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There is something in Will's house.
He tries to tell himself that it feels the same as when he first walked through it, but it’s a lie; on the day of the open house, all the windows were thrown open, inviting the warm breeze to drift through the walls. It smelled of fresh air and spring, and he had breathed it in deeply, standing in a living room painted gold by the dying sunset. And the bedroom was cloaked in a soft, downy gray by the drawn curtain. He had stroked the bedsheets and imagined himself tucking his laundry into the heather gray dresser across the room. And then he’d stood on the wraparound back porch, gazing out into the field as the season's first fireflies appeared. An empty barn, a dying tree, a little dirt path to the main road—and then, nothing. Maybe once it had been a pasture where the cattle would graze, but now the cattle were gone and the wildflowers were free to bloom. Will could see them just starting to bud, little dots of white and color speckled throughout the green.
It was everything Lee would have wanted.
It was perfect.
He’d bought the place with the last of what Michael had left him. By fall, it was his. There had been a delay as he moved his things from New York back to Texas, so he missed the wildflowers’ full bloom in the summer, but he wasn’t disappointed by the autumn colors on the old house. He was happy, in fact, in a hesitant, sickly way. He was almost excited.
It would just be him out here, and Chariot. No city lights and no night shifts. Just Will and the cat.
Yes, he thought. He was going to let himself be excited.
The first few weeks were something like ecstasy; he was a bit restless without the constant movement of the ER, and his dreams were often of Lee and Michael, but waking to the sweet smell of the field and the quiet sounds of wildlife made it easier. He would write his article, send it off, receive his check in the mail and strum at Naomi’s guitar until it was time to feed the cat or go to bed. Every other day Kayla or Austin would call to check on him and catch up. He met no neighbors, and forgot the smell of gasoline. It was so heavenly, he almost tricked himself into thinking he might take up gardening.
And then he saw the thing in the field.
He wants to say it was night time—that the cloak of darkness had made the stranger’s figure mysterious and unsettling—but the truth is worse: it had been broad daylight, and Will could clearly see its face.
He’d been passing the window in the second-story hallway with Chariot in his arms, cooing distractedly, when he saw a smudge of black in his peripheral vision. He turned his head and it turned its own. Will froze so suddenly that the cat jumped away and sprinted to the next room.
It stared at him, a splotch of darkness in the gold field. Will’s logic fought for control; this was just a boy, or maybe a young man—a neighbor, coming to finally greet the newcomer. It’s just a person, his brain supplied.
But it was a lie.
The wind picked up then, whipping the thing’s hair back from its face and Will saw its eyes. Big and round and so dark, pupils blown wider than any drug could accomplish, its sclera a thin white ring Will could hardly make out from this distance.
He stood at the window, stuck in place by a deep, primal rejection of the man in the field who was so thoroughly wrong—and then it moved.
It took a moment for Will to realize it, because the change was so small, but he could see it clearly now. The thing stared up at him with its black saucer eyes, and its lips parted. Will watched with morbid fascination as its mouth opened slowly and closed again, sometimes flashing tongue between its teeth.
It was speaking to him.
000
What he recalled next was stumbling away from the window long after dark. The thing must’ve been gone for hours, but Will didn’t remember taking his eyes off of it—just jolting with the realization that the sun had set and it was gone.
He remembered that Kayla had called him as per usual, and he told her that he thought he saw a neighbor in his yard and how strange the encounter was. Even then, his mouth went dry with anxiety, and he knew he was lying to himself. That thing was not his neighbor.
“Did you go and ask why he was standing there?” Kayla had asked, sounding as if she were talking with her mouth full.
“No,” Will said, “He just stared at me and said something—as if I would be able to hear him—and then I guess he just left.”
“You guess?”
“Well… yeah. He’s not there anymore, so—”
“But did you see him leave?”
Will frowned. “He’s gone,” he assured her. But his eyes drifted to the kitchen window, scanning the far off treeline.
000
The house didn’t feel the same.
He noticed it the next morning; he could smell the wildflower field as he woke, but the birds and crickets were silent. He was chilly in a way he hadn’t been since Michael passed away—like no matter how many blankets he stacked on top of himself, the tip of his nose and fingers remained icy. The soft, pillowy gray lighting of his bedroom now felt dull and lifeless.
The cat was what ultimately drove him out of bed.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Will chided softly, letting Chariot weave between his legs as they made their way down the hall. Depression aside, the cat needed breakfast. And, Will supposed, so did he.
It was easy to push down the gloom he’d grown used to when he had something he had to take care of. He’d been a good doctor for this, and when he couldn’t do that anymore, Naomi had brought him Chariot. “Eat when he eats,” she’d said. “Write when he naps. Clean up when he grooms himself. Just take care of him, and take care of yourself, okay?”
He could still feel her hand on his cheek. “Okay,” he’d said.
So he fed the cat and made some eggs.
The kitchen had always been a weak spot in the house; old fashioned and crammed into an odd corner, with no real room for a table. It connected to the living room in a funny, melted way; if Will was on the couch watching tv he could look to his left and see the fridge. There were no walls or islands separating the space. But he kind of liked the way it reminded him of the apartment he’d shared with Austin and Kayla, and he liked how open it was. He stood leaning on the counter, eating his eggs, staring straight through the living room and down the hall to the staircase.
And then someone descended them.
Will gasped, his plate slipping from his hands and shattering on the tile. The person stopped, midstep, halfway down the stairs.
Will panted, gripping the counter, scanning the intruder but unable to move. Black pants, black boots, arms too pale and limp at their sides—but the rest was obscured by the ceiling of the hallway. They stood perfectly still on one leg, the other extended to the next step, without startling or wobbling. Not as if they’d heard the plate crash and stopped—but as if they’d been paused, and was waiting for Will to hit play.
Slowly, Will reached for the knife block next to the stove. If some crazy person broke into his house while he was obviously home, he doubted they would hesitate to hurt him.
He jumped slightly at a chirp at his feet. Unaffected by the sound of the crash, Chariot was nosing at the eggs on the floor, and looking back up at Will with curious eyes. Will flicked his gaze back up to the hallway.
The person on the stairs was gone.
Will felt his breath hitch in his throat, snatching a knife from the block and spinning in his kitchen. “Whoever you are,” he shouted, “Get the fuck out of my house.”
Chariot leapt up on the counter, a chunk of egg in his mouth. Will gripped the knife and turned in a slow circle. “I have a knife and I’m fucking crazy. I’ll gut you. I’m serious.”
If there was any answer, Will didn’t hear it.
He scooped Chariot off the counter, snatched his phone up from next to the stove and bolted out the front door.
He ran barefoot through the grass and struggled to get his car door open with his full hands, Chariot protesting loudly to being jostled. Frustrated, Will chucked the knife back in the direction of the house with a grunt and forced the car door open. He dropped into the front seat, hit the lock, and punched the wheel.
Chariot jumped into the backseat with a disgruntled chirp. Will huffed.
“I just saved your life, asshole.”
He stared through the windshield at the front door, left ajar in his panic. He half expected some Michael Myers type to come stand in the threshold and peer at him with a weapon in hand—was Michael Myers the one who carried a chainsaw? Or was it a machete?—but the doorframe remained empty.
Will dialed 911.
000
Kayla and Austin facetimed Will for the entirety of the search. When the police ultimately found nothing, Will could see Kayla’s lip curl and brows furrow.
“They tore your house apart for an entire day for literally jack shit.”
“It’s okay,” Will told her. “Two officers are gonna stay behind for me. They’ll be right out there in a squad car.”
She didn’t look particularly soothed. Austin bumped her shoulder with his. “We should hang up,” he said. “Will is probably tired.”
He was, but his heart still thrummed with anxiety and ached with loneliness. For the first time, he regretted not having any neighbors.
After being promised another facetime in the morning and being bombarded with “We love yous” and “We miss yous,” Will told his old roommates goodnight. He shoved his hot, dying phone into his pocket, lifted Chariot into his arms, and turned to head up to his bedroom.
It was waiting for him at the base of the stairs.
Will shrieked, dropping the cat and stumbling backwards. He tripped over himself, falling onto his backside, and Chariot bolted away, disappearing past the figure and up the stairs. It tracked the cat with its eyes. Then they snapped back to Will.
Will clambered backwards on his hands, but the thing didn’t follow him; just watched, unmoving.
He stared back, his chest heaving and his palms slick with sweat. It’s just a person, his brain pleaded. But Will could see the thing with clarity now. It did look like a person; it wore black jeans and boots and a dark jacket, and had shaggy black hair that reached its shoulders. It stood somewhat casually, with its hands in its pockets—but stiffly, too, as if it had been in that position for a long time, and was growing uncomfortable.
And its eyes.
Will shuddered.
Its eyes were still all wrong.
Not a person, Will concluded, and bit down on his logic.
But whatever it was, it had found its way into his home, and Will was at its mercy. He hoped it wouldn’t go after the cat when it was done with him.
“What do you want?” he said, his voice small.
The thing didn’t answer.
Will swallowed thickly, feeling small under its gaze. He suddenly wished he’d called Naomi.
“You’re the thing I saw in the field yesterday,” he tried. “And on the stairs this morning. Why are you following me?”
Slowly, it blinked. Will marked this as the first time it did so. It looked unnatural.
Then its head shifted, sort of drooping to one side. It opened its mouth.
Will’s own mouth dropped open in shock. The thing tilted its head and let a stream of black liquid run from the corner of its lips. It pooled on the hardwood before slipping into the cracks in the floorboards; too slowly to be water, and almost thick enough to be syrup.
Will watched this and felt in himself that same primal rejection from before—the feeling that this thing was utterly wrong—but there was something else there, too. Perhaps it was only pity, but he couldn’t shake the thought that it looked so uncomfortable—almost like it was in pain.
The thing’s face didn’t change as the stream ran out, and it didn’t lift its head again. Will winced. Slowly, with his hands out, he made his way to his feet. “Are you here to hurt me?”
There was no response. Will was positive he was right: this thing was not a person. But maybe it wasn’t trying to pretend to be one, either.
Maybe it was just what was left of one.
“You said something to me yesterday,” he edged closer, back against the wall of the hallway. “You were trying… to tell me something? Right?”
The thing's eyes didn’t follow him as he closed the distance, just stared straight through the living room and into the kitchen. It still hadn’t lifted its head. Will could see through the pale skin of its neck to the blue veins underneath.
“What were you trying to say?” he urged.
When it didn’t answer him this time, he reached out to touch it.
The instant his fingers made contact with its clothes, it changed. He could see now that the jacket was brown and cracked with age, and the hallway was filtered in the same golden light Will remembered from springtime.
And the thing’s face was different, too.
“I’ll be out for a bit,” it said, “But I’ll come right back.”
“Wh—what?” Will said. He slid down the wall until he was seated on the floor. He could see the living room, bathed in daylight, and his furniture missing, replaced by older, more rustic pieces.
He heaved in a deep breath.
Above him, the thing—the boy? the young man?—sort of laughed, and he looked up at the sound. It was pretty.
“Don’t be dramatic, I’ll be fine,” it said, and Will was surprised by its voice, too; quiet and a little raspy, like he hadn’t spoken in a while. Sweet sounding in a sad way.
“That’s the point, isn’t it? I’m supposed to get more sunlight or something?” It sauntered forward through the hallway and scooped a bag from the floor. Then it turned and looked directly at Will.
Its eyes were dark brown and rimmed with long lashes, and blackened with dark circles, but soft. Will blinked. “Uh.”
The boy tucked his dark hair behind his ear. “You coming?”
Will was almost embarrassed by how quickly he wanted to say yes. “Where… where are we going?”
The boy kissed his teeth and rolled his eyes to the back of his head. “Suit yourself,” he groaned.
“Wait,” Will said. He clambered to his feet. “Wait, can you hear me? Who are you—where are you going?”
But the boy just leaned over to kiss someone who wasn't there, muttering goodbyes in a language Will didn’t speak. When the boy turned back to him, his hand was already on the doorknob. “Back in an hour, tops,” he said. “Bye, puppy.”
He slipped out and the door closed, and Will was back in his gray, empty home.
000
He’d spent the rest of the night sitting on the foot of the stairs, watching the front door. But the boy didn’t come back. The police officers that were stationed outside made their way in as the sun rose, asking how he felt and if he wanted to be alone. They said he could call again if he noticed anything strange.
Will just sent them away.
Chariot had wiggled into his lap at some point in the night before and now Will stroked him idly. He had thought it was strange, back when he first bought the house, that none of the locals wanted it. It was a beautiful home, remote enough for an older couple who wanted peace and quiet or spacious enough for a young family to grow.
But somehow, it was Will’s.
He should have known, he tsked. Nothing this gorgeous stayed on the market for as long as it did without a catch.
Will watched the front door, waiting for the catch to reappear.
000
There is something in Will’s house.
He closes his bathroom cabinet and inhales sharply—there it is again, standing at his reflection’s shoulder. There he is again.
He shows himself every few days or so, standing in doorways to vacant bedrooms or peeking up from behind the couch. One awful time, Will woke to him standing at his bedside. He had yelled at him not to do that, and he hasn’t since.
Will stares at the boy’s reflection. He tries to remember how his voice sounded, his laugh. All he can recall are black saucer eyes.
“I don’t know what to tell you, man,” Will says, and begins brushing his teeth.
He’s already tried reasoning with him. He told the boy that whoever he was living with before is gone now, and that this wasn’t his house anymore. It was Will’s. He said staying here wouldn’t bring the person back.
The boy just blinked in his slow, strange way and drooled another black puddle into the bedroom carpet.
Will sighed and walked away.
Sometimes walking away works. He’ll leave the room and the boy won’t follow him, and Will is free of him for a few days. But sometimes the boy is already standing in the next room Will walks into, as if he wasn’t just left behind. It’s extremely unsettling and slightly annoying, but the black stuff he drools always disappears and the cat doesn’t mind him, so for the most part, Will just tries to cope.
He has not told Kayla and Austin.
When he decided to move out here, they gave him those matching, pitying looks he’s always hated. “Are you sure being all alone like that will be good for you, Will?”
“Is this really the best option for you right now?”
“We just want to be there to support you.”
If he told them he had a new roommate and it was… whatever the boy is, they’d think he’d spiraled in his grief and lost his mind or something. They’d tell his mom, and then they’d all be there so fast he’d wouldn’t even have time to lock the door.
They could try to make him come back to New York, or worse, move back home with his mother.
Plus, he thinks as he spits down the drain, they’d probably scare the boy away.
Will sighs, gripping the edges of the sink and staring at the boy’s reflection. “Yeah,” he says, “I bet you’re shy.”
The boy blinks.
“That’s why it took you so long to show up, isn’t it?” Will continues. “Were you hiding from me? That’s kind of cute.”
He doesn’t respond.
Will sighs, steels himself, and spins with his hand raised, reaching out to him.
But the boy is gone, and Will missed another chance to touch him yet again. It’s like the boy knows, and doesn’t want to give Will any answers.
“I knew you were shy,” Will says to the empty bathroom.
000
The article he’d been working on is already shoved to the side, but Will pushes it even further away to make room for the newspapers he’s found. He’s googled his own address dozens of times now, but nothing of note ever comes up. He finally bit the bullet and made his way into town, aiming for the local library.
He found a few articles on this place, printed them all out and brought them back home. He probably wouldn’t find anything. He was still eager to try.
He wrote down everything he remembered from the first time he managed to touch the boy. He was living with someone, they were close enough to kiss, he called Will “puppy” (he tries not to be offended that he was the placeholder for a dog).
There was something else, too. Something about the placating way the boy spoke.
The other person was worried about him.
Will pours over the newspapers for hours, circling anything to note about the previous owners of the place. He found that back in the 30s it was built to a family named Levesque, and eventually they turned it over to their cousins, the di Angelos. That family lived in it for some generations.
The house had a rich history; both families enjoyed dabbling in the occult and so-called dark magic, claiming to see spirits and communicate with the dead, but it was just a business. They made their money on parlor tricks and ghost stories, and locals seemed to like them. It was lighthearted.
Will looks up at the boy standing in the corner. He rigidly steps halfway behind a lamp, and it flickers out.
“I can still see you, doofus. You might as well come out.”
Stubbornly, the boy doesn’t move.
Will rolls his eyes. “Suit yourself.” Then he sucks his teeth. “Oh, I mean—I didn’t mean to say that. I’m sorry.”
The boy’s head tilts.
Will clears his throat and glances down at his newspapers. “Uh, hey, do these names mean anything to you? Levesque? Di Angelo?”
He looks back up and startles. The boy is much closer now, having apparently moved silently from the corner to stand directly next to Will’s chair.
“Oh Jesus shit—Uh, yeah? You know them?” He points at a photo of the Levesque family, but it doesn’t seem right. Their attire is obviously dated; most likely very fashionable for the 1930s. The boy is wearing jeans. His dark eyes land on the photo, but he doesn’t move further than that.
Will hums. “Well, the last owners were di Angelos. You probably belong to them.” He rifles through the newspapers, but there are no more photos, and no obituaries, either. For a family so darkly inclined, they certainly didn’t focus on the death of their own much. Will sighs, slumping in his chair. “I’m sorry, dude. I really thought I was onto something.”
The boy blinks slowly at him, his pale hands limp at his sides. Will’s never seen them so close before. Blue veins run visibly under pale skin, and his nails are dark with decay.
He’s glad Michael and Lee are resting in matching plots back on the East Coast.
Will swallows around the lump in his throat. “I hope you can’t feel it,” he says softly. “It looks like it hurts.”
He wraps his fingers around the boy’s frigid hand and squeezes. Then he gasps at the sudden heat blooming in his palm.
“Bianca,” the boy says, softly, sadly. “I’m back.”
Will looks up at his face. The room is steeped in golden sunset, and the boy’s eyes are brown and soft and alive. They’re unfocused and heavy lidded, as if he was just woken from a deep sleep.
He drops Will’s hand and wanders into the hallway. Will stands to follow him.
He makes it through the doorway just in time to see the boy’s silhouette turn the corner. As he walks further down the hall, a woman begins to cry, her sobs resounding from the living room. He doesn’t want to see her—he knows that sound. Her grief is so loud Will can hardly remember his own.
He passes the window and glances out at the field, looking for the boy, hoping he will guide him outside, away from the weeping woman. He is not there—but the field is blooming with wildflowers, and Will’s stomach aches. The boy had died in the summer.
Will descends the stairs slowly, and the woman comes into view. Her hair is too long and dark for him to see her face, and she’s hunched into herself on the hardwood, wailing wordlessly. She manages to say a name once or twice; she’s crying for Nico. Then she yells something about her brother, and Will sits heavily on the floor.
There might be police officers present, and he thinks he hears a dog pacing anxiously, but all he can see and feel is the woman, their grief, and the shadow of a hand in his own.
000
Will’s forehead is pressed to the hardwood when he wakes, curled up and hugging himself around his middle. The house is cool and dark.
He looks up and sees a pair of boots directly in front of his face.
“Bianca,” Nico says, “I’m back.”
Will stares at his black eyes. “She’s gone, Nico.” His voice is hoarse and his throat feels scratchy. “Bianca doesn’t live here anymore.”
Nico blinks at the sound of his name. He tilts his head at Will, and for the first time, his expression changes. His brows furrow slightly, like he’s having trouble hearing.
“Where has she gone?”
Will is surprised—that he’s responding to him, that his face moves now, that his voice still sounds so pretty—but he tries to keep his tone level. “I don’t know.”
Nico moves around a bit—more than he ever has in the past. He fidgets with a ring on his finger. “I was only gone for an hour,” he whispers.
Will shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”
Nico fidgets a little longer, sniffs, and looks off into the living room. Then he sits with Will on the floor.
They stare at Bianca’s spot on the hardwood, and the sunrise turns the house gold.
000
There is something in Will’s house.
Perhaps Chariot doesn’t mind because he could always see him, Will thinks. He’s woken up to both of them curled on the other side of the bed, and the cat is purring against Nico’s back, as if he’s right where he belongs. Will guesses he is, in a sad way. It was Nico’s bedroom first. He doesn’t have the heart to push him out.
“I told you not to come in here while I sleep,” Will says. Nico shrugs one shoulder, and doesn’t turn to face him.
“You told me not to stand over you.”
Will sighs and gets up. It was Nico’s room first, after all.
He feeds the cat and makes some eggs.
Nowadays, Nico wanders from room to room quietly, sometimes following Will around, sometimes disappearing for a few hours. He’s always there lately, and every once in a while his appearance flickers to something happier, livelier than what he is now. Will doesn’t say anything, afraid that it will stop. He wonders if ghosts can heal.
He hopes so.
They’ve pieced together something like an explanation. Nico didn’t remember what he showed Will, but he did remember that he was sick. He suffered from seizures when he was little, and his illness suddenly came back when he was older. No one expected it, but his family quickly moved him to a quiet house they owned on the countryside. Away from city lights, they’d said. He remembered he had a support animal, a dog named Cerberus. He remembered he had a sister.
But remembering just that much made him tired and flickery. He was silent and drooly for the rest of the day. So Will doesn’t push him anymore.
He’s also resolved to absolutely never tell Kayla and Austin.
But he still gets his calls every other day, and he lets Nico listen in. It’s kind of nice to watch him react to the way the world keeps changing. He hopes it helps him feel a little less left behind.
Will sits in front of the tv while he eats, and Chariot comes and sits on the coffee table, eyeing his eggs. Will ignores him.
“I wonder why she didn’t stay,” Nico says; Will can see his fuzzy reflection sitting next to his on the tv screen. He sighs, poking at his eggs.
“It probably hurt too much.”
Nico’s reflection flickers. “I never wanted to hurt them. But I wish they stayed.”
Will feels that ache again. “I wish they did too.” He clears his throat. “But it’s not all bad. I know it’s not the same, but at least you have me and Chariot to talk to.” Nico looks at him, and Will turns to meet his gaze. He looks better today; he has little moles on his face and dark lashes, and his eyes are brown and soft. “Is that why you’re here, Will?”
Will almost shudders at the sound of his name in Nico’s pretty voice. He breathes deep, and despite it being mid autumn, he swears he can almost smell spring.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s why I’m here.”