Freddy stepped out of his house, pulling his jacket tighter to his body as the cold air nipped at his skin. The sky above was a blanket of dull gray, stretching endlessly in every direction. The sun had been gone for weeks, buried beneath thick, unyielding clouds. The air smelled of damp pavement, and the only sound in the lifeless morning was the hum of traffic far away.
He let out a sharp breath then and watched his misty cloud vanish. It was smothering, this weather. Its monotony-the grayness with which it bled the color from the world and left all warmth behind-malicious. How much longer would it take until summer? How much longer did the world have to remain dead? Sighing deeply, he dug his hands into his pockets, his feet automatically falling into their rhythms down the sidewalk. At this point, the walk to the supermarket was a motor skill in his brain: straight down past the same coffee shop with its smoky fogged-up windows, past the corner variety store with its flickering neon lights, past the row of houses that seemed to blend together in the gray light. The store itself wasn't anything special-no different from the countless other supermarkets dotting this town-but at least the business was consistent. Enough that Freddy had memorized the regulars.
The lady who always came in and purchased cat food-but never really owns a cat; the old fellow who counted the change like life depended on him; the tired mom, exactly every Thursday buying the same variety of cereal from the store- some would gist, but quite a few straight to business transactions. Freddy wished for the latter. It simplified work, or at least so it felt-the time moved swifter.
His coworkers weren't the worst either. There was Danny, who looked like he belonged in a gang but turned out to be the kind of guy who sent his mom flowers on her birthday. There was Will, who had a habit of humming loudly when the store was quiet. And then there was Freddy himself-just another face, another kid trying to get by. He was doing OK in school. Not great, not bad. Just.cruising. That was good enough, right?
And yet, on those days he kinda hoped that something-anything-would occur to snap him out of the monotony of it all. Something different. Something exciting.
The universe, apparently, had been listening.
A hand clamped around his wrist yanking him hard to the side.
His heart went to his throat as he tripped, hauled into a narrow alley between two buildings. His back came into contact with the cold, damp brick wall, and the sudden impact took his breath away.
Panic coursed his veins. His mind was all over the place. A mugging? A kidnapping? He tried to twist free, but before he could move, a familiar voice cut through the shadows.
"Hello, Freddy."
It sent a shiver running down his spine. Familiar, yet wrong-twisted somehow, darker than he remembered. He made himself look up.
MC stood before him.
Freddy's stomach twisted into a knot. MC had been gone for a while, but the rumors had been swirling ever since his family returned for William's funeral. Freddy hadn't paid much attention. It wasn't his business. But now, standing here, face-to-face with him, Freddy realized those rumors hadn't done justice to the cold, dangerous look in MC's sharp blue eyes.
MC wasn't alone.
Behind him stood Eliana, Lisa, and Rebecca—Emma's friends. And beside them, a boy Freddy didn't recognize. He looked out of place among them, too innocent, too uncertain. But that wasn't what set Freddy on edge.
It was the fury in their eyes.
"What do you want?" Freddy asked, trying to keep his voice steady. "If you're here to rob me—"
MC snorted in disgust, clenching his jaw. "Nah," he said, his tone going dark with something unreadable. "We just have a few questions for you."
Eliana stepped closer and flung something at his feet.
Freddy cringed, tensed for the pain, but instead of that, a bunch of small sheets of paper flew to the grubby ground. Warily, he looked down.
His blood ran cold.
Scattered in front of him were photographs. All of Emma. Different angles, different places, different moments in time.
"What." His breath caught in his throat.
He bent down, picking up one of the damp photos gingerly. His hands shook while he stared at it, his mind racing for an explanation. What the hell was going on?
MC's chuckle was dry, mirthless. "So you do recognize them," he mused. "Not surprising."
Before Freddy could react, MC's boot came down, almost crushing the photos—and with it, Freddy's fingers.
"So you were Emma's little stalker, huh?"
Eliana, Lisa, and Rebecca looked ready to tear him apart. They weren't here to kill him. Not yet. They wanted answers.
Freddy stared at the dirty pictures, his heart thundering against his ribs. He thought he had gotten rid of these. Thought he had erased all the evidence.
MC's voice cut through his panic. "I don't even care that you're a stalker," he said, voice eerily calm. "What I care about is whether or not you're a murderer."
Freddy's head snapped up. "What?" The word barely made it past his lips. "M-murderer?! W-who got murdered?!"
MC didn't hesitate.
The punch landed hard, knocking Freddy onto his side. Pain exploded in his cheek, his vision swimming.
"Don't play dumb," MC snarled, looming over him. "I know it was you. I know you killed Emma. I never thought you'd stoop so low—to kidnap and kill her just because she followed me that night."
Freddy gasped, clutching his face. "I—I didn't kill her! I swear!" He threw his hands up as MC raised his fist again. "I s-swear!"
A firm hand clamped down on MC's shoulder.
"MC." Maximus's voice was even, controlled. "I think he's telling the truth."
MC's glare snapped to him. "You think?"
Maximus nodded. "He might be a creep, but I don't think he's a killer."
MC hesitated, then turned back to Freddy. The kid was shaking, his wide eyes brimming with fear. As much as MC wanted to believe he was guilty. something wasn't adding up.
Lisa crossed her arms. "Then why do you keep sneaking off to that abandoned warehouse out of town?"
Freddy inhaled sharply. He stammered, then let out a choked sob. "I-I go there to paint," he admitted on a raw voice. "I loved Emma. I would never hurt her. But I hated how she was so in love with this bastard when he didn't even care about her."
MC's glare darkened, but Freddy forged on.
"After she went missing, I realized how wrong I was. I stopped. I cleaned up my act. I would never-never hurt Emma." Tears streaming down his cheeks.
MC blew a slow breath out. If it wasn't Freddy. who did it?
For a time, there was complete silence as he finally asked another question.
"Alright," he grumbled. "Now, show me your stuff."
Freddy blinked. "Wha'?"
"You heard me," he replied. "Let me take a look through your stuff."
Freddy swallowed hard. Whatever was coming next. he wasn't ready.
…
MC stepped into Freddy's room and took a long, slow look around. It was just like his own-sparse: a bed, a desk, a closet. No real sign of personality, no attempt to make it feel like a home. But unlike his own, there was one thing that set it apart: the art.
Stacks of blank canvases leaned against the walls, some still wrapped in plastic. Jars filled with paintbrushes, their bristles stained with dried colors, stood proudly on the desk. Tubes of paint littered the floor, some half-empty and squeezed to the last drop. And then there were the finished pieces-several propped up against the wall, staring back at them. Some abstract, others portraits, all detailed in ways that surprised MC. For a high school student, Freddy was good. Really good.
If he wanted to, he could probably get into some prestigious art school, the kind that would throw scholarships at him just to get a glimpse of what he could do. But something about the way the paintings were shoved to the side, stacked carelessly like afterthoughts, told MC that maybe Freddy didn't care about that. Or maybe he didn't believe it was possible.
"Alright, just go through his stuff," MC muttered, already walking toward the desk. "Look for anything that doesn't belong to him."
Freddy fidgeted awkwardly by the door as five strangers tore his space apart. He didn't know what else to do. He wanted to protest, to tell them to get out, but what would that accomplish? They already knew how he'd been stalking Emma. Looking back now, it sounded creepy. It sounded pathetic. It was a thought that made his stomach turn.
And since they appeared more fascinated with Emma than him, he let them be.
They had searched methodically, leaving no stone unturned. Drawers were pulled out, closets rifled, sheets pulled back, and books turned through as though there might be some secret message hidden within one. They upended his world in minutes, changing what once was a place of private comfort into a scene of crime. Yet, for all the digging deeper, nothing came their way. There were no secret letters, weird objects, or strange clues to take them into Emma's world.
Just Freddy. Just his life. Just the hollow realization that they had wasted their time.
MC's frustration flared. His jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. There has to be something. There had to be. Emma had wanted something, had been looking for something. If it wasn't here, then where? His mind raced desperate to make sense of the dead end they had hit.
He didn't say another word but whipped around and charged out of the room, taking the stairs downstairs. The rest followed, faces filled with confusion, though none of them said a word. Freddy trailed them, unsure and ill at ease. He watched MC prowl through the house like a predator in search of prey. Living room, kitchen, hallways-nothing. Then, at last, the basement.
MC went down the stairs, heavy and purposefully. It was colder down here, the air heavier. A single, flickering light showed above, casting long shadows against the unfinished walls. There were neatly stacked storage boxes in the corner, an old workbench dust-covered, and a washer and dryer humming softly. It was just a basement-nothing more, nothing less.
And still, nothing.
MC's chest rose and fell in great, controlled breaths. He was trying to keep it together, but the anger, the frustration-the overwhelming failure-was clawing at his insides, begging to be released.
Freddy lingered near the steps, watching with care. "What are you doing?" he finally asked, his voice small, uncertain.
MC whipped around, his eyes ablaze with something dangerous. "Do you think I want to steal whatever junk you have?" he growled, his voice sharp, unhinged, dripping with venom.
Freddie swallowed hard. "No… I just wondered what you were looking for.
He had always thought that MC was cool, maybe even a little oblivious and detached. Yet, even with that considered, he managed to be just—cool. Now? MC seemed terrifying; his eyes radiated something—held back at most, intense and violent—a step away from exploding into flesh.
MC let out a short, bitter laugh. "Hah. Like you'd even understand." He took one step closer, and Freddy instinctively stepped back. "Not that you were any help." Another step. "I can't believe I wasted my time digging through Emma's past trying to figure out who killed her and find you. And for what? Nothing. I wasted my entire fucking day.
MC snatched the front of Freddy's shirt, yanking him forward. His hand was as iron tight, shaking with his rage.
"You have no idea how fucking pissed off I am."
Freddy's breath hitched. His heart thundered against his ribs. He wasn't even sure if MC was aware anymore of what he was doing, his face twisted, his fingers curled so tight into Freddy's shirt the fabric wrinkled beneath his grasp.
Then—
"What on earth are you doing?!"
The voice cut through the tension like a blade. Both boys turned sharply.
At the top of the stairs, leading from the basement, stood Freddy's mom, her face a mask of horror. To her, it must have looked bad—a stranger gripping her son's shirt, looking seconds away from violence.
"Who are you? What are you doing to my son?!"
MC held his gaze for a moment, then slowly released Freddy and brushed past him like he was nothing. "Nothing much," he grumbled now climbing the stairs. "I was just about to leave.
He burst past Freddy's mom, not a second glance back. She jerked at the contact, her mind still reeling as she tried to work out the strangers in her home. Maximus, Eliana, Lisa, and Rebecca were standing behind her, their presence again adding to the confusion and fear that knotted her features.
"I'm calling the police," she shrieked. "I'm getting you kids arrested!"
MC halted at the door, his voice spitting fire as he let out, "Go ahead then. Have a great rest of your day."
And with that, he made his way outside. The rest followed suit with no one saying a word further.
Freddy stood as if frozen when his mother clutched onto his shoulders immediately, her hands shaking as she asked if everything was okay with him. And honestly?
He didn't even know how to answer that.
All he knew was that he was late for work.
…
Finally, he pulled the car down the long, dirt driveway to the farmhouse, crunching gravel beneath the tires as the car rolled to a stop. The house loomed before them, its windows dark and lifeless as the wraparound porch creaked gently in the wind. Maximus shifted beside him, exhaled softly, but neither of them spoke. They hadn't said a word since they'd dropped the girls off at Lisa's house. The silence hung between them heavy with unspoken thoughts and a sense of defeat.
The girls had tried to comfort him, telling him they were glad he had helped solve something. But to MC, it was just another way of saying he had failed. Another way of saying he had fallen short. He clutched the steering wheel with his knuckles white before finally tearing his gaze away from the darkened horizon and glancing at the clock.
4:01 PM.
He had really thought he could do it. That he could complete the task Emma's ghost had given him. That he could free her, bring her peace. But he had been wrong. The twisting sensation in his gut threatened to consume him as he shoved the car door open and stepped into the cold night air.
His mother and Ron stood on the porch, silhouetted by the dim glow of the porch light. His mother's expression was tight with worry, while Ron looked—unsurprisingly—irritated.
"You're finally back," his mother called out, crossing her arms. "We were worried something had happened to you."
MC didn't answer. He didn't have the energy. Instead, he turned his gaze toward Maximus, but his brother remained just as silent, his face unreadable.
"I don't care where you went," Ron muttered. "But go get ready. It's the least you can do, considering how you both bailed on us when we were putting the old man's stuff away."
MC's stomach churned. Grandpa William. He had managed to push the thought so far back in his mind that it almost felt like it had never existed. Now, however, the grief came, like an ocean tide, crashing over him without remorse. He nodded numbly, stepping into the house, his legs weighing heavier with each step.
Why? Was it because he'd failed Emma and now she would haunt him forever? Or was it because his grandfather-the only one who'd ever really understood him-was gone? He didn't know. Maybe he didn't want to know.
Maximus caught his arm. "It's all right, MC. At least you tried."
MC sloughed him off, his tone as hollow as his voice. "I'm going to the restroom.".
Maximus didn't push the issue. He nodded slightly and turned back toward the guest room, leaving MC to his thoughts.
MC walked down the hall in silence. The Whitlocks were nowhere to be found-not that he really wished to see them, anyway. Especially Jake. That was just the last thing he needed after everything that happened.
He burst into the bathroom, twisting the doorknob, stepping inside and flicking on the light.
And froze.
His breath caught in his throat.
Something protruded from the bathtub.
A tangled mass of hair, soaked and matted.
His body went rigid. He knew that hair.
Every fiber in his body was screaming for him to turn and run. He whirled toward the door, grasping the handle—but it wouldn't budge.
Panic set in. His fingers trembled as he yanked at the knob, his breath coming in quick, uneven gasps. The air in the room felt heavy, suffocating.
Then, he heard it.
Bones snapping. Flesh twisting.
A sickening squelch filled the air.
His stomach lurched. He didn't need to turn around to know what was happening. He knew.
Emma's ghost was crawling out of the tub.
His hands were balled into fists, his body shaking. He made himself turn his head-to see her.
She stood some feet away, her hollow, decaying eyes fastened on him. Maggots wriggled from the gaping holes in her rotting sockets, her flesh peeling away in strips.
Then she spoke.
"FIND HIS STUFF."
MC swallowed hard as his voice seemed to have sunk to a mere whisper. "I tried, I found out who your stalker was but… he had nothing."
The only response was the lifting of her arm-the skeletal finger rising upward.
In an instant, she turned around and just seemed to walk into the wall after which she promptly vanished into nothingness.
MC stood there; his pulse crashed in his ears.
A second passed.
Suddenly, the door creaked open by its own accord.
He stumbled backward, gasping, his chest heaving. He barely had a second to regain his bearings before a now-familiar voice sneered from the hallway.
"What the fuck happened to you? You look like shit."
MC turned sharply, his blood still ice-cold in his veins. Jake was leaning against his bedroom doorframe, arms crossed, an amused smirk playing upon his lips.
MC must have been a sight, tear streaks lining his face, breathing ragged. He did nothing to wipe his face.
"I'm not in the mood, Jake," he growled low, and Jake burst out laughing, tugging his phone out. "Damn, I gotta get a picture of this."
MC's eyes darkened. "You know," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, "you should check on your scrawny friend. The last time I saw him, he wasn't doing so well.
In an instant, Jake's smirk was gone.
MC snorted. "Yeah, that's what I thought."
"MC, you bastard—"
MC didn't wait for the rest. He pushed past him, his feet moving toward the attic stairs before his mind could catch up.
He knew exactly where he would go.
Standing at the foot of the steps, he hesitated. He couldn't believe he was actually doing this.
Taking a deep breath, he climbed.
Every step was heavier than the last. As if the house itself wanted to hold him back.
And then, at the top of the attic, he saw her.
Emma.
She stood beside an old trunk, tucked away in the corner.
Grandpa William's trunk.
MC had seen it before. Many times. But now… now it felt different.
Emma lifted a single, decayed finger and pointed at it.
"HIS STUFF."
MC's throat constricted. He took a step closer, but before he could utter a word, Emma's ghost disappeared.
Leaving him alone.
His fingers shook as he reached for the trunk. He paused, then opened it.
Inside lay a collection of Grandpa William's belongings-stranger than he remembered.
A clown wig. A priest's uniform. A worn-out cross.
And then, there was the journal.
MC's pulse quickened. He picked it up, flipping straight to the last entry.
The day Grandpa William died.
His hands shook as he read.
Then, he dropped the book; his breath hitched in his throat.
What the hell had he just read?
A sick feeling coiled in his stomach.
Now, he understood.
Now, he knew why Emma wanted him to find this.
And he wasn't ready for it.