Archive of Our Own

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The sky hung over Monroe in a pale haze that morning, the kind that made everything look softer, quieter. The school bus idled down the block, its engine humming low as a cluster of chattering kids huddled near the door, their voices muffled by scarves and half-awake energy. Laughter mixed with the sound of rustling jackets and zippers, the occasional squeak of sneakers on damp pavement.  

Ed and Lorraine Warren stood a few steps away from the sidewalk, arms folded against the chill. They watched as Judy, their daughter, lingered near the curb—backpack slung over both shoulders, coat zipped up to her chin, a folded piece of paper clutched tightly in her hand.

“You’ve got your lunch?” Lorraine asked, brushing a bit of lint from Judy’s shoulder. “Permission slip?”

Judy nodded quickly. “Yeah. Right here.” She held up the paper like proof, her expression unusually serious.

Lorraine smiled, but it faltered for just a second. “You sure you’re okay, sweetheart? You’re awfully quiet this morning.”

“I’m fine,” Judy said. Her voice was soft, almost rehearsed. She glanced toward the bus, then back at her parents, her lips pressing into a tight line. “It’s just weird, I guess. I’ve never gone this far without you guys before.”

Ed stepped in, putting a gentle hand on her back. “That’s normal. But trust me, you’re gonna have a great time.” He knelt a bit, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “Besides, I heard there’s a snack machine and a gift shop. That’s the dream, isn’t it?”

Judy cracked a small, reluctant smile.

Lorraine leaned down and kissed her on the temple. “Stick close to your teacher, okay? And don’t be afraid to ask questions. You love history.”

“I know,” Judy said. “I will.”

The bus let out a low groan as the doors folded open. Kids began shuffling on board in pairs and small clusters, their voices rising in excitement. Judy took a deep breath and turned toward it.

She climbed the steps slowly, then paused at the top. She looked back at her parents again, a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. Lorraine offered a reassuring wave, and Ed flashed her a thumbs up. Judy gave a little nod, then disappeared inside the bus.

The doors hissed closed. Within seconds, the engine growled louder, and the vehicle pulled away from the curb, tires rolling over wet leaves and gravel.

Lorraine watched it go, her arms folded tightly. “She looked more nervous than usual.”

Ed squinted after the bus, then glanced at her. “Well, it’s her first time going off on a school trip like this. It’s a big deal for a kid.”

Lorraine begant to fiddle with one of the rings on her finger, an anxious habit.

“She’ll be fine,” Ed said, slipping his arm around her shoulders. “She’s smart,” Ed quipped, “Like her mother.”

Lorraine exhaled a quiet laugh, her gaze lingering down the middle school’s parking lot after the bus had vanished. “I just hate not being there. I know she’s growing up, but…”

“I know, hon.” Ed said, his voice low and warm. “But she’s gonna do great. And we’ll be right here when she gets back.”

Arms clasped around each other, they stood for a moment in the parking lot, still and quiet in the sleepy morning light.

---

Judy climbed onto the bus and felt the blast of warm, recycled air hit her face. The bus was already noisy—kids jostling for seats, digging through backpacks for snacks, shouting to one another over the rows. She paused at the front, scanning for an open space. A few girls from her class looked up as she passed, then returned to their conversations without a word.

She kept walking, past the chattering clusters of classmates and the kid who always kicked the seat in front of him, until she found a bench near the back—empty, quiet. She slid into it, pressed her backpack against the window, and curled slightly toward it like a buffer.

The engine rumbled louder as the bus pulled away from the curb. Trees slid past the window, leafless and bare in the late-autumn chill. Judy rested her head against the cool glass, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders. Her eyes felt heavy. She hadn’t slept much the night before, too busy imagining everything that could go wrong. What if she got lost? What if no one talked to her? What if she said something weird again and people laughed?

The motion of the bus was oddly soothing, though—the subtle sway, the vibration beneath her seat, the muffled hum of conversation all around her. Before long, her thoughts began to blur. The worries loosened, drifting like smoke. Her eyes fluttered closed.

---

Judy jolted awake as the bus lurched to a stop, 

Her cheek had left a faint print against the window. She blinked rapidly, momentarily disoriented. The voices around her were louder now, energized, excited. Someone shouted, “We’re here!” and backpacks began rustling in a frenzy.

Judy sat up straighter, wiping her sleeve across her face, trying to shake the heaviness of sleep. Outside the window stood a wide, two-story colonial house, weather-worn and pale, surrounded by crumbling stone walls and half-dead trees. A crooked wooden sign read: Talcott Hollow – Revolutionary War Encampment and Museum. Below it: Est. 1774.

A long gravel path wound up to the front door. Beyond the house stretched open land—fields lined with skeletal trees, rows of simple gravestones, and a distant slope where faded tents had been reconstructed for historical demonstrations.

The bus doors creaked open.

One by one, students began filing out, stepping into the cold air with exaggerated groans and shouts. Judy slung her backpack over one shoulder and followed them.

The air outside bit at her cheeks. Her sneakers crunched over gravel as she caught up to the group, who were already gathering in a loose half-circle around their teacher, Mrs. Cartwright.

“All right, everyone!” Mrs. Cartwright called, clapping her hands for attention. “This site was used as a field hospital during the war, and parts of the original structure are still standing. The curators are going to walk us through the main house, the grounds, and some reenactments. Remember, be respectful, ask questions, and no wandering off.”

A boy in the front row whispered something about ghosts. Another one giggled.

Judy stood toward the back, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her breath came out in small, pale clouds. Something about the air felt…off. Like it was too still. Not just cold, but quiet in a way that pressed against her ears. She shook her head and told herself she was just tired. Everything always felt weird after a nap.

As the rest of the class shuffled up the porch stairs of the Talcott Hollow house, Judy lingered just a moment longer on the gravel.

A sudden gust of wind stirred the branches above her, rattling the brittle leaves still clinging on, and something made her glance toward the graveyard.

At first, she wasn’t sure what she was seeing.

Beyond the cluster of headstones—gray and cracked with age—there was movement. Not the twitch of wind in the grass or the sway of trees. Figures. Faint, almost transparent. There were two of them, standing still near the far edge of the cemetery. They looked like people, but… not exactly. There was something off about the way they stood. Rigid. Heavy. 

One of them turned, slowly, as if sensing her gaze.

Judy blinked hard and rubbed her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket. When she looked again, the figures were gone.

Her heart thudded. Maybe she was still half-asleep. Maybe it was a weird trick of the light, or—

“Judy?” Mrs. Cartwright’s voice called from inside the house. “Come on in, please.”

She swallowed and stepped across the threshold.

The class gathered inside as a tour guide—an older woman in period costume—opened the heavy front door of the house and waved them in. Inside, it was dim and creaky, the floorboards groaning under dozens of sneakered feet. The smell hit her right away: wood polish, dust, and something else beneath it—something sour and old.

Judy trailed behind the group, her steps slow. She touched the wall as she walked, her fingers grazing the uneven plaster. For a split second, it felt warm beneath her skin, like someone had touched the exact same spot moments before.

She pulled her hand away.

“This house served as both an officer’s quarters and a makeshift infirmary during the winter of 1777,” she explained, leading the students into a narrow front hallway. “Soldiers were brought here after the Battle of Ridgefield. Many of them didn’t survive the journey.”

Judy stayed near the back of the group, walking slowly. Her eyes flicked to the uneven floorboards, to the faded paintings on the wall, to the wide wooden staircase that twisted up into the second story like a spine.

She could hear her classmates whispering, some of them giggling, others already bored. A boy near the front tried to peek into a closed-off room before being gently redirected by the guide.

They entered what had once been the dining room. The table was low and long, with mismatched chairs on either side. On the far end, someone had set the table with pewter plates and dull silverware, like the meal had only just been cleared away.

Judy's eyes kept drifting to the windows. The sun was still out, but the clouds had thickened, and the light filtering through the old glass had gone sallow. Yellow and watery. Sickly.

The guide continued speaking—something about a letter written by a young soldier on his deathbed—but Judy wasn’t really listening.

There it was again.

That feeling. That tightening behind her ribs. Like she was being watched.

Her gaze flicked toward the hallway they’d just come from.

There, by the edge of the staircase, stood a man.

At least—she thought it was a man. He was tall, dressed in a tattered Revolutionary uniform. His skin was pale—no, gray—and his eyes were sunken, almost hollow. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared straight at her.

Judy’s breath caught.

She turned her head, blinked once, twice.

Gone.

A small gasp escaped her before she could stop it. It wasn’t loud—barely more than a sharp inhale—but in the hush of the old house, it echoed just enough to draw attention.

Mrs. Cartwright turned from where she stood near the fireplace. “Judy? Are you alright?”

Judy froze, suddenly aware of half a dozen heads turning to look at her.

Her heartbeat was still racing, but the man—if he had ever been there—was gone. Just a trick of the light. A weird shadow. Maybe she was tired. That’s all.

“Yeah,” she said quickly, nodding. “Sorry. Just… cold in here.”

Mrs. Cartwright gave a polite, distracted smile and returned to the guide’s explanation about 18th-century rations.

Judy dropped her gaze to the worn floorboards and bit the inside of her cheek.

The group moved into the next room—a parlor with a large stone hearth and thick wooden beams stretching across the ceiling. Everything looked faded and heavy with age, from the deep red rug beneath their feet to the oil portraits hanging crookedly on the walls. The room had a strange stillness, like the air didn’t move quite right inside of it.

“This,” the tour guide said brightly, reaching beneath a glass case set off to the side, “was used for food preparation. A common household tool of the time.” She lifted out a small pestle and mortar, its surface dark with rust and time. “We believe this one belonged to one of the women who lived here during the war. Her name was Sarah Talcott. She was known for making herbal salves for wounded soldiers.”

She looked around at the students with a grandmotherly smile. “You’re welcome to take turns holding it, if you’d like. Carefully, of course.”

The kids lit up at the idea of touching something so old. One by one, the pestle was passed from hand to hand. Most just held it for a second before passing it along—some pretending to bang it like a gavel or whispering jokes behind their hands. Judy waited silently, trying not to fidget.

When it came to her, the weight of it surprised her.

It was cold. Too cold. Much colder than metal should’ve been in a heated room.

And then something hit her—not physically, but all at once. A rush. A sensation. Sorrow, thick and cloying. A sense of dread so heavy she felt her chest tighten.

Images bloomed behind her eyes: a wooden floor stained dark, hands shaking as they ground herbs, someone crying—not loudly, just the kind of quiet, aching sobs that didn’t stop for hours. Blood. So much blood.

Her fingers went numb.

The pestle slipped.

She barely managed to keep hold of it, but her grip faltered just long enough for it to tip from her palm—only to be caught by the boy standing next to her.

“Whoa, careful,” he muttered, handing it back to the guide.

Judy was already pulling her hand back like she’d been burned.

“Miss Warren,” Mrs. Cartwright said sharply. “Let’s be respectful. These artifacts are irreplaceable.”

Judy swallowed, her throat dry. “Sorry. I—” Her eyes dropped to her hand, the one that had held the object. It tingled faintly, like it had fallen asleep. “I think I cut myself. Can I… get a band-aid or something?”

Mrs. Cartwright sighed but nodded toward her tote bag near the door. “There’s a first aid kit in my bag. Be quick.”

Judy walked stiffly toward the bag, her fingers still curled into her palm. She found the band-aids easily and peeled one open with trembling hands. The other kids had already moved on to the next part of the room, laughing at some weird colonial expression the guide had just used.

She stared at her hand as she pressed the band-aid into place.

No blood. No scratch. Not even a mark.

But it still hurt. Not sharply—just a dull ache, like the bone underneath remembered something the skin didn’t.

She exhaled slowly.

Something was wrong with this place. And she was the only one who could feel it.

The tour moved onward, the group clustering in the narrow hallway that led to the staircase.

“This way, everyone,” the guide called, her voice gentle but firm. “Now, I know many of you have been eyeing the staircase and wondering what’s up there. I’ll explain.”

The children gathered at the base of the stairs, their heads tilted up. The wooden staircase was steep and narrow, the edges worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. At the top, a hallway extended just out of view, lit only by a single shaft of dusty light.

“There are several rooms on the second floor,” the woman continued, folding her hands in front of her. “Bedrooms, mostly. Some were used as makeshift infirmaries during the war. But unfortunately, the upper level can’t support large groups, and due to preservation rules, we don’t allow tours up there. Only staff and preservation workers are permitted, and even then, very sparingly.”

A soft ripple of disappointment moved through the group, but she smiled, undeterred.

“However,” she added, “we can take a walk down to the cellar. It’s just beneath the main parlor. It was used as a storage area for supplies, food, and at one point—though briefly—as a holding space for captured soldiers.”

That sparked some renewed excitement, and the group shifted, following her through a heavy wooden door that groaned open to reveal a narrow stone staircase. The air spilling out from the cellar was noticeably cooler, and Judy shivered.

She hesitated before following the others down. Something about the cellar felt… weird , like the air was thicker there—like it didn’t want to be breathed.

Still, she straightened her back and stepped forward.

“Aww, is somebody scared of ghosts?” someone whispered sarcastically behind her.

She turned her head and gave a tight smile. “It’s just colder down here. That’s how cellars work, you know.”

“I think it’s haunted,” a boy in the middle of the pack said, making spooky noises under his breath. A few others laughed, nudging each other. One girl grabbed her friend’s arm and squealed as a joke.

Mrs. Cartwright cleared her throat sharply. “Enough. This is a historical site, not a Halloween maze.”

The group sobered slightly, though a few chuckles still echoed as they began the descent.

Judy lingered closer to the front, where the guide walked slowly down the stairs.

The steps creaked beneath her sneakers, and she tried not to flinch at the way the air seemed to wrap around her ankles like something crawling up from the dark. She swallowed hard, then raised her voice as they descended.

“Have you ever felt… I don’t know—uncomfortable in the house?” she asked.

The guide turned slightly, clearly surprised by the question, but not displeased. “That’s a very thoughtful question. Thank you. The answer is: occasionally . These old homes have their moods, just like people. Sometimes, especially when I’m closing up alone, I’ll feel a bit unsettled. But that’s natural. History lingers in places like this. The walls remember.”

Judy nodded slowly, her stomach knotting.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the stone floor was uneven and cold beneath their feet. The basement was low-ceilinged, with old barrels and shelves lining the walls. Rusted hooks protruded from beams above, and an iron gate stood closed at the far end, barring access to a darker corridor that stretched into shadow.

“This section was built in 1777,” the guide explained, stepping carefully over a spot where the stones had shifted. “There were rumors that the family who lived here occasionally took in wounded soldiers on both sides, though only one survived more than a day. He was buried here on the grounds.”

The class was quiet for once, the weight of history settling around them like dust.

Judy’s fingers curled tighter around the strap of her backpack. She could feel it again—that strange pressure, like the room was watching her. 

The walls seemed to lean inward. Somewhere behind her, she swore she heard the soft drag of movement—something like cloth brushing stone, or bare feet padding over earth.

She glanced back, but no one was there.

Her breath caught in her chest.

Maybe it was just the cold.

The guide’s voice floated toward her again, calm and practiced. “Some of the original shelves are still here,” she said, gesturing toward a series of bowed wooden planks lining one wall. “They would’ve stored dried meats, grains, even medicinal herbs. That barrel, for example, held salted pork during the winter months.”

Judy tried to focus on the words. But her heart was thumping faster. Her eyes drifted toward the far end of the cellar—the shadowed corridor behind the locked iron gate.

And then—

A whisper.

She couldn’t understand the words, but it was unmistakable—low, urgent, almost pleading. 

The sound seemed to slip just beneath her hearing, like it lived in the space between moments.

She flinched, looking around wildly. No one else reacted. No one else heard it.

Her knees felt weak. Her skin prickled as if the air itself were trying to press into her. Her breathing came faster now, short and shallow.

Something moved again—just in the corner of her eye. A flash of grayish cloth. A face?

She gasped, stumbling backward and nearly knocking into the girl behind her.

“Hey, watch it,” the girl muttered, frowning.

Judy’s hands trembled. She couldn’t seem to pull enough air into her lungs. Her backpack felt too heavy. The room was too close to everything. 

All of a sudden, the door to the cellar shut. The kids began to panic, Judy held her backpack in front of her face, in case the faces showed up again.

Then, a flicker. Warm golden light quickly illuminated the space, chasing back the gloom.

“Most people back then used torches to get around,” the guide said cheerfully, gesturing toward an old gas lantern mounted to the wall. 

“No need to be afraid of the dark, everyone,” she added with a smile.

Judy froze, wide-eyed, as the light swept across the room. The pressure that had been pressing down on her chest slowly began to ease. She blinked several times, her lungs still fluttering with uneven breath, but the shadows had stopped moving. The cellar felt like a room again, not a trap.

The guide noticed her pale face and softened. “Sweetie,” she said gently, tilting her head, “are you okay?”

Judy nodded quickly, even as she tried to steady her breathing. “Y-yeah. I’m okay. Just… just got dizzy.”

“Come on, she’s totally scared of the dark,” one boy whispered behind a cupped hand, snickering. “What is she, six?”

Another kid laughed, “Maybe she saw a ghost.”

Judy turned red, her lips pressing into a line.

“ BOO! ” the kid behind her shoulders yelled, to which she didnt respond.

“That’s enough,” Mrs. Cartwright said sharply, frowning at the group. “There’s nothing funny about someone not feeling well.”

The guide gave Judy a kind look, then turned to the others. “Alright,” she said gently, “let’s get some fresh air. The next part of the tour is outside in the yard.”

Grateful for the change, Judy followed the group as they began climbing the cellar stairs. She took one last glance over her shoulder before leaving the cellar behind.

Outside, the sun had risen just high enough to warm the tips of the tall grass that swayed beyond the low wooden fence enclosing the historical site. The class gathered in front of a makeshift platform where a group of reenactors dressed in Revolutionary War garb readied themselves to perform. A man in a tricorn hat raised a musket with exaggerated flourish, and a few students groaned audibly.  

"Seriously? We’re watching a play?" one boy whispered, clearly unimpressed.  

Another chimed in, “Bet they spent all morning gluing that wig on.”  

The teacher, arms crossed and already tired, hissed, “Enough, class.”  

Judy stood quietly at the edge of the group, arms folded, gaze drifting from the stage to something else—something farther. Beyond the performers and the fence behind them lay a patch of overgrown land, and just past that, the graveyard.  

They stood—still, unmoving—among the crooked headstones. Some were dressed in plain, dark colonial garb, faded with time or imagination, their faces smudged and featureless from the distance. One looked directly at her, though she couldn't see eyes, just a sense, a weight.  

She blinked. Once. Twice. Harder the third time, until her lashes stuck together and a tear prickled at the corner of her eye.  

Still there.  

She wrapped her arms tighter around herself. Her stomach twisted—like something inside her was waking up and recoiling at the same time. She gagged, knowing it would be too embarrassing to throw up on a school field trip. Especially in middle school .

“You okay?” a girl next to her asked, but not unkindly.  

Judy offered a nod, eyes darting between her, the stage, and the graveyard.  

The tour guide reappeared with a cheerful clap of her hands. “Alright, class! I hope you enjoyed that little performance. Now, if you’ll follow me, we’ll be heading through the cemetery for a bit of colonial history—and perhaps a peek into the stories that don’t make it into textbooks.”  

A few kids perked up at the word “stories,” but most groaned. Still, the line formed and the group began walking through the small iron gate that led into the graveyard.  

As they entered, the air seemed to change. Not colder, exactly—but heavier. Quieter. Even the wind seemed to hush.  

The headstones were old and moss-covered, some tilting dangerously to one side, others so weathered the names were nearly gone.  

“Here lies Samuel Ashcroft,” the tour guide began, motioning to a thick, rectangular stone with a faded carving at the top. “Founder of this town, all the way back in 1692. He settled here with his wife, Mary, and established the first trading post. They say he was a fair man, but his wife… well…”  

The class shifted.  

“She was..accused of witchcraft,” the guide continued, her voice lowering just enough to sound conspiratorial. “Whether the accusation was real or just small-town paranoia, we may never know. She was hung not far from here. Samuel was buried next to her years later.”  

She gestured to a thinner, crooked stone beside his. The name “Mary Ashcroft” was barely legible.  

Judy stared. Her heart had begun to race again. The figures from the distance had followed them, or perhaps they had never left.  

She looked behind her, over her shoulder, and could still see the one who had locked eyes with her earlier. Closer now. Too close.  

Another stood just behind Mary’s headstone. Its outline shimmered slightly, as if it weren’t entirely here.  

She wanted to scream, but nothing came out. Her fingers clenched in the sleeves of her coat. Her feet stayed rooted.  

The tour continued.  

“And this--” the woman said, leading them further to a crooked plot nearly hidden by vines, “--is perhaps the most curious grave on the grounds. No name. No inscription. Just a date. 1777.”  

The students huddled a bit closer.  

“There are theories, of course,” the guide added with a small smile. “Some say it was a soldier, others say it was the town’s mayor, everyone has their interpretations…”  

Judy froze.  

The basement. The dark cell. That feeling from before, still buzzing beneath her skin, now surged up her spine. Her chest tightened, and she let out a small whimper without realizing it.  

Then she saw him.  

A figure—taller than the others, looming behind the grave—watching her. Only her. His face was half-shadowed by a tricorne hat, his coat a deep red, and where his eyes should’ve been, there was just black.  

Something snapped in her.  

A ragged, frightened gasp tore from her throat and she turned and ran—sprinting past the tour group, nearly knocking over a boy, her hands over her ears like she could block it all out: the whispers, the humming, the unbearable heaviness of what she didn’t understand.  

“Judy? Judy!” the teacher called after her, but she didn’t hear.  

She ran until she reached the small line of port-a-potties near the house. Wrenching the plastic door open, she threw herself inside and slammed it shut behind her.  

Darkness.  

She collapsed onto the seat, curled forward, her fingers trembling as they pressed over her ears, her eyes squeezed shut.  

But even here, even now—she knew they were still watching.  

Monroe, CT

The black-and-white glow of the television lit the living room in flickering pulses, casting long shadows across the carpet. Bernard Herrmann’s screeching strings filled the space as Janet Leigh stepped into the infamous motel shower.

Ed and Lorraine sat curled up on the couch together, a bowl of popcorn between them. Ed, ever the enthusiast for classic horror, was completely absorbed. Lorraine, meanwhile, had her arms folded tightly across her chest, eyes darting toward the screen only occasionally.

“This movie never bothered you?” she asked, flinching slightly at the sudden violin stab that accompanied the blade.

“It’s a masterpiece,” Ed replied, grinning. “Besides, it’s all psychology. No ghosts. No demons. Just a guy with some serious mommy issues.”

Lorraine gave him a sideways look. “I still think it's unsettling. Maybe that’s why. It’s too real.”

Before Ed could respond, the phone rang.

They both jumped a little—timing is everything when it comes to Hitchcock—and Ed reached over the side table to grab the receiver.

“Warren residence,” he said.

“Mr. Warren?” The voice on the other end was tight and professional, but clearly concerned. “This is Mrs. Cartwright—I’m Judy’s teacher.”

Ed’s brows drew together immediately. “Yes, of course. Is she alright?”

“She’s not hurt,” Mrs. Cartwright rushed to clarify, “but she had an…episode. A panic attack, we think. She ran off during the cemetery tour and locked herself in the restroom. I’m so sorry to bother you, but I think it would be best if someone came to pick her up.”

Lorraine was already watching Ed’s face, her breath caught in her chest.

“We’ll be there as soon as we can,” Ed said, already reaching for the keys. “Thank you for calling.”

He hung up and looked at Lorraine, who didn’t need to ask—her coat was already in hand. “She’s not okay,” she said, her voice trembling.

Ed gave a quick, grim nod. “I’ll drive.”  

Talcott House - Ridgefield, CT

The air inside the port-a-potty was stifling. Hot plastic and chemical cleaner, the faintest trace of rot. But it was safer than out there. It was the only place Judy could think to run.  

She’d slammed the door shut behind her and locked it with shaking hands, sinking down to sit against the blue plastic wall. Her breath came in sharp, shallow bursts. Her heart felt like it was punching its way out of her chest.  

“Leave me alone ,” she whispered, fists clenched at her temples. “Just go away—leave me alone—leave me alone—leave me alone.”  

But the images wouldn’t stop. She could still see them. The woman in the dark cloak. The grave with no name. The screaming in her ears that hadn’t been part of the tour. Her skin crawled. Her stomach twisted.  

“I’m not evil,” she sobbed under her breath. “I’m not—I’m not being possessed- ” Judy trembled at the possibility. She didn’t know much about her parents work, but what she did know about possession was that it’s life-threatening. And that terrified her.

The door shook behind her as someone knocked. “Judy?” came her teacher’s voice, tight and anxious. “Judy, it’s okay. Can you come out now?”  

Judy didn’t answer. She buried her face in her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks.  

“Judy, please. Everyone’s worried. You're safe, okay? No one’s mad at you.” Another knock. 

That was a lie. She could still hear the other kids bickering, not close, but not far either.  

“Did she actually scream or was I imagining that?” one whispered.  

“She’s such a weirdo,” someone muttered.  

Judy pressed her hands tighter to her ears, rocking slightly, repeating to herself, I’m not evil. I’m not evil. I’m not evil.  

Some Old Road in CT

The car tires screeched slightly as Ed rounded a curve, his hands gripping the wheel like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.  

The countryside flew past, a blur of fields and darkening leaves on the trees, none of it registering.  

“We should’ve known better,” he muttered, jaw tight. “A historical site. Full of death, pain, trauma. What were we thinking?!”  

“She’s never had a reaction like this before,” Lorraine said, her voice caught between breathless worry and disbelief. “Maybe—maybe it’s not what we think. Maybe she is just overwhelmed.”  

“She’s our daughter,” Ed snapped, not at her, but at the road, at himself. “She’s always been sensitive. Even as a baby. I remember she used to cry when we walked past certain rooms in the house.”  

“She said it was colder in her closet at night,” Lorraine whispered, almost to herself. “I used to tell her it was just drafts.”  

Ed looked at her, briefly, the horror in his eyes unspoken but mutual.  

Lorraine unfolded the map from the glove compartment with trembling hands, her fingers fumbling to find the highlighted route back to the town.  

“I should have gone with her,” she said. “I should have known better. What if she’s seeing things—”  

“If she’s seeing things,” Ed cut in, “then we handle it. We’ll explain it to her. We’ll help her the same way we help everyone else.”  

“But she’s twelve , Ed,” Lorraine whispered, her voice breaking. “She’s twelve and she probably thinks something’s wrong with her. And I—I just didn’t think it would start this soon.”  

The speedometer ticked higher. Ed’s knuckles were white.  

“Neither did I.”  

Lorraine wiped at her eyes quickly and traced her finger across the map. “Take the next left. It should cut through the valley and bring us right to the site.”  

Ed nodded silently, jaw set. 

---

Inside the cramped port-a-potty, Judy curled further into herself, her forehead pressed to her knees, the stink of the space barely registering anymore. Her sobs came softer now, not because she felt better—but because she was running out of strength. Her throat ached. Her eyes stung. Everything was spinning.

She reached under her shirt, fingers trembling, and closed her hand around her silver locket. The one that matched her mom’s that she had been given as a little kid.

She squeezed it so tightly her knuckles went white.  

“Please,” she whispered.  

Her voice was hoarse. Barely audible.  

“ Please come get me. ”  

The tears welled up again, hot and helpless.  

“Mom, Dad... please. Please come get me.”  

She stared at the door, but it didn’t move. Nothing did. Just the wind rustling the trees outside, the distant drone of the reenactment still going on like nothing had happened.

“They’d know,” she whispered desperately, voice cracking. “They’d know what’s happening to me. They’d know how to stop it.”  

She clutched the locket tighter. Rocking slightly. The words jumbled between heaping sobs.

I just want to go home. I don’t wanna be possessed. Please come get me.   

---

Tires screamed against gravel.  

The old car skidded into the dirt lot like it had been fired from a cannon, coming to a halt just short of a “ Parking for Staff Only” sign. Ed barely hit the brake before throwing it into park and leaping out, Lorraine right behind him, her heels crunching into the gravel.  

Heads turned.  

“Whoa,” one kid muttered, eyes wide. “Is that Judy’s dad?”  

“Are they wearing matching clothes? ” someone else chuckled. 

“Oh my god,” a girl snorted. “No wonder she’s so weird.”  

Some snickered. Some just stared.  

“Ugh, imagine being such a baby you need your mommy and daddy to rescue you,” a boy said too loudly.  

“Maybe she is possessed,” someone joked. “That’d explain a lot.” A wave of laughter swept across the children.

But Ed and Lorraine didn’t hear them. Or if they did—they didn’t care.  

They spotted the teacher instantly, hovering nervously near the port-a-potty, wringing her hands.  

“She won’t come out—she’s been in there for half an hour, I tried to—”  

But Ed instantly brushed past her without a word, Lorraine right beside him, their pace unrelenting.  

He knocked once—firmly.  

“Judy. It’s Dad.”  

A pause. Then a whimper from inside.  

Ed’s voice gentled, barely hiding his panic. “It’s okay, sweetheart. We’re here. Open the door.”  

It creaked open a second later.  

And Judy collapsed into their arms.  

No hesitation. No filter. Just everything pouring out of her at once—the tears, the shaking, the soundless sobs that wracked her body.  

Lorraine sank down to her knees in the dirt, wrapping her arms around her daughter, rocking her gently.  

“I’ve got you,” she whispered. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”  

Ed hovered close, a hand on Judy’s back, eyes scanning her face. His own expression wavered somewhere between fierce protectiveness and heartbreak.

“I think i’m losing my mind,” Judy sobbed into her mother’s coat. 

Ed looked over his shoulder, eyes narrowing slightly as some of the kids kept watching. He said nothing, but the set of his jaw said back off .  

Lorraine smoothed Judy’s hair. “You’re not alone in this, honey. We’re going to help you. Just breathe.”  

Ed crouched down beside them, a hand on Judy’s shoulder. “We’ve got you now, kiddo.”  

And slowly—like the tightest knot beginning to loosen—Judy let out a shuddering breath, and nodded.

Judy’s breaths came in shallow bursts, her sobs having dulled into quiet gasps, like the air around her was too thick to take in fully. Lorraine kept holding her, whispering soft nothings, her hand rubbing slow, even circles on Judy’s back. Ed held her backpack, eyes on the horizon, alert—but steady. Protective.

Judy finally pulled back just enough to look at her mother, her lashes wet, her cheeks blotchy. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she whispered.

Lorraine shook her head, brushing a strand of Judy’s now tangled up hair behind her ear.“Nothing is wrong with you, sweetheart.”

Judy sniffled, wiped her nose on her sleeve, and leaned her head onto her fathers shoulder.

After a quiet moment, Lorraine spoke again, her voice low and soothing. “...Do you want me to see if the place really is haunted?” she asked. “We can check together. And if something’s here… Dad and I will make the scary things stop.”

Judy hesitated—then gave a tiny, tearful nod.

Lorraine kissed her forehead. “Okay. Then let’s take a look.”

The wind had calmed when they rose to their feet, Judy sandwiched between her parents, her hand firmly in her mother’s and her father’s palm on her shoulder.

The teacher stood back as they walked toward the main building. Ed offered a kind smile on their approach, his voice quiet and warm. “We’re sorry for the disruption. Our daughter’s had… episodes like this before. Nothing dangerous, just a little too much excitement sometimes.” He muttered casually.

The teacher’s brows furrowed, clearly concerned. “She seemed really frightened.”

“She was,” Lorraine said softly. “I mean, we weren’t aware you’d be taking children through a real cemetery .” She glanced toward Judy, then back at the teacher. “Would it be alright if we took a quiet walk through the house before you close things up? Just the three of us.”

The teacher nodded, still uncertain, but recognizing something she couldn’t quite place in Lorraine’s presence. “Alright. Take your time.”

The veil was thin here. Old memories hung in the corners like cobwebs, waiting for someone sensitive enough to touch them.

They moved slowly through the entryway, then the parlor—Ed staying close, always keeping an eye out.

Lorraine knelt in front of Judy. “You felt something earlier, didn’t you? Before the cemetery.”

Judy nodded. “It felt like… like there was something in the walls. In the basement. And the grave. I could see them… the people. The shadows.”

“You saw spirits,” Lorraine said gently. “And you didn’t imagine it.”

Judy’s throat tightened. “But I didn’t want to see them. I didn’t ask to.”

“I know,” Lorraine said. She smoothed Judy’s hair back, looking into her eyes. 

Judy looked down. “So…I’m like you?”

Lorraine exhaled slowly. “...Yes. This gift… it runs in us. And it’s not just something that happens to you, Judy. It’s something you learn to use.”

Judy shifted, uncertain. “How do I stop it from hurting me?”

Lorraine offered her hand. “Come with me. Let’s start small.”

Together, the three of them walked slowly through the first floor—Lorraine helping Judy name what she was feeling.  

“That heavy feeling in your chest?” she whispered. “That’s the house’s memory. Old pain. People who never found peace.”  

Judy nodded, listening, trembling a little—but steady on her feet.  

“That cold spot by the window?” Lorraine guided her hand toward it. “That’s where someone once waited, long ago. Maybe for news. Maybe for someone who never came back.”  

Ed stayed close, letting them move at their own pace, ever the shield. He didn’t rush, just kept his hand near his daughter’s back whenever she looked like she needed grounding.  

When they reached the threshold of the basement again, Judy hesitated.  

Judy stared at the basement steps, breath held. Lorraine gently squeezed her hand. Ed stood on her other side.

“You don’t have to go down there,” she said softly. “It’s okay.”

Judy nodded, eyes still fixed on the stairwell.

Lorraine took one cautious step down, as if to show her daughter it was safe—but the moment her foot touched the stone, her body jolted.

A wave of cold pressure slammed into her chest. Not just a presence. A warning.

She sucked in a sharp breath, her hand flying to the railing as her knees buckled slightly.

Ed was beside her in an instant, helping her up. “Lorraine—?”

She shook her head slowly. “It’s strong.”

Judy looked between them, panic starting to return.

Ed stepped forward, steady and calm. “Alright. I don’t think any of us should be going down there.”

He gently turned the girls around and led them back up, away from the heaviness, toward the warmth and fading late-afternoon light.

The gift shop was quaint—wooden shelves stacked with hand-stitched bookmarks, postcards, and locally made jam. Judy chose a small obsidian pendant shaped like a star, while Ed picked out a T-shirt that said *Historic Talcott Hollow Tour* with a corny drawing on it. Lorraine bought a leather-bound notebook, already thinking Judy could use it to write down what she feels, when she’s ready.

The car ride home was quieter.

Judy sat in the back, fingers tracing the edge of her new pendant. Her body felt lighter, but her mind was tangled.

She looked out the window for a while before speaking. “Everyone at school’s gonna think I’m crazy.”

A long pause. Neither of her parents responded at first. Then Lorraine exhaled deeply and turned in her seat, her voice gentle. “I know how that feels.”

Judy glanced up.

“I was younger than you when it started,” Lorraine continued. “And I thought something was wrong with me, too. But it wasn’t. And it’s not with you.”

Judy’s eyes welled a little, but she blinked quickly and looked down.

“It’s okay to be scared of what people think,” Lorraine said. “It’s even okay to feel embarrassed. But no matter what anyone else says…”

Ed reached over and squeezed Lorraine’s hand. She turned back around in her seat, and the two of them glanced at Judy in the rearview mirror.

“…we’ll always be a family,” Ed finished. “Always.”

Judy smiled softly, eyes still shiny. “Thanks,” she murmured. “For… everything.”

Ed grinned and glanced at her in the mirror. “Anytime, kiddo.”

Lorraine reached her hand back between the seats, and Judy grabbed it, holding tight.

That night, the house was calm. Moonlight streamed faintly through the sheer curtains of Judy’s bedroom, casting soft silver lines across the floor.

She sat on her bed in her pajamas, legs crossed, the leather-bound notebook resting in her lap.

For a moment, she just looked at it.

It felt heavier than a normal notebook, like it carried something sacred. Something important. But this time, not scary.

Her fingers brushed the smooth cover, and she opened it to the first page.

A deep breath.

She picked up her pen and began to write:

Today was really scary. But also… maybe important? I saw things I didn’t understand. Things no one else could see. For a minute I thought something was wrong with me. Like I was broken. Or bad.

But Mom said it’s a gift. And she has it too.

Dad didn’t say it, but I could tell he was proud of me. He looked at me like I did something brave.

I don’t know what this gift really means yet. Or why I can see things other people can’t.

But I’m not alone.

I have Mom and Dad. And I think that’s enough to start with.

She paused, tapping the end of the pen against her lip. Then, with a little smile, she added:

Also, that cemetery was creepy. 0/10 would not recommend. But the gift shop was nice.

A quiet giggle escaped her, light and real.

She set the notebook on her nightstand, clicked off the lamp, and lay back against her pillows. The locket around her neck was warm against her chest.

Judy inhaled deeply—her room smelled faintly of lavender and laundry detergent. Her sheets were cool and crisp. She could hear her parents talking softly downstairs, their voices a comforting hum.

She focused on that—on the warmth, the safety, the stillness.

She wasn’t cursed.

She was loved and protected.

As her eyes fluttered closed, Judy whispered softly into the dark:

“Goodnight, Mom. Goodnight, Dad.”

And then, for the first time in a long time, she drifted into sleep without fear.