Page 88 of Haunt Me, Maybe

Fenn gave a single, slow nod. It’s the only path left. But know this: once you flare for real, once you ring that bell loud enough for him to hear, there will be no more hiding. No more half-measures. He will come with everything he has.

Aven swallowed. “I know.”

It all came down to this. In a couple more days, we would see our plan through to its conclusion, whatever that may be. All the hours of practice, of experimentation, came down to here and now. And I knew that how we handled the next few hours would determine whether or not we had the edge we needed to succeed.

“Hey,” I said softly, crouching in front of Aven so our eyes were level. “It will be okay. We’re going to step it up. You’ll start casting decoys immediately. Controlled projections everywhere: the maze, the orchard, the woods. Let him chase you in circles. Let him think you’re panicking.”

Fenn nodded along, liking my plan.

“What about the attic?” Aven asked.

“It stays cold,” I replied. “No signatures from here. He gets nothing real until we choose.”

Agreed.

That night, I waited until they both fell asleep. Until exhaustion dragged Aven under, almost mid-sentence of yet another quiet planning session. I watched the slow rise and fall of her breathing. The way her hand curled toward the edge of the mattress, instinctively reaching for the place I usually lingered.

The ribbon pulsed softly between us as I slipped out into the night.

Amber Grove was still. The streets lay empty under a high, cold moon. Porch lights winked like distant stars, and the occasional window glowed with the blue flicker of a late-night television. I moved without echo, without footprint, as I crossed lawns and sidewalks.

I headed toward the abandoned mill.

The building loomed at the edge of town where the river bent, a corner of its roof caved in years ago, exposing its rafters like ribs. Moonlight painted the jagged edges and turned broken windows into dark, empty sockets.

It thrummed with a knowing presence; old, patient, and hungry in the way only places left to rot could be. The mill stood empty longer than most of the living remembered, but it never truly slept.

I phased inside.

The air was humid with old oil and damp river, heavy enough to taste. The floorboards groaned in recognition, not of me, exactly. But of my intention.

“I know you’re awake,” I said into the empty room.

At first, the mill answered in the way old places did. Not with words, but with pressure. With a shift in temperature. A settling of beams. A faint tremor through the foundation like a body adjusting to its posture. But this place was conscious, in a way that even the maze wasn’t. It could speak—but only to those also of the magic this town harbored.

You want blood.

The thought wasn’t mine. It slid through the air like a draft.

“Not hers,” I explained.

I let the images rise; everything Aven told me, everything Fenn pieced together about Gideon. The way he stole magic like a furnace consuming kindling. The way he left nothing behind but ash and silence. The way he hunted witches not for sport, but for hunger. The rafters creaked again, longer this time. Almost thoughtful.

You bring a devourer here.

“Yes.”

Silence pressed down, and I moved deeper into the central chamber where the trap would be anchored. Moonlight spilled here too, through a collapsed section of roof, silvering the aged wood floors in pale, watery patches.

He will break anything he touches.

“I won’t let him have her.”

I opened myself to the mill’s probing—let it sift through the ribbon at my wrist, through the faint echo of Aven’s magic that still clung to my skin, through the stubborn pulse of everything I felt for her. I didn’t hide the fear. Didn’t hide the love. I let it see both.

The building settled again, almost gentle this time. Like a sigh released after centuries of holding its breath.

You are not alive.