I always leave them by the door. Always. Lined up just right. Pattern drilled into my brain through sheer repetition.
Now? Gone.
I find them in the upstairs hallway, facing the wrong way. Turned toward my door, positioned with eerie purpose.
My mouth goes dry. A slow exhale pushes past clenched teeth. I don’t say a word to anyone. Just put the boots back, lock my door, and stay up half the night with my gun on the nightstand. One eye open. Muscles tense enough to snap.
Candace sleeps beside me, tangled in the blankets, her breathing deep and steady. Peaceful. Untouched by whatever shadows keep clawing at the edge of my nerves. And I’m jealous of that. Of the way she surrenders to sleep while I brace for something I can’t see.
I don’t move. Just listen to the quiet rhythm of her breathing and tell myself it’s enough, for now.
By the next morning, I’m already on edge. Then Nash walks in looking unhinged.
“There’s something in my room,” Nash says calmly. Too calmly. Speaking that way might be the only thing keeping him from throwing a chair. “It was breathing.”
I stare at him. “You mean some kind of animal?”
“I mean a demon.”
Then comes Knox, storming into the clubhouse wearing a hoodie inside out and glaring murder at the ceiling. “If I see another balloon in my fucking garage, I swear to God...”
Ruby walks by, sipping a smoothie. “You boys good? You all look a little… twitchy.”
I narrow my eyes. “Where were you last night?”
Ruby blinks innocently. “Sleeping. Like a responsible adult.”
She’s absolutely lying.
So is Sloane when she claims the clown doll in Knox’s garage must’ve “just been leftover from Halloween.” And Frankie, when she says maybe the vents are just settling. And Darla, who actually has the audacity to say, “Maybe you should sage the place. Spirits hate dry energy.”
Darla looks a little too calm when she says it. Her eyes track something over my shoulder, then narrow, like she knows something’s there.
But the worst offender? Candace.
She sits on the arm of the couch in cut-off shorts that leave very little to the imagination and a tank top that clings to her curves, dipping low enough to tease cleavage every time she leans forward. Her hair is up, a few strands falling loose around her face, softening the wicked little smirk she keeps throwing my way every time she catches me staring.
I watch her. Quietly. Every inch of her is designed to wreck me. Her legs are bare and folded like she doesn’t have a care in the world, thumb tapping against the ceramic mug like a beat only she can hear. I try not to look. Fail. And she knows it. That smirk says so.
She’s driving me insane. And she’s doing it on purpose.
Because if this is her, then something has shifted.
The girl who used to flinch from my presence is now orchestrating psychological warfare and sipping coffee like it’s a reward. Something about that makes my chest tight. Unsettled. Proud. Terrified.
Still, I say nothing. Because she’s laughing again. All of them are. Because whatever the hell is going on… maybe the club needs it. Even if it drives me absolutely insane.
By day three, I stop sleeping. Every time I close my eyes, something else moves. My coffee mug? Filled with orange Gatorade. My lock screen? Replaced with a grainy photo of what looks like a small girl standing in the hallway. My toothbrush? Replaced with one that isn’t mine. A child’s. Pink. Glittery. Princess stickers on the handle.
I ask Nash if he’s behind it.
He looks me dead in the eyes and says, “I found tiny handprints on my mirror. I haven’t slept in two days. You think I have the time or patience to gaslight you right now?”
Knox is unraveling too. He walks into the kitchen, eyes bloodshot, flannel half-buttoned, and growls, “There was a clown in my shower. It had teeth. Teeth, Malachi.”
I don’t even blink. “Did it move?”
“I don’t know! I blacked out from rage!”
