Chapter Three: Summer Break

  Morning arrived clear and unapologetic.

  Sunlight streamed through the tall windows in pale gold sheets, settling across the foyer floor and climbing the curve of the staircase. Dust shimmered lazily in the air. The chandelier held still, its crystals catching light without movement.

  Mallory woke slowly, warmth from the hearth lingering faintly in the stone across from her bed.

  For a suspended second, she forgot where she was.

  Then—

  Knocking.

  Sharp. Rhythmic. Insistent.

  Her heart jolted.

  Another knock followed, louder this time.

  “Mallory Locklear, I know you’re in there!”

  The voice carried as though a thick wooden barrier and taller ceilings never existed.

  Mallory shot upright.

  “Calathea?”

  “Unless you’ve acquired another extremely attractive sister overnight, yes!”

  Relief hit her so hard she laughed.

  She scrambled out of bed, pulling on yesterday’s oversized sweatshirt and dragging her fingers through sleep-tangled curls as she hurried downstairs.

  The knocking resumed—impatient now.

  “You cannot inherit a literal mansion in Robeson County and then ghost your favorite sibling. That’s illegal. I checked.”

  Mallory swung the front door open.

  Calathea stood on the porch with one hand planted on her hip and the other gripping the strap of a duffel bag.

  Eight hours away at OSU hadn’t changed her much. Same sharp grin. Same confident stance. Same dark eyes that mirrored Mallory’s but carried mischief where Mallory carried watchfulness.

  “You look like you fought a bear,” Calathea said, squinting at her. “Did you at least win?”

  Mallory stepped forward and wrapped her in a hug before answering.

  Calathea froze up like a stiffened board, then hugged her back tightly.

  “Oh,” Calathea murmured into her shoulder. “That’s a full-contact hug. Something’s weird.”

  “Nothing’s weird,” Mallory said, though she didn’t fully believe it. “What are you doing here?”

  Calathea pulled back, grin returning.

  “Hypothetically—if your favorite, most brilliant, wildly underappreciated, prettiest sis needed somewhere to stay for summer break—would she be welcomed with open arms?”

  Mallory blinked. “You drove eight hours without asking me first?”

  “I texted.”

  “At one in the morning.”

  “You were awake.”

  Mallory hesitated.

  Calathea’s eyes narrowed. “Why were you awake?”

  “New house,” Mallory replied quickly. “First night.”

  “Haunted?”

  “No.”

  “Disappointing.”

  She brushed past Mallory without waiting for permission, pushing through the tall carved doors as though she’d grown up inside them.

  “Okay but seriously—Robeson County weather?” Calathea continued as she stepped inside. “It’s humid enough out there to drink the air. How are you not dissolving?”

  She dropped her bag onto the foyer floor and spun slowly, taking in the height of the ceiling.

  “Mal,” she breathed. “This chandelier is criminal.”

  Mallory closed the door behind her.

  The instant the latch clicked—

  Something shifted.

  Not the floor.

  Not the beams.

  The air.

  In the far corner of the foyer, where the morning light failed to fully reach, darkness seemed to compress inward.

  It wasn’t shaped like a body.

  It wasn’t tall or looming.

  It was density.

  A gathering.

  As if shadow had briefly decided to become more than absence.

  Mallory’s breath caught.

  The darkness recoiled—not violently, not dramatically—but with clear displeasure.

  Like something that had grown accustomed to quiet had just been interrupted.

  Calathea remained oblivious, craning her neck to examine the chandelier.

  “I can fix this,” she declared. “The wiring’s outdated. I’m telling you right now, that thing is one short circuit away from setting this whole place on fire. I need a ladder. And maybe a voltage tester. And probably to check the grounding system throughout the house.”

  Mallory barely heard her.

  The corner of the foyer flattened again.

  The density dissolved.

  Only ordinary shadow remained.

  “You okay?” Calathea asked suddenly.

  Mallory blinked. “Yeah. Just tired.”

  Calathea studied her for a second longer than necessary.

  “You’re doing that thing.”

  “What thing?”

  “The ‘I saw something but I’m pretending I didn’t because I don’t want to alarm anyone’ thing.”

  Mallory forced a slight smile. “You’re dramatic.”

  “I’m observant,” Calathea corrected, then clapped her hands together. “So. Can I stay?”

  Mallory didn’t hesitate this time.

  “Yes.”

  Calathea froze mid-step. “Wait. That was too easy.”

  “You’re my sister.”

  Calathea’s expression softened for just a heartbeat.

  Then the grin returned. “Perfect. I’ll just take your room! The two sisters start laughing. Mallory narrows her eyes at Calathea. Okay, fine. I'll just take one with good natural light. And access to outlets. Actually, I might rewire half this place for fun. Eight hours from Columbus deserves a reward.”

  Mallory laughed quietly.

  Calathea’s energy filled the foyer quickly—bright, kinetic, unapologetic.

  The mansion did not welcome it.

  But it did not reject it either.

  It recalculated.

  Mallory glanced once more toward the corner.

  Nothing lingered there now.

  No density.

  No compression.

  But she knew what she had felt.

  Whatever resided within these walls had noticed the new presence.

  And it had not been pleased.

  Calathea, however, walked deeper into the house, already narrating renovation plans and electrical upgrades, her voice echoing confidently through rooms layered with older silence.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Her intuition wasn’t tuned the way Mallory’s was.

  Not yet.

  But blood remembers.

  And the mansion had just gained another Locklear.

  Calathea did not travel light.

  Within twenty minutes, the quiet gravel drive had become a parade of duffel bags, storage bins, a standing lamp she insisted was “non-negotiable,” and three cardboard boxes labeled in thick black marker: LAB, BOOKS, and DO NOT TOUCH.

  Mallory stood at the base of the porch steps, arms folded, watching her sister haul a plastic crate against her hip.

  “You said stay for the summer,” Mallory called. “Not relocate permanently.”

  Calathea adjusted her grip and grinned. “I don’t half-commit. You know this.”

  She passed through the tall front doors again, this time slower—careful not to clip the carved ribs with the corner of a box.

  Mallory felt it immediately.

  Not the compressed irritation from earlier.

  Something older.

  The same undercurrent that had greeted her the day she arrived.

  Layered. Aware. Assessing.

  It didn’t recoil this time.

  It leaned closer.

  Subtle as a breath drawn in.

  Mallory kept her face neutral.

  Inside, Calathea set her things in a loose circle in the foyer and exhaled dramatically. “Okay. That’s phase one. Now the sacred item.”

  She jogged back to her car and returned carrying a long, narrow wooden case wrapped in a faded quilt.

  She held it differently than the others.

  Carefully.

  Mallory straightened slightly. “What is that?”

  Calathea’s grin softened—not mischievous now, but proud.

  “Mom insisted I bring it.”

  She knelt on the foyer floor and unwrapped the quilt with deliberate hands. The fabric was worn thin in places, patterned with small stitched flowers that had faded from red to rust.

  Inside the wooden case lay a hand drum.

  The frame was dark wood, polished smooth by decades of touch. Rawhide stretched taut across its surface, laced along the back in a precise web of leather cord. The edge bore faint carved markings—simple, curved lines that mirrored nothing ornate, yet felt intentional.

  Mallory’s breath slowed.

  “That’s Nana Lela’s,” she said quietly.

  “Yeah.” Calathea ran her fingers gently along the rim. “Mom said Grandma gave it to her when she left home. And now it’s mine. Apparently I’m ‘responsible enough.’”

  She snorted softly at that.

  “Not the probate grandma,” Calathea added. “The real one.”

  Mallory nodded.

  Not the woman who had left her this mansion.

  Not that branch.

  This drum belonged to their mother’s grandmother. Blood carried differently. Lineage braided in ways the law did not recognize.

  The moment the drum crossed fully into the foyer—

  The air shifted again.

  Not darker.

  Denser.

  Like a second layer aligning over the first.

  Mallory felt it slide along her skin, not intrusive—curious.

  The same energy from her first arrival.

  The one that had not felt evil.

  Not benevolent either.

  Just… present.

  Waiting.

  Calathea stood and hoisted the drum against her hip. “Where do I put it? Somewhere dramatic? Or do we not do dramatic in the haunted rib-door mansion?”

  “It’s not haunted,” Mallory said automatically.

  Calathea raised an eyebrow.

  Mallory hesitated.

  “It’s just… layered.”

  “Layered?” Calathea repeated, amused. “What is this, emotional lasagna?”

  Despite herself, Mallory laughed.

  They carried Calathea’s things upstairs. She chose Bedroom Two—the brighter one, with dual windows and generous light.

  “Engineering demands vitamin D,” she declared, dropping her bag onto the bed.

  Mallory lingered in the doorway as Calathea began unpacking with chaotic efficiency.

  Textbooks stacked on the dresser.

  Laptop on the desk.

  A small soldering kit placed carefully beside it.

  The drum she set on the nightstand, not as decoration—but as anchor.

  “You’re staring,” Calathea said without looking up.

  Mallory blinked. “I am not.”

  “You absolutely are. You’ve been weird since I knocked.”

  “I just woke up.”

  “Mm.” Calathea crossed her arms and leaned back against the desk. “Try again.”

  Mallory looked away, toward the window.

  Outside, pine branches swayed faintly in humid air.

  She could still feel it—the subtle hum in the house’s bones. The awareness that had tracked her when she first arrived. It hadn’t flared when Calathea entered.

  It had steadied.

  Like something recognizing something.

  “I think the house just feels…” Mallory searched for language. “Occupied.”

  Calathea’s expression didn’t mock this time. It evaluated.

  “Occupied how?”

  “Not by something evil,” Mallory said quickly. “It doesn’t feel like that.”

  “Comforting,” Calathea muttered.

  “It feels old. Like it remembers things. And it’s… deciding what to do with me.”

  Silence lingered between them.

  Calathea stepped forward and nudged her shoulder gently. “Okay. First of all, that’s the most Mallory sentence you’ve ever spoken.”

  Mallory huffed a breath.

  “Second,” Calathea continued, softer now, “you’ve always felt things stronger than everyone else. That doesn’t mean they’re supernatural.”

  “I know.”

  “You used to refuse to go into antique stores because the ‘air felt loud.’”

  “It did feel loud.”

  “I’m sure it did,” Calathea said, but not dismissively. “And you were usually right about people before anyone else was.”

  Mallory’s jaw tightened.

  “I just don’t know what it is yet,” she admitted. “And that bothers me.”

  Calathea studied her for a long moment.

  “You don’t look scared,” she said finally.

  “I’m not. That’s the confusing part.”

  Because it wasn’t hostile.

  It hadn’t harmed her.

  It had watched.

  It had shifted.

  It had acknowledged.

  Downstairs, the house settled with a low, ordinary creak.

  Calathea tilted her head. “See? Old wood. Humidity. Robeson County weather doing its thing.”

  Mallory nodded slowly.

  Maybe that was all it was.

  But as they carried the last of the boxes upstairs, she felt the same presence glide faintly along the edges of perception.

  Not circling.

  Not retreating.

  Observing both sisters now.

  And when Calathea laughed—bright and unfiltered—the hum in the walls responded.

  Not displeased.

  Not pleased.

  Attentive.

  Mallory didn’t mention it.

  She never did.

  But something in the mansion had shifted again.

  Not beneath.

  Not above.

  Within.

  Calathea Locklear did not believe in leaving broken things untouched.

  It was the first rule she’d ever made for herself. Wires, circuits, strained transformers, dying outlets, glitching panels—everything had a reason for failing. And if it had a reason, it had a solution.

  The mansion was failing.

  Not dramatically. Not yet. But she could feel it.

  She had found her room hours ago—second floor, western wing, windows overlooking the pine stretch that leaned like watchful sentinels toward the gravel drive. The room felt stable. Grounded. The outlets were old but intact. The wiring hummed faintly behind the plaster, fatigued but serviceable.

  The rest of the house?

  That was another story.

  Calathea followed instinct the way some people followed prayer. And instinct told her two things:

  The house ran deeper than it appeared.

  Whatever was wrong with it started below.

  The basement door was tucked behind the kitchen corridor, partially concealed by a tall cabinet that likely hadn’t been moved in decades. She only found it because the air temperature shifted—two degrees cooler—and because she noticed the faintest vibration under her palm when she leaned against the wall.

  A hum.

  Electrical.

  But not from any system she recognized.

  She pushed the cabinet aside with more effort than expected and found the narrow wooden door beneath it. No lock. Just a simple iron latch.

  When she opened it, the smell hit her first.

  Stone. Earth. And something metallic—like overheated copper.

  The staircase descended into darkness, the light from above stretching thin and reluctant behind her.

  Calathea smiled faintly.

  “Of course you have a basement.”

  She grabbed her flashlight from her back pocket—always prepared—and stepped down.

  The air changed the further she descended.

  Not colder.

  Denser.

  The basement was larger than it should have been. Fieldstone walls reinforced with older brick. Wooden support beams thick as tree trunks. A breaker panel stood against the far wall, ancient but retrofitted at least twice in different decades. Wires ran along the ceiling like exposed veins.

  She approached the breaker box first.

  It was warm.

  Too warm.

  “Interesting,” she murmured.

  Behind her, something shifted.

  Not a sound exactly.

  More like pressure adjusting.

  If Mallory had been there, she would have recognized it instantly—the thinning. The soft place where the world stretched and loosened like fabric under strain.

  But Calathea was different.

  The entities that lingered in the basement stirred with a cautious hunger.

  They were older than the wood beams. Older than the stone. Older than the house itself.

  They did not rush.

  With ordinary people, they were patient. A whisper here. A reflection there. A gentle suggestion that something waited just out of sight. They liked the gradual unraveling. The slow surrender.

  They preferred fear steeped in confusion.

  Calathea gave them none of it.

  She crouched by the breaker panel and removed the rusted screws with steady precision. Her focus was clinical. Curious. Engaged.

  Behind her, the air shimmered.

  A faint distortion formed near the back wall—subtle, like heat rising from asphalt. The shimmer pulsed once.

  Twice.

  An invitation.

  A seam opening into the Median.

  They expected her to drift toward it.

  Instead, Calathea tilted her head.

  “Okay,” she said quietly, tapping the metal casing. “That’s not standard vibration.”

  The seam faltered.

  The entities shifted again, irritated.

  They pressed harder this time—not with force, but with suggestion. A flicker at the edge of her vision. A shadow where no object cast one. The sense of someone standing just behind her shoulder.

  Calathea straightened slowly.

  Now she felt it.

  Not fear.

  Interference.

  Her skin prickled as if static electricity brushed across it. The hairs along her arms lifted slightly.

  She turned.

  Nothing stood there.

  But the air looked… wrong.

  Like glass bent inward.

  The seam widened a fraction.

  Through it, something moved—indistinct and pale, as though submerged in dark water.

  The entities leaned closer.

  This one is bright.

  This one is warm.

  Take her gently.

  They tried again—this time altering sound. A distant voice echoing softly from the distortion.

  “Cal…”

  Not Mallory’s voice.

  But close enough to mimic comfort.

  Calathea frowned.

  “Nope,” she said immediately.

  The word was instinctive. Firm. Dismissive.

  The shimmer flickered violently.

  The entities recoiled.

  That wasn’t how this usually went.

  Humans leaned in.

  Humans stepped forward.

  Humans questioned themselves before they questioned the dark.

  Calathea stepped toward the distortion—not into it—but around it, examining the wall like it was faulty insulation.

  Her pulse remained steady.

  “You’re not electromagnetic,” she muttered. “You’re something else.”

  The pressure in the room spiked sharply.

  They pulled harder.

  Not enough to drag her physically. They could not do that. Not yet. Not without consent, without surrender, without gradual thinning.

  They tried to tug at her curiosity instead.

  The seam stretched wider.

  For a split second, the basement warped—and Calathea saw it:

  A version of the room shifted half a degree out of alignment. The stone darker. The beams older. The air filled with suspended ash-like particles drifting upward instead of down.

  The Median.

  The entities braced, waiting for her to step fully into it.

  But something else stirred.

  Deep within her.

  Not a power she wielded consciously.

  Not a spell.

  A recognition.

  Her bloodline did not bend easily to thresholds.

  It remembered doors.

  It remembered how to stand at them without crossing.

  The pull stalled.

  The entities hissed—not audibly, but in vibration. Frustration rippled through the walls, making dust shake loose from overhead beams.

  Why is she not thinning?

  Why does she not soften?

  They pushed once more—harder now, anger seeping into their restraint.

  The breaker panel sparked.

  A single bulb overhead burst.

  Darkness swallowed the basement.

  For half a breath, the seam flared brilliantly.

  Calathea’s heart jumped—not from terror, but from sudden awareness.

  Okay.

  That wasn’t wiring.

  She inhaled slowly.

  And something shifted inside her chest—not outward, but inward, like roots digging deeper.

  The distortion snapped shut.

  The pressure vanished.

  Silence.

  Complete.

  Her flashlight flicked back on as she lifted it, beam steady despite her racing thoughts.

  The basement looked normal again.

  Old.

  Still.

  Ordinary.

  But it wasn’t.

  Calathea stood very still for a long moment.

  “I don’t know what that was,” she whispered into the quiet.

  And for the first time since arriving at the mansion, uncertainty brushed against her confidence.

  She replaced the breaker panel cover carefully, though her hands were slower now.

  Measured.

  Thoughtful.

  As she climbed the stairs back toward the kitchen corridor, she felt it again—that subtle hum beneath the house.

  But now she knew it wasn’t electrical.

  Something in this mansion was alive in a way architecture should never be.

  And whatever it was…

  It had just realized she was not easy prey.

  Upstairs, sunlight still filtered through tall windows.

  Everything looked unchanged.

  But Calathea paused at the top of the basement stairs, one hand resting against the wall.

  The air here felt different now.

  Not hostile.

  Not welcoming.

  Aware.

  She exhaled.

  “Mallory,” she murmured under her breath, though her sister was elsewhere in the house, “what exactly did we inherit?”

  The house did not answer.

  But far below the foundation, something recalculated.

  And for the first time in a very long time—

  It was not entirely certain it would win.