Chapter 6

I woke early the next morning, surprised that I hadn’t had any bad dreams. I thought back to the events of last night and the talk I’d had with Matt, he had left not long after we had rejoined the group claiming he had a school assignment to work on. I knew he was lying, he just wanted to get away from me and I couldn’t blame him after I so cruelly broke his heart. The absence of nightmares felt almost like a punishment, leaving me fully present to the gnawing guilt. I splashed cold water on my face, hoping to wash away not just the vestiges of sleep, but the memory of Matt's broken expression. It didn't work.

After brushing my teeth, I pulled my hair back into a tight bun, a habitual preparation for what was to come. I slipped on my running shoes and headed down to the garage which my parents had converted to a training room. I didn't bother with music today. I needed the silence, the rhythmic thud of my feet on the treadmill, to drown out the noise in my head.

I started slow, a light jog, then pushed the speed until my breath came in ragged gasps. The burn in my lungs, the ache in my hamstrings, it was all a welcome distraction. I pictured Matt's face, the moment his smile faltered, and I pushed harder, telling myself that this physical discomfort was nothing compared to the emotional pain I had inflicted. It was a penance I could control, a way to channel the restless energy of remorse. The numbers on the display blurred, the minutes stretching into an eternity of exertion, a desperate attempt to outrun my own conscience.

After an hour of running I padded across the cool, worn training mats at the center of the room. I took a deep, centering breath, forcing the last of the cardio-induced jitters from my limbs. My mind, which had been a whirlwind of exhaustion and mundane thoughts during the run, sharpened. This was different. This was precision.

My bare feet found their anchor on the mat, toes spreading, heels digging in. The first move was a familiar one: a low horse stance, fists chambered at my hips, then a sudden, explosive jab forward. It was swift, deceptively simple, and ended with a sharp exhalation that cut the silence.

Each motion was a story, a sequence dictated by countless repetitions, refined over years. A pivot into a crescent kick, the snap of my quadricep echoing in the quiet room. A block, a parry, a counter-jab, fluid as water, hard as stone. The air around me whispered with the whoosh of a palm strike, the thwack of an imaginary elbow connecting with a phantom jaw. My body flowed from one stance to the next, a ballet of controlled destruction. Muscles bunched, tendons stretched, every fiber of my being engaged in the complex, intricate dance.

My mind emptied, yet became hyper-aware. I felt the slight shift in my balance, the precise angle of my wrist, the perfect twist of my hip to generate maximum power. My breath became a rhythm, each inhale drawing in focus, each exhale expelling doubt. This wasn't just exercise; it was preparation. It was the language of survival, spoken through the body.

An hour bled into another, punctuated only by the rhythmic thud of my feet on the mats, the sharp sounds of my breath, and the occasional soft groan of effort. When I finally finished the last form, a series of intricate grappling transitions that left me momentarily balanced on one knee, I stayed there for a beat, letting the stillness settle.

Then I stood, rooted to the spot, chest heaving lightly, a fine tremor running through my depleted muscles. The quiet hum of the building settled around me again. The world outside was still waking, but I had already been to war, danced with shadows, and emerged, for now, intact.

I headed back up to my room to grab a shower before breakfast. I had a lot to do today, before going to meet the Millers to discuss what the experienced in the house I needed to contact "The Paranormal Taskforce" who the Millers had hired to investigate the paranormal events they experienced and the builders the Becketts had hired to carry out the Kitchen renovations. But first I need to contact Theron, he was on assignment in Redfall 20 minutes from Evertide where the Millers lived, if he was free it would be good to meet up with him and get his take on this assignment. I scroll through my contacts till I find his number

“Hello?” Theron’s deep voice answered the phone, a low growl that seemed to vibrate through the earpiece. Even through the static, she could picture him �" broad-shouldered, probably already in sweat-drenched training gear, dark hair falling into his eyes.

“Hi Theron,” I began, a small, tentative smile touching my lips. “I hope I didn’t wake you.” I paused, listening to his familiar intake of breath. “Cyrus said you were on assignment in Redfall, I am heading to Evertide today for a meeting and was wondering if you were free to meet up?”

A slow, deliberate sigh travelled down the line. “Wake me up! as if I haven’t been up for hours, training just like you.” His tone was laced with a dry amusement. Then, the amusement faded, replaced by something sterner. “Would this meeting be about the assignment that Cyrus shouldn’t have given you?”

I felt a familiar prickle of defiance. “It is about the assignment Cyrus has assigned me, and there is no reason he shouldn’t have.” I knew this argument would come; Theron was nothing if not predictable when it came to my well-being.

“Oh, I don’t know, how about the fact you're meant to be on leave, Anna? You need to give yourself time to grieve,” he replied, his voice softening, the growl replaced by a deep current of genuine concern. If anyone else had said that, I probably would have snapped back, lashed out with a defensive retort about my right to cope however I saw fit. But Theron’s parents had gone missing when he was twelve, a gaping wound that had never truly healed. He had been raised by his Aunt, a woman who had poured every ounce of her strength into mending his broken world. So, if anyone knew what I was going through, truly understood the hollow ache of absence, it was him.

“I know,” I conceded, my voice barely a whisper. The truth of his words landed heavily, but I pushed it aside. “But right now I need something to focus on, and this is giving me that. I promise to contact Cyrus and request someone else take the case if I start to struggle.”

“Make sure you do,” he replied, the implied threat in his tone softened by an underlying current of love. Then, to my surprise, his voice shifted, a hint of something uncharacteristic entering it �" vulnerability. “I could do with your advice on my current assignment in any case, I’m a bit out of my depth. Caela is here too, I know she would want to see you.”

My eyebrows shot up. Theron, out of his depth? The man who had navigated impossible situations, admitting to being out of his depth? This was unheard of. 

“You out of your depth? Now I have to see this !” I said, “I’ll call you as I’m leaving Evertide.”

I hung up, a strange mix of emotions swirling inside me. The grief hadn't vanished, but it felt a fraction lighter, momentarily pushed aside by the prospect of seeing Theron, and the intriguing mystery of his “out of his depth” situation in Redfall. Smiling at the though of seeing Theron, I dial the number I had found for The Paranormal Taskforce, who I was hoping were the paranormal investigators hired by the Millers.

“Hello Paranormal Taskforce, how may I help?” a woman’s voice answered. It was crisp, professional, and slightly weary.

“Hello, my name is Annabelle. I work for SpectraByte, a local paranormal investigation firm,” I began “I am hoping you can help me with a case I’m currently working on. I believe you were hired by the Millers to investigate paranormal activities at 465 West Street, Whiteside.”

There was a brief pause on the other end, a subtle shift in the woman’s tone. “I am afraid I am unable to divulge any information regarding cases we have handled,” she replied, the weariness in her voice hardening into a wall of professional protocol.

Annabelle had anticipated this. “I understand there is an element of client-customer confidentiality,” I interjected smoothly. “However, I am meeting with Mr. Miller later today. If you need me to, I can get written consent from them.”

The woman on the other end audibly perked up, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through her guarded demeanor. “You have a meeting with the Millers? How did you manage that?” she asked, a hint of desperation seeping into her voice. “I have been trying to contact them since they moved out of the house, but they never officially closed their case with us.”

“A new family has moved into the house and have contacted us to investigate,” I explained. “When I explained the situation to Mr. Miller, he reluctantly agreed to meet with me.” The Millers had been extremely difficult to track down. Mr. Miller’s curt, almost fearful, acceptance of my request for a meeting had only cemented my belief that this case was far more complex than it appeared on the surface.

“So what do you need from me if you have access to the Millers and the new family? How can we help?” the Taskforce woman prompted, her tone now laced with a professional curiosity she hadn’t shown before.

“I wanted to know what you had experienced in the house, and if you were able to make contact with the entity,” I replied.

A sigh filtered through the phone line, heavy with a shared understanding of their unusual profession. “With Ashlynn, yes, we made contact, but we did not get far,” the woman confessed, her voice dropping slightly. “She refused to speak with us, and every time we tried, she would get angry, and objects would literally fly. One of my employees came away with a concussion. If you get consent from the Millers, I’m happy to send over the case files. It never felt right walking away without being able to help, though I have never come across anything like it. Normally, we go in, and it’s just the pipes or an animal in the attic causing the problems. I think I can count on one hand the times we have actually encountered a real ghost.”

So it was Ashlynn like Cyrus suspected and now reports of violence�"that explained the Millers’ hasty departure, luckily it seemed things weren’t as bad for the Becketts, I can only hope it doesn't escalate. “Same here,” I agreed, leaning forward, “Real hauntings are rare, but I’ve been in the house; there is definitely something more than old pipes. You called her Ashlynn. Did you get confirmation that’s who she was?”

“Yes, she appeared to us on several occasions, and we were able to catch her on camera,” the woman confirmed, her voice regaining a professional, almost clinical edge. “We compared the images and footage with photos of Ashlynn. It is definitely her.”

“Thank you for talking to me,” I said, already envisioning the depth of information those files might contain. “I will email you once I have consent for the files to be released.”

“Good luck,” the woman replied, her voice tinged with an unnerving sincerity. “There is nothing good in that house.” And with that chilling parting shot, she hung up.

Confirmation that it was Ashlynn haunting the Becketts. The Millers’ reluctance to speak and their hurried flight made sense now. If Ashlynn was a violent entity they wouldn’t want to risk their family. This wasn’t just a job anymore. It was a confrontation with something truly malevolent.

I looked at the clock, my meeting with the Millers was in three hours, I had better grab something to eat, and let Millie know where I was going. It would take me roughly 2 hours to get to Evertide and I did not want to be late, getting permission from the Millers to release those files was now my top priority. I need to understand Ashlynn, if I am going to be able to help the Becketts. Speaking with the builders would have to wait.

I packed up all my research, my laptop and a dictaphone ready to capture every nuance of the Millers’ inevitable revelation and headed. I headed downstairs, I found Millie in the kitchen, humming softly as she placed a cup of tea and some toast on the breakfast bar. I smiled “Thank you just what I needed. I’m heading over to Evertide today to meet the previous owners of 465 West Street, I need to find out what they went through and to get their permission to release some files from some paranormal investigators.”

Millie paused, her brow furrowing slightly, her eyes assessing mine. She could tell this was no normal case from the subtle shift in my demeanor. “"Be careful, Anna," she said, her voice dropping, softer than usual, stripped of its usual playful lilt and laced instead with a deep, almost ancient concern. Her gaze lingered on me, searching, warning. "Things feel… heavier with this one. It's not just a sad echo of lingering grief, not the sorrowful imprint of a life tragically ended. This feels… different. Raw. Primal. This feels… angry." A shiver, not entirely my own, traced a cold path down my spine.

I gave her a tight smile, acknowledging her premonition without needing to vocalize my own unease. There was no point in trying to hide anything from Millie; she had an uncanny knack for sensing the unseen, for reading the residual psychic energy left behind by intense emotions or traumatic events. She hadn't even been to the house, but she could still tell that something wasn't just wrong there. "I know," I admitted, my voice a little rougher than I intended. "I promise to be careful. I'm meeting up with Theron and Caela afterwards. Theron is on assignment in Redfall.

Millie's expression eased slightly, a faint, genuine smile gracing her lips, softening the worry in her eyes. "Good," she murmured, a whisper of approval. "I'm glad to hear you're meeting up with them. I have always liked Theron. She paused, her gaze settling on me with a knowing warmth. "He's... solid. A good influence for you, Anna." Her smile deepened, a memory flickering in her eyes. "You tend to rush headlong into danger, my dear. You have a particular talent for diving headfirst into dangerous situations and he’s excellent at pulling you back from the brink, isn't he? He has that quiet patience, that calm logic. I’ve seen it firsthand, Anna. You need that kind of grounding, that steady hand to remind you of the earth beneath your feet,”

A faint, knowing smile touched my own lips, a playful glint in my eye. "I'm not that bad, Millie," I replied, though even as the words left my lips, a part of me knew she wasn't entirely wrong. I reached for the ceramic mug resting in front of me. I took a slow sip. The fragrant steam rose, carrying the delicate, herbaceous notes of lemon balm and the subtle, exotic perfume of passionflower �" a blend Millie always made for me, specifically designed to soothe and calm. It was one of my absolute favourites. 

With a contented sigh, I pushed back my chair, its legs scraping lightly against the tiled floor, and stretched.

"Well Millie," I announced, pulling myself fully upright, "I best be off! I don't want to be late." I glanced at the clock.

Millie, perched at the counter with her own half-finished cup of tea, looked up, a familiar, fond smile creasing the corners of her eyes. Her voice, warm and laced with that ever-present maternal concern, followed me as I began gathering my bag and keys. "Don't forget to message me the second you've arrived safely," she replied, her tone leaving no room for argument. She probably didn't even realize she was already reaching for her phone, poised to check.

I grinned, a playful roll of my eyes accompanying the words. "Yes mum," I quipped, leaning in for a quick, warm hug that smelt faintly of her lavender soap. Her hand gave my arm a gentle squeeze. 

“Don’t forget ti go to school and drop of your assignments” She called after me as I headed towards the door. “Don’t worry I’ll drop them off before I go” I yelled back.

The drive to Evertide was a blur. My mind replayed fragments of the events of the past few days. My hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, but my focus was miles away, trapped in the chaotic replay of the last twenty-four hours. It started with the Becketts, their faces etched with a desperate blend of fear and exasperation. Then came Adrianna’s room. The air had been heavy, cloying, even before I stepped inside, a palpable press against my chest. The sheer density of the residual energy had been overwhelming, a cold knot in my stomach that resonated with the fear I'd seen in the Becketts' eyes. And try as I might I could not keep my thoughts from straying to my conversation with Matt, his voice, raw pain, replayed like a broken record in the confines of my skull. Every turn of the wheel seemed to bring back a different fragment of our exchange. His words were a splinter under my skin, preventing me from fully engaging with the serious task ahead. It was a distraction I did not need today. This meeting was going to be difficult enough without me being distracted

The GPS announced my arrival in Evertide. The Millers’ address was in an isolated part of town, accessible only by a single, winding lane that snaked deeper into what felt less like a suburb and more like a reclaimed wilderness. Just when I began to doubt the directions, a break in the trees revealed their house, a modern new build, standing stark and undeniable against the dark canvas of the forest. It was all sharp angles and expansive glass, a triumph of minimalist design that seemed almost out of place amidst the rustic isolation. No chance of a ghost in this house.

I parked the car, killed the engine, and took a deep, shuddering breath, the crisp, cold air biting at my lungs. Two hours of relentless driving and I was finally here, for a meeting I was not looking forward to, Mr Miller had been reluctant to even talk with me yesterday and honestly, after my conversation with The Paranormal Taskforce, I couldn't fault him, if I had witnessed even a fraction of what they described happening inside that house, I wouldn't just want to forget �" I’d want to erase it from the very fabric of my memory, to pretend it had never touched me. 

I walked up to the front door and rang the door bell. Two short, confident rings resonated, followed by a distant, melodious chime from within the house. I waited, after a beat that stretched just a little too long, the door creaked open, revealing a man who was undeniably Mr. Miller, He was younger than I had expected, perhaps mid-thirties, with dark, slightly dishevelled hair and a faint shadow of stubble clinging to his jawline. He was dressed casually, a faded band t-shirt stretched over his frame, paired with jeans. 

“Hello,” I began, “I’m Annabelle Lunnís from SpectraByte.” I said. He didn't step back to invite me in, simply held the door ajar, his shoulders a little slumped. His voice was flat, devoid of warmth, as he replied, “You had better come in. The sooner we get this over with, the better.” The words, delivered with chilling directness, carried an undeniable tension, making it clear this was less a welcome and more a resignation. I resisted the urge to flinch, stepping across the threshold into the frosty reception that awaited me.