I said, nodding toward the chewed wiring near the cat.
"Maybe," Allan replied.
But his eyes were still scanning the building.
Watching.
"Sit," he said, pulling the first-aid kit from his bag.
"I'm fine." I lied while one step away from dropping to my knees.
"You're bleeding," he said, looking at me.
"I've had worse," he stepped closer.
"Sit."
It wasn't forceful. But it wasn't optional either.
I lowered myself onto a cracked stone slab. My leg throbbed as I pushed my jeans up slightly to reveal the cut.
He crouched in front of me.
Too close.
Under the faint spill of moonlight, his expression shifted — focused, serious, almost protective.
His fingers wrapped gently around my ankle to steady it.
The moment he touched me—
Something tightened in my chest.
Not pain.
Not fear.
Recognition.
My breath hitched before I could stop it.
His hand stilled.
He looked up.
He had felt it too.
For a second, neither of us moved.
The air between us grew heavy.
"Did that hurt?" he asked quietly.
"No."
It hadn't.
But something had definitely happened.
He resumed cleaning the wound, slower now. More careful. His thumb brushed lightly against my skin as he wiped away blood.
The cut reacted strangely — the faint burning sensation faded the longer his hand stayed there.
He noticed.
"So you're not from here," he said, almost absently.
"We just moved."
"We?" His grip tightened slightly.
"My boyfriend and I."
The word hung in the air.
Something dark flickered behind his eyes.
Gone in a second.
"Ah," he said lightly. Too lightly.
He wrapped the bandage carefully around my calf. His fingers lingered, pressing gently as if testing something invisible beneath the surface.
"You shouldn't have been in that building," he murmured.
"You were."
"I had a reason."
"And I didn't?"
His gaze lifted slowly to mine.
"You were looking for something," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"And what were you looking for?" I asked.
He studied my face — searching, almost frustrated.
"You," he nearly said.
I saw it form on his lips.
Instead, he exhaled softly.
"I don't know yet."
The honesty in that answer unsettled me more than any lie could have.
His hand slid from my leg — slowly.
Reluctantly.
But before he stood, his fingers brushed against my wrist.
This time, the reaction was stronger.
A sharp pulse.
Like static snapping between skin.
We both inhaled at the same time.
His eyes darkened.
"Have we met before?" I asked before I could stop myself.
He didn't smile.
"Not like this."
My heart stuttered.
"What does that mean?"
For a moment, he looked like he might tell me something dangerous.
Then the teasing mask slipped back into place.
"It means," he said smoothly, standing and offering me his hand, "you owe me coffee for life-saving services."
I took his hand.
The contact felt too natural.
Too familiar.
He pulled me up gently — but didn't let go immediately.
"You run toward danger," he said softly.
"And you?"
"I've been running toward something for a while now."
His eyes held mine.
"And I think I just found it."
The forest seemed to close in around us. My pulse raced. This was insane.
I had a boyfriend.
We had just met.
And yet…
Standing there under the moonlight, his hand still wrapped around mine, it didn't feel like the beginning of something.
As if a page had been turned—
Not opened. He finally released me.
But the warmth of his touch remained long after.
And the strangest part?
I didn't want it to fade.
He drove me; the ride was strangely quiet.
Comfortable.
Suddenly, I was reminded of my strange dream, that uncomfortable sensation of being drawn to another man. Irresistible thirst for a kiss. That man was different in every way. What am I thinking? He had firm muscles, and he was incredibly sexy. This guy doesn't even start. If an actual ghost had appeared, I'm sure he would have run away in fear, leaving me behind. He dresses and acts like a kid. And something about him makes me want to scratch his face.
As if the silence between us didn't need filling, my thoughts kept me entertained.
When we stopped, I reached for the door.
"See you around, Nora," he said.
My hand froze.
I turned slowly.
"I don't remember telling you my name."
He didn't look surprised. He didn't even look guilty. He just watched me.
"I know, let's meet tomorrow," he said softly and drove away.
- Writer
