We arrive at the driveway, the tires crunching on gravel, and the house rests in a soft glow of porch light, quiet and modest. We needed quiet. I stepped out of the car cautiously, my legs unsteady. It took me a moment to walk without falling. Zeke stays close, prepared to catch me if I falter. Uncle Donovan jumped out of the car and hurried up the steps, fumbling with his keys to unlock the front door. He swings the door open and ushers us in.
As I entered his house, I detected a subtle scent of cedar and old books. The space was warm, cozy, cluttered, but homey, creating a feeling of safety. At the same time, it seemed like a vault concealing secrets. I looked around as he led the way, taking in everything. Uncle Donovan walked ahead of us, turning on a light and gesturing toward the well-used leather couch in his living room.
"Sit down, Roxanne, Zeke. I'll go get the journal," he says. I nodded at him, not in the mood to talk. My throat felt raw and needed rest. As we wait, I start to replay the events from earlier. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around everything.
"You, okay?" Zeke asks as he guides me to the couch. I nodded, even though I wasn't sure if it was true. Zeke slowly lowered me onto the couch. Treating me as if I'm fragile and might break. Pretty sure I proved I'm not as fragile as everyone thinks.
We watched Donovan disappear down the hallway, leaving us alone. The more we sat in silence, the more my brain dwelled on how strange it felt without Agent Williams, as if a limb were missing. But he needed space right now to process what he'd seen—the sound of drawers opening and cabinets closing brought me back to the present. We could hear a soft thud as boxes were moved around.
"Should we go help him?" I asked
"No," he says, shaking his head. "We will only get in the way." He was right, and I knew that, but I felt useless just sitting here waiting. Just then, Uncle Donovan returned, holding a small wooden chest. It was old, a family heirloom, with carved vines curling around the edges, and pretty pink flowers were sprouting from them. He gently sets it down on the coffee table in front of me.
"This belonged to your grandmother. She wrote everything she knew about the gift. All of the good it could do and everything she feared." He says softly.
My heart raced as I picked up the box and examined it. I set it down, and Uncle Donovan slowly lifted the lid, revealing the contents. Inside was a thick, leather-bound journal, its cover smooth and worn from years of use. A faded ribbon marked the last page she wrote on. Donovan hesitated briefly before lifting it out of the box and handing it to me. When I received it, all I could think was, wow, this family really loves their journals. It was a strange thought, but my mind was exhausted.
"She wanted you to have this someday. I just hoped she would be the one giving it to you," he says thoughtfully.
I grasp the journal with both hands, feeling the warm leather against my palms. I trace my hand along its cover. When I open to the first page, I notice my grandmother's handwriting curling across it—graceful, looping, and exquisite. Zeke leans in close, reading over my shoulder.
"I'll read it out loud," I tell him. He smiles and sits back against the couch as Donovan sits on the edge of his chair, wringing his hands. I began reading, but my voice fails me. It has been pushed to its limits. Zeke notices me struggling and takes the journal. He starts to read for me.
My dearest Granddaughter,
If you are reading this, then the gift has awakened within you, along with the danger that comes with it. Our family has carried this burden for generations. We are born with a thread that ties us to the other side. Some threads are thin, some frayed, but your sweet girl… yours is strong. Stronger than mine ever was. I can feel it every time your mom is near me.
You will feel the dead before you see them. You will hear them before they speak. They will be drawn to you – Some will seek peace, others will seek power, and one human will seek to claim you.
You must never let him. Trust your heart and the ones who stand beside you. You are not alone, even when the shadows whisper otherwise. You are loved.
With all my love,
Grandma.
My throat grows tight as I listen. Her words were loving but strong. I've only ever met her in my dreams and wondered what it would have been like to have her around throughout my childhood. This thought is not new to me; I've been thinking about it since I realized the Catalano's were my actual family.
"Rory, she wrote this for you," Zeke whispered.
"She knew. She always knew," Donovan says as he wipes his eyes.
Zeke turns the page, ready to read another entry, but before he can, the lamp starts to flicker, once, twice, and then stops. Zeke immediately shifted closer to me, his arm brushing up against mine.
"No, not here. Not now," Donovan says as his body stiffens. A low hum vibrates through the floorboards. Deja vu overcomes me. Zeke lays the journal back down on the coffee table. The journal pages flutter on their own, flipping rapidly as if caught in a wind that wasn't there. I place my hand on the cover, trying to hold it still.
"Roxanne, let go of it," Zeke says as he grabs my wrist. But the journal wouldn't let me. It held my hand in place, the leather warming under my palm.
"Roxanne, listen," a whisper curled from the pages—soft, feminine, familiar, my grandmother's voice. Donovan gasped, and Zeke froze. The journal starts to glow faintly, the ink shimmering. Then the whisper changes, deeper, colder, dripping with venom.
"You can't hide from me." It's Elias, the entity from the house. A cold shiver ran down my back. The lamp shatters, plunging the house into darkness. Zeke instinctively pulls me into his arms. Donovan shouts my name, and the journal slams shut with a violent crack in my hands. I pulled my hand back before it closed, just barely. Without thinking, I grab it off the coffee table, holding it close to me like a shield. It pulses like a heartbeat in my hands, it begins to warm, then heat, and then my palms start to burn. Gasping, I try to drop it, but my fingers won't let me release it. The journal has a hold on me. My face starts to twist in agony from the extreme heat on my hands.
"Roxanne, don't fight it," Uncle Donovan says. Relax and let it guide you.
The shadows surge forward, coalescing into a shape: tall, wrong, flickering like a broken film reel. Elias starts to take shape. He sneers at me.
"You can't hide from me," he says again. His hollow gaze locked on me. "You belong to me!"
The journal in my hands flares with light. I scream, not from pain, but from something ripping me open from within me. It is a pressure, not a force; it's a flood of emotion that isn't mine. Fear, anger, grief, voices whispering, hands reaching, and cold air rush through my lungs. Zeke grabs my shoulders, shaking lightly.
"Rocky, look at me!" He pleads, but I can't. My body is not my own right now. My vision blurs, the room dissolves into swirling shadows and streaks of light. Weightlessness suspends me between both worlds: the seen and unseen ones.
Then I hear them, not with my ears, with my mind. Dozens of voices, hundreds assault me. Whispers layered over whispers.
"Help me, he won't let us go. You can stop him; you're the one. Wake up, Roxanne!" My heart pounds so hard it hurts. The journal in my hands starts to glow even brighter, the light spilling between my fingers.
"No, not yet. She's not ready. She can't do this." Elias hisses as he recoils, trying to get away from me and the journal in my hands.
"Roxanne, breathe! Don't fight it! Let it come through you, not at you." Uncle Donovan yells.
"I'm right here," Zeke is saying as he holds my back tight against his chest. "I'm not letting go."
The voices grow louder-clearer, but one rises above the rest: it's warm, familiar, and steady. It's my grandmother. "Roxanne, my sweet girl…listen to me," she says.
"Grandma?" I ask as my breath hitches—the light from the journal surges, filling the room with a binding glow.
"Stop!" Elias screams as his form flickers violently, but I don't, I couldn't, something inside me snaps open. As if a locked door I never knew existed opens. Suddenly, I see the entity, but not just him, all of the spirits, shadows, and fragments of souls he has trapped in his darkness. They swirl around me – drawn to me like gravity.
"Just breathe," my grandmother whispers to me. "You can push him back," she says.
Inhaling, shaky, terrified, but determined. The light inside me pulses outward, connecting with the journal's glow. Elias staggers backward, his form unraveling at the edges.
"No," he yells, but I ignore him and exhale. Another wave of energy burst from my body. It's invisible but powerful, and slams into Elias like a shockwave. He flies backward, crashing into the far wall. The shadows around him shatter like glass. The room goes still, the journal lying in my hands.
"Rocky, what was that?" Zeke asks, staring at me breathlessly.
"Her gift," Donovan whispers. "It's awakening. Looking down at my hands, which are still faintly glowing. I feel it for the first time: the connection, the pull, and the power.
"This is only the beginning," I hear whispered in my ear as my grandmother's voice fades softly.
The glow around my hand's flickers, sputters, and dies all at once. It left an emptiness inside me that hit like a punch to the chest. My vision blurs, and the room tilts sideways.
"Roxanne!" Zeke says as my legs give out. His arms tighten around me, so I don't crash to the hard floor. Gently, he lowers me onto the couch against his chest. Not wanting to let me go.
"Hey, hey, I've got you. I've got you." His voice is steady and reassuring, but I can still hear the fear underneath it. My breathing is coming in shallow gasps, each harder than the last. My fingers twitch with leftover energy, pulling at the tips. Donovan rushes over, dropping on his knees beside us.
"She pushed too hard and fast," he says to Zeke. "The first awakening took a toll on her. My mom said it was hard on their bodies."
"Rocky baby, stay with me," Zeke says softly. His hand brushes my hair back from my face, his thumb stroking my cheek. I tried so hard to stay alert, but my eyelids felt heavy. The journal was still clutched loosely in my hand, and it began to vibrate.
"What the hell is it doing now?" Zeke yells, his eyes widening as he stares at the journal in my hand.
The leather cover warmed again, but this time it wasn't burning. It was like a heartbeat syncing with mine. It slips from my fingers and lands on the floor beside me. It flops open on its own, the pages flipping rapidly, faster than any draft could make them move, until it stops suddenly on a random page. The page was marked with a pressed wildflower, a bluebell, one of my favorite flowers. I loved the color of them, a vibrant blue, dried and fragile, preserved by her love. The ink starts to shimmer dimly in the dense light.
"It's showing her what she needs," whispers Donovan. Zeke shifts me enough so he can lean down and retrieve the journal. He strokes my hair and starts to read the entry.