A blonde-haired girl crawls out from the den of her bedroom at the murderous sound of the doorbell, thoroughly destroying her sensitive eardrums.
Mr. and Mrs. Noel hadn't been home in quite some time; they should have returned hours ago. Never a day did they forget to maintain the normalcy of the house they fostered, resembling more of babysitters than parents. Not that it mattered. Today, Chesslynn is an adult. Today is the day she can leave this place.
The living room feels notably colder than her bedroom. The bottom layers of her feet come into contact with an icy chill, with every step only increasing the sensation pulsing within her.
The doorbell rings again, this time producing an ear-piercing sound that fails to cease. What should have been a two-second "ding-dong" morphed into minutes of a painful whistle.
"Come on, Chesslynn, you know you can't stay here."
Chesslynn looks toward the door, her icy blue eyes radiating. The small hairs that draped her arms begin to stand up on end as the swelling around her eardrums induces a nauseous feeling. In and out she sways, the heels of her feet lifting themselves off the cold floor with every rocking motion.
Feeling the rhythm, Chesslynn stays standing upright, tears beginning to well up in her puffy sockets.
All too aware that this is just another futile action. Crying did so much to defend against evil; if anything, it created an open projection of vulnerability, further making it easier to target the weakness in her damaged heart.
Without her other half, she's nothing. Born to accompany and to support. Not to well up here all alone. To go or to stay—this is the question to which she already knows the answer. It wasn't a matter of staying here; she can't stay here—in a house that erased the existence of their firstborn son moments after his departure. Each is all too aware of the horrific fate that awaited him, a fate he himself had been kept in the dark about while they forgot about him, sitting idly on the sidelines. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right.
Righteousness had never been Chesslynn's specialty. Lacking both empathy and sympathy, she had no right to pass these judgments. All she needed to do was to be by his side; then everything, no matter how evil, would turn right.
That thing outside the front door had no intention of reuniting her with her brother. It's too soon for that. To go will only leave her suffering more than if she were to stay here—alone, cooped up in her bedroom with a pair of broken drumsticks scattered across the floor, at the mercy of a thing that had fewer morals than her.
"Chesslynn, you're a good girl, aren't you?"
The voice whispers, its tone dropping in pitch and accompanied by the distinct sound of static.
Chesslynn's heart begins to race as a wave of pain crashes relentlessly over her body until it finally collapses, hitting the cold floor with a loud bang—a mere five steps from the door.
"Brother, when will the game end?" asks a childish voice, speaking oddly monotone, with only a hint of sadness carried with each word.
The wind dances around them, swirling the leaves around their miniature bodies and creating a small barrier between them and the rest of the world, leaving them in the isolated bubble that comforts them.
"When we leave with Mommy and Daddy," the boy answers, his light brown hair rustling around, providing a hiding spot for his blank gaze.
Extending his hands toward her, the girl grabs them, gripping the miniature pair of hands gently between hers as the faint yellow glow shines off the flesh, warming the two children amidst the wind. The rest of the area is gradually overtaken by the hands of fate.
Every few years, a game is played—not just any game, but a game that involves a world most people consider fantasy. Each participant, by blood, is a spirit strong enough to be born into human form, able to manipulate reality physically instead of watching it from afar—evil spirits that cause the gruesome deaths of humans for their own entertainment, with lifespans far greater than one could imagine. This game they play protects the people by sacrificing a few.
Only by harnessing the magic flowing through their bodies will one be able to survive when the game is played. Even if their bodies had "died," the spirit will remain.
Every day, Chesslynn dreams of times that are before her, involving her brother and some other relatives in a twisted game of fate. Every dream manages to end the same: Waylon taking her hand as they reign victorious over the sea of dead, running his fingers through her blood-stained blonde locks, gripping her body tightly, and holding her close—embracing her in a warm hug that speaks more than a thousand words.
"We win again," he whispers. "I kept you safe again."
"It is my job to protect you, silly." I am the half meant to watch you from afar, to be the sacrifice if need arises. Only then will we grow spiritually.
It rarely occurs to Chesslynn that these bizarre dreams could be a part of a much larger reality, beyond the social bubble that Waylon and she kept themselves in, bothering to question when things leave what could be classified as normal through human eyes.
Up until recently, she lived a relatively normal life, and nothing supernatural could change that. One day, she will be reunited again, and everything will be regained that was once lost. Her happy family will thrive once again, away from all those haunted things.