Episode 8
529 Words
Unanswered Questions
The days after the funeral passed in a blur. The town went back to its rhythm, as it always did, though whispers still circled in hushed voices whenever Danny’s name came up. In classrooms, in corner stores, in church pews—everywhere Andrew went, he felt the weight of those whispers pressing against him.
He walked through them like a ghost, silent and unseen. People stopped him sometimes—I’m so sorry for your loss, Andrew, she was such a bright girl—but he could barely respond. Their words bounced off him, hollow and useless.
Jayson was worse off. He hadn’t been to school since the funeral. Andrew finally found him in his room one afternoon, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his curtains drawn. Empty soda cans and chip bags cluttered the space around him.
“You can’t just hide in here forever,” Andrew said gently.
Jayson’s eyes were bloodshot. “Why not? The world’s safer in here.”
Andrew frowned. “Safer from what?”
“From houses that eat people. From friends who climb rotten stairs. From death, Andrew. Safer from death.”
Andrew sat down across from him. “You think the house killed her?”
“I think she killed herself,” Jayson muttered bitterly. “She couldn’t help it. Always chasing danger, like it was some kind of prize.”
Andrew shook his head. “No. It wasn’t just her. It felt… wrong. Like something else was there.”
Jayson shot him a glare. “You’re starting to sound crazy.”
“Am I? Or are you just too scared to admit it?”
The words hung in the air, heavier than either of them expected. Jayson looked away, his jaw tight.
“Leave it alone,” he said finally. “Danny’s gone. No story you spin is going to change that.”
Andrew didn’t answer. But deep inside, a stubborn certainty was hardening. Jayson could bury himself in fear, the police could call it an accident, the town could whisper their ghost stories. None of it mattered. He knew there was more.
That night, Andrew sat at his desk, the glow of his lamp spilling across his notebook. He scribbled everything he remembered:
Danny dared them to go in.
The staircase was weak, but she’d been careful until the last second.
Her fall seemed… too sudden.
Mrs. Olivia never cried.
He tapped his pen against the page, frustration building. There were too many blanks. Too many things that didn’t add up.
The image of Mrs. Olivia at the funeral came back to him. Her dry eyes. Her calm voice. The word reckless on her tongue like it had been rehearsed.
Andrew scrawled one last line across the page, the ink digging deep into the paper:
Accident or not—someone wanted her gone.
The next day at school, he found a note slipped into his locker. The handwriting was jagged, hurried.
Stop asking questions. The dead should stay buried.
Andrew stared at it, his heart pounding. He hadn’t asked anyone questions yet. Not out loud.
Which meant someone already knew what he was thinking.
And they were afraid.
- Writer
