"What do you think the psycho was doing all the way over here?" Peter said as they pulled onto the road. "It's a safe neighborhood. Way safer than mine."

Charlie glanced out the window, half-expecting to see a dark-haired figure staring back, but there were only cars parked in long driveways, perfectly-trimmed lawns in the upper-middle class monotony of her neighborhood. Populated by retired couples and close to the beaches of Tampa Bay, Peter was right—it was a safe neighborhood. So safe that, for years now, her parents hadn't bothered to get their home security system fixed. So safe, in fact, that mysterious intruders could get through the neighborhood gate and nearly break down Charlie's door if they so pleased.

Her eyes were droopier than usual, bloodshot and lined with dark circles. Her hand tightened around the note she'd been holding for hours, crushed in her fist so she wouldn't have to see the words.

She must've been imagining things, dreaming—one of those dreams. The moment she opened her fist, the paper would fall out, blank, and the phrase she thought she'd seen would prove to be nothing but a sleep-deprived delusion.

Her fingers unfurled. A dull ache shot up her arm.

Juntos ou nunca.

Together or never. Juntos o nunca. Nearly identical in Spanish and Portuguese aside from the pronunciation.

"—we can't put up with it forever," Peter was saying as he drove, his eyes darting left and right, paranoid like hers. "I have a huge game coming up. You have to tell your mom and dad to get that alarm fixed. Or, better yet—tell them to buy some guns, how about that?"

Charlie blanked. She stared at that jagged, slanted handwriting. The sense of knowing who it belonged to crawled from the recesses of her brain.

No one could've replicated it with such suffocating perfection aside from her. No one knew about juntos o nunca aside from her. Had something—someone—possessed her to write the note? Had every unexplained occurrence in the last four years—a shadow in the corner of her room, mystery bruises on her thighs, phantom whispers while half-asleep—culminated in something so very, bizarrely, impossibly wrong?

Peter would never talk to her again if she told him that. Or maybe she was simply losing her mind. But how was that enough to make her black out and mutilate her own teddy bear?

And what about the pounding? The blood? That couldn't have been hers. She could not be in two places at once. And why was all this happening now? Why here? Why...

"Charlie?"

She tore the note and crushed the pieces in her fist. Spots faded in and out of her vision. The sky rumbled—another September shower in one of the stormiest cities of the United States.

"Are you listening? You have to talk to your mom and dad."

A lump formed in her throat. "I called them," she whispered. "I called them twenty times, and they didn't answer because they're somewhere in the European Alps having so much fun, and they don't have time to—"

"Hey, calm down," Peter said. "They'll call you back, and you can tell them to come home, okay?"

It wouldn't be the first vacation she'd ruined. She dreaded seeing their disappointment once they returned, their carefree retirement dreams on hold because of her. Because of some stalker. She bit her lip and breathed deeply to the count of ten. Years ago, a school counselor taught her the technique. Count to ten... deep breaths... you're okay.

"Can I sleep over at your house tonight?" she asked, so quiet Peter had to lean closer to listen. It was a problem she'd always had, her voice too soft, unsure if she should ever say anything at all.

His hands tensed over the steering wheel. "You know I'm not ready for that."

They'd been seeing each other for months. Was it normal for him to never invite her over? "My house isn't nice like yours," he'd once said, staring up at the chandelier in her dining room, the foyer littered with paintings and antiques. "My mom and dad are separated; my dad's always drunk or high out of his damn mind on his days off; it's complicated."

"I thought it might be safer to stay somewhere else," she mumbled.

"So your stalker can find out where I live, too?"

"I thought you said your dad owns guns."

"I'll bring one next time. But still—your house is gonna be a lot safer than mine once you get that alarm fixed."

"I... okay."

Silence. The torn-up pieces of the note burned holes in the palm of her hand. And the idea of Peter with a gun only spurred another wave of hot and cold flashes, sweat beading on her temple despite the A.C.

"We should've called the police after what happened with my teddy bear," she said.

Peter brought the car to an abrupt stop in front of a red light."What would they do, write up a statement? Never a good idea to trust cops, especially with stuff like this. There wasn't any evidence anyway."

The teddy bear. The text message she didn't have the courage to show Peter after his outburst, yelling and swinging the baseball bat like he wanted to get murdered. Either way, the police could've taken samples from the blood on the door as evidence. But she'd scrubbed it off at dawn before Peter woke, driven by a frantic urge to wipe all traces from sight.

"Plus," he continued, "you don't want them to get all freaked out about why you had those knives."

Once upon a time, the collection had not belonged solely to her. She pushed the thought away and gave Peter a forced smile, focusing instead on him—square jaw, sandy brown hair, and stern hazel eyes she felt lucky to admire from up close.

"Are you freaked out?" she asked.

"There's nothing wrong with protection." He let out a small laugh, and Charlie imagined it as a physical thing she could pluck from the air, holding it in her heart forever—reassurance that everything would be okay. "You can take your knives to our doomsday bunker."

"Doomsday bunker?"

"For the end of the world. I'm building one."

She thumbed the knife tucked in the waistband of her skirt—small enough to carry unnoticed during class. "When do you think the world will end?"

"Only God knows. Doesn't hurt to be prepared, though."

The forced smile on her lips gave way to a real one beneath. "And you'll let me come? Even if it's a century from now?"

"'Course," he said. "You're my girl."

The way he said it made everything worth it then: watching the conspiracy shows his friends said he liked, memorizing his class schedule so she knew when to bump into him on campus, studying his beliefs after reading the Bible verse taped to the inside of his notebook: The end of all things is near. Therefore be clear-minded and sober, so that you can pray. And above all, love one another deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.

Didn't she need it. 

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a/n: hii and welcome to the absolute trip i hope this book provides you. tbh the drama of charlie's paranoia about being haunted is so fun to write. i also hope u like the ~ gothic horror ~ vibes in mf FLORIDA of all places. i haven't lived there for many years, but i'll admit i'm a born florida rat, and i guess i just have to rep the insanity of that state here. 

anyway, what do you think of peter and charlie so far? any predictions for what will happen next? and where in the world are you reading this right now? 

song for this chapter:

➼ ❝ bedroom ghost❞  by flower face 

i told you "never die," i told you "never leave"

i didn't want you to haunt me, baby

you slept in the backyard under the tree

i didn't want you to haunt me, baby