If I don't have to be home, I won't be. Especially at night.

When I'm there, I can't sleep. I toss and turn, my body burning up as if I have a terrible fever I can't break out of. Inside, my heart pounds, practically slamming against my ribcage — as if it knows something is wrong.

When I do manage to sleep, I have these awful dreams. Nightmares, really. I only remember that I was in a dark room, and I could feel the darkness closing in on me, suffocating me. I tried to break free, but there was nowhere to run. It's all the same, and the thick fog always chokes me awake.

Some nights, I dream about Grimwood. It's as if I've been transported back there. I'm in the halls, I can feel the engravings in the walls, and I can smell that distant hint of spilled wine in the ballroom. In these dreams, I see Georgia and that thing — whatever it was — and I hear her scream before I wake.

So, I don't stay at home. I stay anywhere else. I stay with Danny until he asks me what's wrong, and then I leave. I would stay with Georgia but she's been avoiding me. As depressing as it sounds, I don't have many other "friends," so there's no one else to ask. I've paid $60 to stay in a motel room for two nights. The beds are itchy but at least I can sleep.

The thing is, I'm running dry. When our Twitch channel picked up, Georgia said we had to commit full-time. I quit my job working for a private investigator. The channel is my only job; my only source of income. But since Grimwood, we haven't streamed once. We've been isolating, mostly from each other. We still get small donations here and there when we're offline, but the bulk of it comes in while we stream.

After nearly a week without a new stream, I don't quite have the income to stay another night at a motel. I want to turn away from the front door and drive away, but I don't have any other option.

As I begrudgingly step inside, it's quiet again. The lights are off, but it's late. In my pocket, my phone vibrates. I check it and see a new message from Georgia. Another to add to the collection, I'm sure.

Every night, she sends me these weird cryptic texts like, They're in my head; They won't stop; They're real; I've made them real. Tonight's rendition is: I want to reach into my ear and pull them out.

Even if I respond, she doesn't. If I call, she won't pick up. In the morning, she pretends like she never sent them. I don't know whether to take it seriously, but it does rub me the wrong way.

I wander into the kitchen and find a note on the counter.

Claire,

I don't know if you'll be home tonight, but I'm working a double. I dropped Bailey off at Taylor's tonight in case you aren't home. There's some leftover casserole in the fridge. Love you.

-Emma

I crumple the note and toss it into the waste bin. Even with all of her work, Emma still finds the time to cook, and when she does, it's fantastic. Her casserole is one of my favorites, but lately, I can't eat. The thought makes me sick to my stomach.

Rubbing at my eyes, I feel the exhaustion in my temples. It weighs me down, and I want nothing more than to sleep for ten straight hours. But the thought of going down that hallway starts a fire on my skin.

Before I can take a single step out of the kitchen, there's a loud creak from the hallway, and it sends a wave of nausea through me. I swallow hard and stumble back, my back going flush against the counter. I squeeze my eyes shut. It's not real. No one else is here. You are alone. But when I hear another creak so loud it sounds like the floor cracked, my body leaps and I bite back a cry.

I force myself to open my eyes and take a step. Then another. I have to prove to myself that there's nothing here, and I'm only imagining it. At the edge of the hallway, I peer around the corner ever so slightly, and as I do, there's a dark figure, and it vanishes through a doorway as quickly as I looked. I blinked, and it's gone.

My blood runs ice cold. Maybe I'll puke too, but there's not much to come up. I swallow hard and somehow manage to take another big step into the hallway. My legs begin to tremble.

Whatever it was — if it was even here — looked like it was at the end of the hall right in front of the bathroom. Where she was that night. And I think it went into Emma's bedroom. As I get closer, I pause outside of my room. For a moment, I consider going inside and locking myself in until the daylight tells me it's safe. But I don't. I keep walking.

Emma's door is wide open. The lights are off except for the night light beside the bed. She says she keeps it for Bailey, that he's scared of the dark, and that's why he waits to come out until I get home. Tonight, the light casts creepy, distorted shadows onto the walls.

"...nothing to be afraid of..." I hear a voice whisper. I jump, my eyes moving across the room until they find the bed. The voice was small, but it tunes in louder. "...still your grandmother..."

I have to rub at my eyes. This can't be real! But as my blurry vision clears, I can see a figure over the bed with their back to me. A figure I recognize even in the dark.

Mom.

I bite back tears. She looks exactly like she did twenty years ago with her short hair and mom jeans and flowery blouse — no dark, distorting shadows manipulating her image. My breath catches when she moves. She looks down at a young girl who stands beside her. Mom runs her hand through the girl's hair, and I nearly stumble back.

Is that...me?

Beside the bed is a Holter monitor. The fast rhythm it projects goes along with my heart until it begins to slow and deepen at a steady yet slowish pace. My eyes follow the wires and tubing where it reaches the bed. And in the bed is her. Nana. Her sleeping face is lit up by the night light. Her chest rises and falls in time with the monitor.

"Does she hurt?" Little Claire asks, her voice a somewhat light projection of my own. God, she — I mean, I — should be no older than twelve here. I blink again, feeling a resurgence of doubt. But they're still here. The beeping is still here.

Mom shakes her head. "No, sweetie. She's not hurting." Mom combs her fingers through Little Claire's hair, and I swear I felt it too. "We're making sure she's comfortable."

My gaze flickers back to Nana, who lets out a wheeze through her breathing tube. I bite my lip as Mom kisses Little Claire's head and she turns and walks toward the door. My heart leaps into my throat as I see her face for the first time — her younger face. For a moment, it looks like she's locked eyes with me but she moves past me, and I feel this cold brush against my skin.

I lose all of my breath and every piece of me on the inside goes cold. My stomach lurches and my throat closes. I cough, struggling to breathe. I brace myself on the door and eventually catch my breath.

That... That felt like death touched me. And I can't shake it off.

"Where are you going?" A voice calls from the hallway. Little Claire looks past me as if I'm not here. She soon looks back at Nana as if nothing happened. But the voice speaks again, "I said, where do you think you're going?"

I nearly lose my balance. I know that voice. I spin around and step into the hallway. The living room light I turned on is glowing darker, more orange. But I can still see them. Standing near the door is my father — his younger version, like Mom. His arms are crossed over his chest as he looks at my mom as she shrugs on her coat.

"Out," she says, grabbing her keys.

"Out where?" He asks, stepping in front of the door. "Where do you need to go that's so important? More important than your daughters? Than your mother?"

She scoffs. "Please, Leo," she says with annoyance. "Don't get all holier-than-thou with me."

"You're going to the bar, aren't you?" He pauses. "You're going to see him, aren't you?"

From here, I see her eyes light up. She shoves at his chest, and I step forward. Do something! I hear in my head, but do what? This isn't real! It can't be!

"Stay out of this, Leo!" Mom shouts. "I can't breathe in this house!"

He tries to hold her back, to keep her from leaving, but he can't stop her. He won't go further than blocking the door. He won't shove her. He won't push her. She eventually moves him out of the way, but before she opens the door, he says, "You're my wife, Sophie!" She pauses. "What do you expect me to do?" He asks, defeated.

She turns around, and I see her face again. Her makeup is already smeared from tears. She doesn't say anything at first. But then, she screams.

It rips through Dad and down the hall and into me. I fall backward and land on the floor in the bathroom. My ears are ringing and my bones are reverberating. I don't look up. I scurry off the floor and race for the front door. It's a straight shot. I close my eyes and hold my hands out, hoping that I find the door before something finds me.

I throw it open and run to the car. My heart pounds relentlessly as I fumble with my keys until I open the car door and get in. I don't remember putting on the seatbelt or the drive, but I get the hell out of there as fast as I possibly can.

Current word count: 14,661