MC ran: sharp, jerky gasps of breath searing his lungs as his legs did a frantic, endless sprint with the giant book clutched tightly in his arms. Dusty, heavy pages weighed down upon his chest. His mind was wild.
Where could he go? To whom? His family? The Whitlocks? Every possibility flared through his mind, and yet none of them felt right. What he had just discovered was too huge, too appalling to be shared with anyone. It was the stuff of which nightmares-or, rather, horror stories totally unreal-are made.
Lost in his spiraling thoughts, he did not see the figure in front of him until it was too late. Then, with a brutal force, he collided into somebody, their bodies crashing onto the wooden floor. The impact was jarring: it knocked the breath from his lungs and sent the journal flying from his grasp as he landed hard, with his back slamming against the ground; the sky was spinning above him.
"Son of a bitch!" a familiar voice growled.
MC blinked through his daze, his vision settling on Jake, who was sitting up, rubbing his head with a deep scowl. His expression twisted further when he placed who'd just barreled into him.
"What the fuck are you doing?!" Jake snapped. "Watch where you're going, dumbass!"
MC's gaze darted away to the journal, lying several feet away; his heart raced as he tumbled forward to grab it, his hands quivering. In his brain, the throbbing pains in the limbs were not really realized-as it had gone into shock by those horrific revelations within those pages.
"Jake, I need to show you something," MC gasped out, his fingers tightening on the leather cover, his pulse hammering. "Your grandpa—he did something so fucked up that—"
"What did you just say?"
Jake's voice was low and sharp, a dangerous edge lining his words. There was no confusion in his expression-only anger. Cold, simmering rage.
MC stammered. "Your grandpa—"
Shut it!" Jake cut him off, his eyes dark with fury. His whole body tensed like a coiled spring. "I am so fucking tired of your bullshit today!"
MC's patience snapped. His hold on the book turned white-knuckled as frustration boiled over. "What the hell are you talking about?!
Jake shot to his feet, his hands clenching into fists. His whole body was a tense ball of bottled-up aggression, a bomb merely waiting to blow. "You show up from nowhere and then think you can dig through our shit like that's some sort of right you have? Once you've destroyed my family, now you are after my grandpa?!"
"Are you serious right now?!" MC's voice rose. His blood was a storm in his veins, his anger surging to match Jake's. "Do you even fucking know the shit I've been through today?! Or the last five years?!"
His chest heaved as anger and exhaustion knitted together. "You really think I came back here for you or your fucked-up family?! No! I came back for Grandpa William! And had I had even a single notion what a detestable, soulless brute he was, I would have never set a foot in this godforsaken town again!"
Jake did not hold back.
He swung.
MC barely had time to react. He dodged, but not without stumbling. Before Jake could regain his stance, MC tackled him, slamming him onto the hard ground.
His knuckles connected with Jake's jaw—once, twice—raw emotion fueling every strike. "Didn't I warn you I'd send you to the hospital if you tested me?! You're really pushing your luck!"
Then, pain. Blinding and sudden.
Jake's elbow came down hard and squarely in MC's face. A white-hot pain exploded in his skull; his body went rigid with shock. In that weakness, Jake heaved him off and rolled on top. "With those skinny arms?" Jake scoffed and landed the first real punch.
MC's head jerked to one side. The second punch dropped, followed quickly by a third. His body protested, unable to do more than lie limply and pray the attack didn't kill him. Jake was bigger. He was stronger. And he was furious. The blows came in heavier each time, weighted by pure, unadulterated anger.
MC's eyes blurred. Everything around him hazy. His brain threatened to shut down altogether.
"Enough! What's wrong with you guys?!"
A voice cut through the haze. Urgent. Alarmed.
Maximus.
The kid sprinted toward them, his eyes wide with panic. "I'm calling my mom!"
Jake faltered. Just for a second.
It was enough.
MC mustered the last of his strength and kicked Jake off, gasping as he rolled to the side. He coughed, tasting blood, his entire body throbbing with pain. His nose was likely broken. His jaw ached with every movement.
Spitting red onto the floor, MC staggered to his feet. His eyes locked onto the journal lying a few feet away, and then he dove onto it, embracing it as though it was some last lifeline.
Then in one swift, fluid motion, he launched the book straight into Jake's chest.
Jake reacted on instinct and caught it-the look on his face twisted. "What the fuck—"
"I give up on helping your sorry ass." MC's voice was hoarse, his energy drained. He turned away, unwilling to look at him anymore.
He wished this would have been the end of it, but of course, it wasn't.
Behind him, footsteps followed. Maximus.
"What in the hell happened?!" the kid was asking breathlessly. "You went to the bathroom, and now it's a bloodbath?!
MC winced. Every step sent a wave of fresh agony through his body. His mouth throbbed, but he made himself talk. "I saw Emma's ghost again." His voice came out low but steady. "In broad daylight."
Maximus stopped dead.
MC didn't wait for any response. Still walking, he was reminded at every step how badly he got beaten in a fight he wasn't supposed to survive. Yet he wasn't done talking yet.
"She showed me what she wanted. Led me to the attic." His grip on the now gone journal tightened. "That's where I found Grandpa William's journal."
He swallowed, feeling the weight of the words before he even spoke them.
"He sold the souls of his entire family to some dark being."
…
Jake wiped the blood from his split lip, his fingers trembling with adrenaline. He didn't know whether he was relieved or incensed that MC's younger stepbrother had interfered. A few more seconds, and he might have done something he couldn't take back. Something he isn't sure he'd regret.
His head throbbed, face a mess of bruises and swellings. Every breath stung, and he could already feel the stiffness congeal into his muscles. For someone as damn skinny, MC had one hell of a right hook. But none of that mattered. Not when his gaze locked onto the journal lying a few feet away from him, half-buried in the dirt.
The same magazine MC had slammed at him all those years with the strength of a backslap.
Heavy in his ears, his heartbeat roared and he strode over and scooped it up, fingers clutching old leather like a vice. Frayed edges of cover worn by aging, barely hung together spine made it weighty-heavier he found for the worse things kept inside it beyond ink and frail pages.
Who in tarnation did MC think he was?
Draggin' his granddaddy's name through the mud like that. Acting like he had any right to dredge up a past that wasn't his to touch.
Jake gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He could still hear the words of MC, echoing in his ears. If I had any idea what a shitty man he was, I would've never set foot in this town again!
His hand closed tighter on the journal, his knuckles white.
"Fuck you, MC," he whispered low.
And with one final glare into the direction MC had disappeared, he whirled and stalked back toward the attic. His boots fell heavy upon the creaking wooden steps as he made his way upward to the attic, each rise higher instigated by resentment.
He kicked open the door to the attic, and a storm of dust and old wood flooded into his lungs. The dim light struggled through slits in the ceiling and danced in long rays over the forsaken remnants of the Whitlock family.
Jake didn't hesitate but crossed the room to the old trunk tucked away in the corner. It was packed with memories no one talked about, things that should've stayed buried. He yanked it open, revealing stacks of faded photographs, brittle letters, and other remnants of a past he wasn't ready to question.
Sneering, he threw the journal in and slammed the lid shut.
That's where it belonged. Locked away. Forgotten.
Just like the truth MC was desperate to get hold of.
…
"WHAT?!" Maximus exclaimed. "HOW—?!"
MC clamped a hand over Maximus' mouth before he could draw any more attention. His eyes flickered across the area, scanning for unwanted eyes. The last thing he needed was someone overhearing this conversation. He had planned to make a scene himself-if Jake had actually listened. But no, of course not. Instead of shutting up and hearing him out, Jake had blurted out the very thing MC had wanted to handle quietly. Stubborn idiot.
"Shut it," MC hissed, voice low and sharp. "It's too late. He said they're going to die tomorrow at midnight."
Maximus yanked MC's hand away. "Selling souls?! Is that even possible?!"
MC didn't know. If someone had asked him that a week ago, he would've laughed. But now? After the diary, the visions, the ghosts—he didn't need logic to believe anymore. He had seen enough.
Maximus studied him with wide, wary eyes. "What did he write?" Then, before MC could answer, he shook his head. "Never mind. What should we do?"
MC's gaze flicked toward Ron, who was tossing the last of their luggage into the back of the car. The sight filled him with a strange sense of relief. At least his bag was still packed.
"Nothing," he said finally.
Maximus jerked back. "Nothing?"
"I tried," MC muttered, rubbing his face, exhaustion seeping into every syllable. "But it looks like this family doesn't want my help."
Maximus stared at him, horrified. "You're seriously going to let the entire Whitlock family die?"
Out loud, it sounded terrible, yeah. But by that point, MC just couldn't find it in himself to give a damn. He was spent-mentally, physically, emotionally. This town was a nightmare, and the last twenty-seven hours had been an unrelenting hell.
Two ghost encounters. A deep dive into a dead girl's past, only to learn her supposed stalker wasn't even guilty. And now this-the realization that the man he had once respected, maybe even loved like family, was a Satanist or a cultist or whatever-the-fuck.
He was done.
He just wanted to go home.
"What the hell am I supposed to do?" he snarled. "I was just trying to warn them, but honestly? Maybe this is better." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Imagine knowing you only have one day left before your own grandfather or father hands your soul over to some evil entity. I think I'd rather stay clueless."
Maximus stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. "MC, I know you and the Whitlocks had a falling out, but this is crazy." Suddenly he clutched MC's arm, tight, like he was afraid he would disappear. "Why do you think Emma haunted you for five years? Why did she lead you to Grandpa William's things? Why you?"
MC froze.
Now that Maximus had said it out loud… Why had Emma come to him? Why not Jake, or Jacob, or even her own parents? Why had she dragged him into this?
"MC," Maximus said softly, "at least try before you give up. Even if you fail, it won't be on you. You won't regret anything. But at least you'll know you tried."
MC's eyes flickered to the car, its engine rumbling, ready to take him far away from all this. He could walk away. He had no real ties to this town, no reason to feel responsible.
This wasn't his problem.
It was never his problem.
But Emma had trusted him.
Her soul had been trapped in this nightmare for five years, and she had chosen him.
Could he really leave now, knowing she had been murdered?
"Damn it," he muttered.
Before he could second-guess himself, he took off running.
"Mom!" he called out, skidding to a stop in front of her. "I have something to do. I'll be home in two days."
His mother blinked in confusion. "What? Why?"
MC didn't have a decent response. All he knew was if he did take off now, Emma would never speak to him again. And possibly neither would he.
"I just have to fix something," he said.
Before she could question him, he turned and ran back toward Jake's house.
His mom watched him go. After a moment, she fished the car keys out of her purse and handed them to Maximus.
"Give these to Eva," she said. "Tell her to hold onto them for MC when he comes back."
Maximus took the keys hesitantly. "You're not even going to question his decision?"
His mother sighed, her gaze lingering on the house MC had disappeared into.
"I learned not too long ago."
MC ignored Eva calling out after him as he stormed down the dimly lit hallway, each step heavy with determination. The pounding of his pulse in his ears drowned everything out except one single, relentless thought: They had to know.
He had hardly a plan, only a fire in his chest and the undeniable truth that wouldn't let him rest. He had to tell them what Grandpa William had done. Had to make them understand.
His fists were clenched at his sides as he approached Jake's door. In one swift motion, he raised his hand and pounded on it; the force of the impact sent vibrations down the frame. It was like a crack that cut through the silence of the house, echoing down the corridor.
A few seconds later, the door creaked open.
Jake stood there, tousled, a scowl having already formed on his features. His dark eyes darted about irritably as he grumbled, "What the fuck do you want?"
Then, when his brain caught up with who was, in fact, standing before him, his face twisted further into a sneer. "Oh, great. You. What do you want now?"
MC took a deep breath, forcing down the anger boiling inside him. His voice was even, but just barely. "Where is Grandpa William's journal?"
Jake didn't respond. He didn't need to. His face changed, the slightest flash of guilt crossing his features before his scowl returned. Without a word, he moved to slam the door shut.
MC reacted in an instant, wedging his foot into the gap before the door could close. Pain shot up his ankle, but he didn't budge.
"Just give it to me," he demanded.
"No." Jake pushed against the door harder, but MC held his ground. His voice dropped to a venomous hiss. "Leave me the hell alone. I'm sick of dealing with you."
"Why are you so obsessed with that damn book?"
MC's patience snapped. "Because your grandfather sold the souls of his entire family."
Jake froze. His hold on the door tensed up, but he didn't push anymore.
His mouth opened in a slight o, but nothing came out. He stared at MC as though he had spoken a language MC shouldn't understand.
Sold? Souls?
MC exhaled strongly. "Can you just give me the damn book?"
Jake swallowed. His throat bobbed. "What?
"You heard me," MC said flatly, holding out his hand expectantly. "Journal?"
A long beat of silence passed. Jake's gaze flickered, unreadable thoughts flashing behind his eyes before he finally muttered, "…Attic. In the trunk."
Without another word, MC turned on his heel and strode off. He didn't check if Jake was following, but the sound of hurried footsteps behind him confirmed it.
What do you mean my grandpa sold our souls?" Jake pressed, his voice edged with disbelief. "That's insane."
"It means exactly what it sounds like," MC snapped, his patience wearing thinner with every step. Already annoyed by this sudden change of interest, he wanted to know: where was this curiosity when he had tried to explain it before? "You and your entire family are going to die. Tomorrow. At midnight.
Jake's mouth opened to argue, but no words came forth.
By then, they had reached the attic door.
MC yanked it open, and the scent of dust and aged wood rushed out to greet them. The attic was dim, the single hanging lightbulb flickering like it was struggling to stay alive as shadows clung to the corners of the room, stretching long and eerie against the cracked wooden floors.
Jake hesitated at the threshold, eyeing the dark space warily.
MC didn't bat an eye. His gaze cut through the clutter of old trunks, forgotten furniture draped in white sheets, piles of yellowed newspapers—his gaze cut through it all to one single nondescript trunk against the far wall.
He strode forward, his weight making the wooden floor creak, and flipped open the lid.
And there it was.
The leather-bound journal of Grandpa William lay on top, its edges frayed and worn. It looked unassuming, small enough to fit in one hand—yet the weight of it felt immeasurable.
A terrible feeling settled in MC's gut. He didn't like this.
He didn't like this at all.
Slowly, he opened the journal, his fingers stiff as he flipped to the last entry. The words were there, scrawled in William's distinct handwriting, the ink slightly faded but still legible.
His chest tightened.
Without a word, he shoved the book into Jake's hands. "Read."
Jake glared at him before glancing down at the pages. His scowl lingered, but the moment his eyes landed on the writing, his expression faltered.
He knew that handwriting.
Had seen it a thousand times-watched his grandfather sit up in bed, scribbling away in this very journal. He had always done that. For as long as Jake could remember.
And yet, not once had Jake ever thought to ask what was inside.
Now, for the first time…
He was about to find out.
…
William sat in his usual seat on the worn-out sofa, staring out at the heavens' falling snow. The outside world was a painting of white and gray; the town had fallen into silent serenity. Against this sight, however, a strange weight seemed to press upon his chest-a weight which had been creeping up his body for days.
"I guess it's almost my time," he muttered, speaking no louder than a whisper. His eyes slipped toward the ceiling and traced out imaginary patterns through the cracks in the plaster.
It wasn't fear that had overcome him, no; long before, fear had lost its hold on him. It was a day he had always known would come. The signs had been there for a while: the fatigue clinging to his bones, the heaviness of his breath at every rising morning. More than that, however, it was an instinct, a quiet whisper at the back of his mind that told him his story was reaching its final chapter.
He heaved himself up from the sofa, his joints objecting with creaks at the movement. He reached for his coat and scarf, the known textures comforting to touch. There was one place he needed to visit before his time ran out.
"Dad?"
The soft voice at the doorway arrested him, and he turned towards the figure standing there-the quiet hazel eyes curious. A smudge of flour dusted her cheek, and the apron she wore showed a meal in process. He took a moment to study her-the way her brown hair framed her face, so much like her mother's had. But the nose, the shape of her face? Those were his, an inheritance his late wife used to tease him about.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"I'm going to church," he said matter-of-factly. "Feels like I haven't been in a while."
Eva frowned, a crease forming between her brows. "Didn't you go just three days ago?"
William chuckled, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "It's always good to be close to God."
She sighed, but a small smile played on her lips. "Alright. Just don't catch a cold."
"I won't." He squeezed her shoulder lightly. "And you mustn't worry about me too much."
"I won't. I know you'll be okay."
He nodded, knowing better than anyone how very differently it all actually was. One last glance at his daughter, and he was out.
The air was cold-the kind that nibbled at his cheeks and seeped into his bones-but he welcomed it. His house was not exactly near town, yet he never minded walking. He loved spending his time on the way, drinking in the small things of this world he grew up with. The passing faces turned closer; some gave polite nods, others called him by name. He politely returned the favours, and with every step it was as if some wild, irrepressible longing surged within him.
A single blue house was in sight up ahead on the town center, and his eyes chanced upon it: its shutters closed, the porch empty. The Conners' house.
He'd heard they were out of town. A slight pang of sorrow rested in his chest. MC had been such a good kid, always stopping by, always wanting to talk. He could still envision the boy standing at his door, knocking just about every day, his youthful energy infectious. Still playing basketball? Still getting into fights? William hoped the boy had found his way.
But he couldn't dwell on the past. He had somewhere to be.
The church still stood, identical; reassuringly present. He paused at the door and looked out at how the snow fell in clings upon the panes of colour, then slipped inside. This place smelled from old wood to burning candles-as comforting as being in a friend's embrace. There were very few people here, and the whispered tones that sounded from anyone present blended softly into the hush of sanctuary hum.
He moved forward to a pew near the front and focused his eyes on the cross above the altar.
"Hello, Newt," he said as a figure slid into the seat beside him.
The young priest was still finding his place among them, flashing a small, shy smile. A complete contrast from Priest Paul, Newt carried a gentleness about him-unsure but sincere.
"How's your morning?" William asked.
Newt was silent a moment before answering, "Quiet. And yours?"
William finally took his eyes off the cross, locking gazes with the priest. "I'm here to pray," he said. "I have a feeling my time is up."
Newt's face was stoic, but William saw the spark of alarm behind the façade. "Then spend the rest of your days making sure you don't have anything to regret."
Regrets.
William had none.
Newt didn't press the issue any further, and after a moment, he stood and left William to his thoughts.
William sat in silence as the weight in his chest increased. A little later, he stood, steadied his legs, and trod his path back home.
The instant he stepped inside, he didn't waste a moment. He went to his desk, flipped his diary open, and wrote therein:
I feel my time has come to an end.
When I sit down and reflect on my life, there was so much I wanted to do… but it's too late now.
I remember the day I sold my family's souls.
And I remember that I felt no regret. I still don't feel any regret now.
When I'm gone, I just have to be patient. My dream will finally become a reality.
…
Jake didn't move, staring at the journal entry. There wasn't much, really-just five lines, five simple sentences. But these five lines unraveled everything that he knew. "I have a feeling my time is up. When I stop and think back on my life, there was so much I wanted to do… but it's too late now. I remember the day I sold my family's souls.
And I remember that I felt no regret. I still don't feel any regret now.
When I'm gone, I just have to be patient. My dream will finally come true."
His breath caught in his throat. His pulse pounded in his ears.
"What…?" The word barely escaped him, his voice hoarse with disbelief. "What the actual fuck…?"
He reread it. Again. And again. And again. Yet, no matter how many times his eyes seemed to pass over the words, the meaning did not change. Their weight did not grow lighter. If anything, it only became more crushing, like a boulder against his chest, squeezing tight his ribs.
His fingers had shaken. His grasp loosened. The book fell from his grasp onto the floor with a dull thump against the oak floor. The legs collapsed beneath him as he sank into a kneeling position.
What on Earth had he read?
His own flesh and blood, his grandfather, had sold them out. Not just him but his whole family, for what? Why? Jake's mind was racing, trying to find some kind of explanation, some kind of reason that could make sense of this betrayal. But there was nothing. Just a cold, hollow truth sitting in the pit of his stomach.
Had his grandfather known what would happen with them? Had he done it for money? For power? Or for something worse? Something more twisted? The words, "I felt no regret. I still don't feel any regret now," clung to his mind like a curse.
A sharp exhale snapped him out of his daze.
"Are you just going to sit there?
Jake lifted his head. MC stood a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable. But his tone wasn't sympathetic. It wasn't soft. It was sharp. Almost annoyed.
"Let's go tell the rest of your family," MC said flatly, already turning toward the attic door. "That's the least I can do for you."
The least he could do?
Jake's jaw clenched. He wasn't even sure if he could move yet, let alone face his family. But one thing was for sure-this wasn't going to stay buried any longer.
No. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.