Page 102 of Haunt Me, Maybe

Tears burned the back of my eyes. What had I done to deserve such loyalty from the sentient places in this town?

“Thank you,” I whispered, and then moved to the center of the room.

Reaching into my satchel, I grabbed a stick of chalk. I needed to create a grounding circle, the strongest I’d ever made, and it had to be perfect. Kneeling, the concrete bit into my knees, but I welcomed the ache. It kept me present. Kept me tethered to this moment.

The first line curved slowly across the floor. I poured everything into it; the fear that lived in my marrow since I was eight, the fury that kept me alive when everything else burned, the love that still stung like an open wound, the grief that carved hollows beneath my ribs.

Every grain of chalk carried intention. The scrape echoed loud in the cavernous room, louder than my own heartbeat. My breath fogged in the cool air, and my hands trembled, but I didn’t let the lines waver. Next came the runes—symbols straight from the aged pages of my family’s journal.

Layered beneath them were the newer sigils I’d created out of desperation and nights spent alone. Protections stacked like brick upon brick. At the north point of the circle, I set a sprig of rowan, its red berries dark as dried blood.

South, a small glass vial of consecrated salt. East, a rusted bolt pried from the mill’s own skeleton. West, a thread of silk braided with the thin satin ribbon that tied my hair the night Wes first appeared to me, ghostly and fierce and mine.

Focus.

Power.

Safety.

My fingers were smudged white by the time I pressed the final mark into place, and the circle closed with an almost audible snap of power, like a door latching shut. I knelt there, chalk still pressed to the ground, though there was nothing left to draw.

My hands wouldn’t move. My body wouldn’t rise. The weight of it all pinned me down; the years of running, the memory of my family, the monster I’d summon with this very act.

I couldn’t bring myself to wipe the chalk from my skin, to drag my feet to the center of that glowing ring and call him down upon us. My whole frame shook like a leaf, breaths coming in short, ragged pants that clogged my throat. My vision blurred at the edges with hot tears that threatened to spill and turn the runes into smeared white ghosts.

I couldn’t do this. All that hard work, the endless practice, the bravado I’d worn like armor; it was crumbling now, revealing the coward beneath. The girl who’d hidden in shadows her whole life, too scared to fight back.

“Breathe,” Wes murmured from behind my shoulder, his voice soft as mist against my ear. “I’m still here,” he added. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His words cracked through my doubt, but not enough. I shook my head, whispers of failure rebounding in my skull. But then his hands gripped my arms and pulled me gently to my feet. He turned me to face him. Those amber eyes locked onto mine, fierce and glowing with all the love we’d stolen from death itself.

“Together, remember?” he said, voice dropping so low it vibrated through my bones. “No matter the outcome, we face this together. You’ve got fire in you, Aven—the kind that burns through lifetimes. Make the bastard pay for what he took from you.”

Wes believed in me. Goddess, how he believed. It ignited something deep inside, that stubborn spark I’d lost under layers of fear. The girl who refused to back down, who clawed her way out of ashes and built a life from scraps. I had to do this. For my family. For Fenn. For the version of myself that deserved to live without looking over her shoulder.

I don’t normally agree with the ghost, Fenn interjected from inside the circle, his voice steady as forged iron. But in this instance, he is right. And it is time.

I nodded, the motion jerky but resolute, and stepped into the circle. My hand clung to Wes’s until the very last inch, fingers slipping through his as the barrier’s hum intensified. He tucked himself deeper into the shadows behind a rusted flywheel, melting into obscurity.

We weren’t sure if Gideon could pierce the veil and see ghosts as I did, so we took no chances, keeping our secret weapon hidden. But his presence didn’t fade; it lingered like a heartbeat in the air, consistent and sure.

Inside the chalk circle, I closed my eyes, drew in a shuddering breath, and then let it go. No more careful pulses, no more restrained sparks, no more half-lives eked out in the dark. I stopped holding back.

I flared.

Violet and gold erupted through me in a single, blinding column that tore upward through the broken roof and painted the rafters in molten fury. The runes at my feet blazed to life, searing into the old wood like a brand. The circle shook with brutal force, rattling my teeth and vibrating my chest until I thought my ribs might crack.

Dust spiraled in a chaotic storm, whipped by the updraft of my unleashed power. The mill answered, its beams shuddering in raw sympathy until the entire structure groaned like a beast rousing from slumber, ready to devour whatever dared approach.

I felt it the instant it happened. The hook. When Gideon locked on.

The air pressure plummeted, sucking the breath from my lungs like the prelude to a thunderstorm. My magic strained toward him—not willingly—but because his signature was etched into my soul, a barbed scar from the night he shattered my world. Familiar as my own frantic pulse, it pulled like invisible chains.

Every instinct screamed for me to run. To break the circle. To drop the flare. To hide.

My knees buckled, threatening to send me crashing down. Nails carved bloody half-moons in my palms, the pain a sharp anchor. Sweat stung my eyes. I forced my legs to lock and willed that tether to stretch taut, to let his hooks sink deeper.

Agony slithered like poison vines twisting through my veins. If I broke the connection now, Gideon would ride the recoil like a hunter’s arrow and find me no matter how far I fled. He had to come here. On my terms.