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The house never really slept. Even when the lights were off and the world outside fell silent, Buck could feel it breathing around him—wood settling, pipes murmuring, faint scratches tracing the walls above his bed like restless fingers. He’d told himself it was just age, just the quirks of an old home.
One week in this place and he hadn't managed a full night's sleep yet. Not with the sounds that kept circling overhead. They’d started as soft scratching, then grew into dragging—something shifting its weight across the attic, pausing right above his bed. Once, he could’ve sworn he heard a whisper, breathy and low, like a voice caught behind the drywall. By the time daylight bled through the curtains, the silence felt worse than the noise, thick and expectant.
He threw off his covers and sat up, rubbing his eyes. The realtor had smiled that plastic smile of hers when she'd mentioned the house's "character", a euphemism for the sagging porch steps, the temperamental hot water heater, and the floors that creaked with every footstep.
“Character, my ass,” Buck muttered, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he sat there for a moment, rubbing a hand over his face.
He shuffled to the bathroom, flipped on the light, and winced at his reflection. Dark circles had bloomed under his bloodshot eyes, his skin dull and sallow. This wasn’t how a fresh start was supposed to look. After the breakup with Tommy and Bobby’s funeral, he’d found himself adrift. With Eddie moving back to Los Angeles and his old apartment already gone, buying a house had seemed like the logical next step. A way to plant roots again. To start over.
Instead, he'd traded one kind of haunting for another.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Maddie's name flashed across the screen with a FaceTime request. He sighed and accepted.
"Hey, Mad—"
"Jesus, Buck, you look like shit," Maddie's voice crackled through the speaker. She was already dressed for work, her hair pulled back neatly.
"Good morning to you too," he said, sitting on the edge of his unmade bed.
"Did you sleep at all?"
He shook his head. "The noises started up again. Worse this time."
"Ah," Maddie nodded sagely, "the ghost strikes again."
When Buck didn't crack a smile, she frowned. "Come on, you told me you thought it was squirrels when I helped you unpack last weekend. Remember?”
"I don't know what it is anymore." Buck ran a hand through his hair. "But it's driving me crazy."
“Okay,” Maddie said softly. “You’ve been running on empty for months, Buck. Maybe it’s not the house keeping you up, maybe it’s everything you’ve been trying not to feel. It catches up, you know? Try to rest.” she said with big-sister finality. "I gotta run to work, but text me later, okay?"
After the call, Buck stayed sitting for a while, phone still in his hand. The house creaked above him again, just once, as if answering. He told himself it was nothing—old beams, shifting air, but his chest felt tight anyway. Coffee would help, he decided. Coffee and daylight. He could survive another day.
---
By evening, he'd settled on the couch with his laptop, some wildlife documentary droning in the background as he typed "animal noises in attic" into the search bar. The results led him down a rabbit hole—squirrel behavior patterns, humane removal methods, local exterminator reviews. He was about to call the top-rated company when a link caught his eye: "LA County Property Records."
Curiosity piqued, he clicked. Thirty minutes later, he'd found his address in the database and was scrolling through its history, past owners, and—
"Shit," he whispered, leaning closer to the screen.
There on the screen, staring back at him in stark black text, was a police report dated fifteen years ago. A man named Gareth Winters, age 67, had been found dead in the master bedroom—Buck's bedroom, after neighbors reported not seeing him for weeks. Natural causes, the report said, but Buck couldn't tear his eyes away from the detail that the body hadn't been discovered for nearly a month.
A man had died alone in his house. In his bedroom. And laid there, decomposing, for weeks.
Buck's stomach churned. He slammed the laptop closed, suddenly feeling like the walls were watching him. The beer he'd been nursing turned sour in his mouth.
"It's just a coincidence," he muttered to himself. "People die in houses all the time."
But the thought of sleeping in that bedroom tonight made his skin crawl. He paced around the living room, trying to shake the feeling of invisible eyes tracking his movements. When he finally settled back onto the couch, he reopened his laptop, determined to find something, anything, that would ease his mind.
He dug deeper into county records, searching for any other incidents at his address. The house had been built in 1937. Six owners before Gareth Winters. Nothing unusual jumped out until—
A sharp, sudden thump from above made him jolt. Then another. Something heavy dragged across the ceiling.
Buck froze, heart hammering against his ribs. The documentary's narrator droned on about migratory patterns while whatever was upstairs continued moving. He muted the TV, straining to listen. The scratching sound returned, more frantic now, followed by what sounded like footsteps pacing back and forth.
"Hello?" he called out, immediately regretting it. What was he expecting, for a ghost to politely respond?
The noise stopped and the silence that followed was somehow worse.
Buck grabbed his phone, thumb hovering over his contacts. Who could he even call? Eddie would tell him he was being ridiculous, that old houses made noises, and Buck needed to get a grip. Maddie would worry, probably insist on driving over despite her early shift tomorrow. Chimney would follow Maddie's lead but secretly think Buck was losing it.
Then there was Tommy. They weren’t on the best terms, not really, but Buck knew if he reached out, no matter the hour, Tommy would answer. He always had.
CRASH!
Something heavy had fallen in the attic and Buck leapt to his feet, nearly dropping his phone. His pulse pounded in his ears as he stared at the ceiling, half-expecting it to cave in.
"Screw it," he muttered, scrolling to Tommy's name in his contacts. His thumb hovered over the call button. Pride warred with fear, but another series of scratches from above decided for him.
"This is stupid," he muttered to himself. "He probably won't even answer."
The last time they’d spoken had been at Bobby’s funeral. Everything about that day had been raw—too many tears, too many words said through the haze of grief. A particularly loud thump from upstairs made the decision for him.
Buck pressed call before he could change his mind.
The phone rang four times. Five. Six. Buck was about to hang up when the line clicked.
"Evan?" Tommy's voice was thick with sleep.
"Hey." Buck's throat suddenly felt dry. "Uh. Weird question—you ever dealt with a... haunted house?"
A pause. “Haunted?” Tommy’s voice was gentler now, still rough with sleep. “Evan, what’s going on? Are you okay?”
“No, I’m…” Buck swallowed, staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. I keep hearing things. It’s probably nothing, but I just…” His voice cracked before he could stop it. “I can’t do another night like this.”
Tommy exhaled quietly. “It’s almost midnight.”
“I know.” Buck pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have called. I just…” He let out a shaky laugh. “I didn’t know who else would actually pick up.”
For a long moment, Tommy didn’t speak. Buck could hear the faint rustle of sheets, the soft scrape of a lamp switch. When Tommy spoke again, his voice was warm, anchored.
“Text me the address,” he said. “I’ll be there in forty.”
Buck’s breath hitched—half relief, half disbelief. “Tommy, you don’t have to…”
“I know,” Tommy said quietly. “But I’m coming anyway.”
Buck closed his eyes, the tightness in his chest easing just a little. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice rough.
---
Thirty-eight minutes later, Buck was sitting on his front porch steps, a heavy-duty flashlight clutched in his hand, when Tommy’s truck pulled into the driveway. The headlights swept across the yard before cutting off, leaving them in the blue-dark of early morning.
Tommy climbed out, the gravel crunching under his boots as he approached. The porch light caught on the curve of his shoulders, casting him in a soft amber glow. He looked exactly the same—broad-shouldered, steady, that faint shadow of stubble catching the light when he glanced up. Seeing him there in the hush of the night made Buck’s chest ache in a way he wasn’t prepared for.
"So," Tommy said, approaching the porch. "Ghosts, huh?"
Before Tommy could say anything else, Buck launched into the story. "I did a deep dive on the house's history. “It belonged to a man named Gareth Winters who died in my bedroom," Buck explained, his voice cracking slightly. "They didn't find his body for almost a month." He shivered despite the warm night air.
Tommy's mouth quirked. "This is starting to sound like the Billy Boil incident all over again."
Heat crept up Buck's neck.
Buck groaned. “Don’t start with that.”
Tommy leaned one shoulder against the porch post, crossing his arms. “You brought to the firehouse a real corpse, Evan. A mummified outlaw. And then spent a week convinced he cursed you.”
“That was different,” Buck said quickly, though the memory flickered in the back of his mind like a projector reel. The smell of dust and decay. The way the arm had come loose in his hands. The feeling that something unseen had followed him home.
Tommy raised an eyebrow. “You named him.”
“I didn’t name him,” Buck muttered. “He already had a name. Billy Boils.”
That name still made his skin prickle. He hadn’t thought about Billy in months, not really. But standing there on his own porch, with something scratching in the walls and the same electric weight in the air, it came rushing back. The same bone-deep certainty that something lingered.
He remembered sitting up late in his lazy boy, while Tommy slept. Back when the “curse” had him breaking out in boils and spiraling. He’d read everything he could about William James McCurdy—the gunslinger covered in boils, betrayed by his own crew, left to rot in the desert until his body hardened into a legend.
What struck Buck now, standing in the glow of his porch light, was how Tommy had never once ridiculed him during that whole Billy Boils fiasco. When everyone else had treated it like a joke, Tommy had shown up for him. He'd helped Buck research curse-breaking rituals. He'd even stood beside him at that ridiculous mini-funeral they'd held, watching solemnly as Buck gave a eulogy to put Billy's spirit to rest.
"You know," Buck said softly, "you never made fun of me for that. You took me seriously.”
Tommy's teasing smile faded. "For what?"
"Billy Boils. The curse. The funeral. All of it." Buck swallowed hard, throat suddenly tight. "Everyone else just laughed it off, but you... you just showed up. Every time."
The night air seemed to still between them. Tommy looked down at his boots for a moment, then back up at Buck.
"Yeah, well." He shrugged one shoulder. "You believed it was real. That was enough for me."
Something warm unfurled in Buck's chest. All these months of silence between them, and here was Tommy at midnight, ready to hunt ghosts or squirrels or whatever the hell was in Buck's attic.
"I’ve missed you," Buck said before he could stop himself. The words hung in the space between them, honest and raw.
Tommy’s expression shifted—surprise first, then something gentler. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he said finally, voice low. “I’ve… missed you too. Kinda hard not to.”
The confession settled between them, quiet but alive, like the house itself was listening.
Tommy cleared his throat, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “So, uh, are we gonna check out these haunted squirrels or what?”
Buck nodded, grateful for the shift. "Yeah…Yeah, let's go." He pushed the door open, leading Tommy inside. The house seemed to hold its breath as they entered, the scratching noises momentarily silent.
They stood in the entryway, listening. The house creaked and settled around them.
"Where's the attic access?" Tommy asked, voice hushed as if he didn't want to disturb whatever might be listening.
Buck pointed to the ceiling of the hallway. "Pull-down ladder. Right above us."
Tommy reached for the cord dangling from the trap door. The moment his fingers touched it, the scratching started again. It was a frantic, desperate scraping that seemed to echo through the entire house.
They froze, eyes locked on each other.
"Alright, there’s definitely something up there…" Tommy whispered.
Buck's heart hammered against his ribs. "Told you."
Tommy's hand tightened around the cord. "On three?"
Buck nodded, gripping his flashlight like a weapon.
"One... two..."
The scratching intensified, as if whatever was up there knew they were coming.
"Three."
Tommy yanked the cord, and the attic door swung down with a groan of hinges, the ladder unfolding toward them like a skeletal hand. A puff of stale air rushed down, carrying with it the unmistakable smell of decay.
A wave of nausea hit Buck as the smell washed over them. He instinctively stepped back, covering his nose with his sleeve.
"Jesus," Tommy muttered, grimacing. "What the hell is that?"
Buck aimed his flashlight up into the darkness. The beam cut through dust motes swirling in the air but revealed nothing beyond the first few rungs of the ladder. His pulse throbbed in his ears, nearly drowning out the scratching that had momentarily paused when the door opened but now resumed with renewed vigor.
"I'm going up," Tommy said, already reaching for the ladder.
Buck grabbed his arm. "Are you crazy? We don't know what's up there."
Tommy gave him a look that was painfully familiar, that mix of exasperation and fondness that had once been the cornerstone of their relationship. "That's why we're checking, Evan"
"At least let me go first." Buck tightened his grip on the flashlight. "It's my house."
Tommy hesitated, then nodded, stepping back to give Buck room. The first step onto the ladder sent a shudder through the old wood. Each creak as he climbed higher seemed impossibly loud in the quiet house. The scratching intensified, now accompanied by a soft chittering sound.
As Buck's head breached the attic floor, he swept the flashlight beam across the space. Dust particles danced in the light, and the air felt thick and stagnant. The roof peaked about six feet above the plywood flooring, creating a cramped, triangular space that extended the length of the house. Cardboard boxes were stacked in one corner, remnants from the previous owner that hadn’t been cleared out.
The beam of light caught a pair of reflective eyes.
Buck's breath caught in his throat. The eyes didn't move, just watched him with an unnatural stillness.
"Tommy," he whispered, unable to look away from those gleaming orbs. "I think there's—"
The thing lunged.
A blur of motion, faster than Buck could process. He caught only a glimpse—matted fur, bared teeth, those terrible eyes—
"AHHHHHH!" he shouted, throwing his arms up to protect his face. The heavy flashlight base slammed into the attic floorboards with a crack! that echoed through the house. A jagged fracture split across the plaster below, dust and splinters of wood raining down through the gap.
“Evan!” Tommy’s voice rang up from below, sharp with panic. “What the hell was that? Are you okay?”
Buck coughed, waving dust from his face. “Yeah! I—uh—I think I just punched a hole in my ceiling!”
“Jesus Christ,” Tommy barked. “Are you hurt? Did something bite you?”
Buck adjusted his grip on the flashlight, still breathing hard. “No, no bite! Just...hang on!”
He steadied the light, heart thundering, and swept it across the shadows. That’s when he saw them—two tiny points of reflected light staring back at him from the far corner of the attic.
“Tommy,” Buck whispered. “There’s something up here.”
“Don’t say a ghost,” Tommy warned immediately. “I’m begging you.”
The eyes blinked, and Buck adjusted the flashlight. A large gray squirrel sat frozen in the beam, its tail twitching nervously. Behind it, movement drew Buck's attention to a corner where insulation had been torn away from the wall. A small hole, perhaps the size of a softball, had been gnawed through the exterior siding.
And through that hole, more eyes reflected the light—five, six, seven pairs, all staring back at him.
"It's squirrels," Buck said, relief washing through him. "A whole family of them."
He pulled himself fully into the attic, crouching to avoid hitting his head on the rafters. Tommy followed, his face appearing through the opening, brow furrowed with concern.
"Be careful," Tommy warned as he joined Buck in the cramped space. "Wild animals can be dangerous if they feel cornered."
The largest squirrel—presumably the mother, chattered angrily at them, positioning herself between them and what Buck now realized was a nest. Inside, tiny pink bodies squirmed blindly.
"Babies," Buck whispered. "That's why they've been so active. She's got babies up here."
Tommy knelt beside him, his shoulder brushing against Buck's.
"Your ghost is a mama squirrel," Tommy said, a smile in his voice. "Guess we know why the scratching got worse. She's probably been gathering materials for the nest."
Buck should have felt foolish, calling his ex-boyfriend at midnight over some squirrels—but instead, a laugh bubbled up from his chest. It felt good, the first real laugh he'd had in this house. Maybe the first since Bobby's funeral.
"I feel like an idiot," he admitted.
Tommy's eyes crinkled at the corners. "You wouldn't be the Evan I know if you didn't occasionally jump to the wildest conclusion possible."
The words hung between them, charged with everything left unsaid. The Evan I know. Present tense. As if the months of silence hadn't happened. As if they still belonged in each other's lives.
The moment stretched, taut with possibility, until the mother squirrel chattered again, breaking the spell.
"We should get out of here," Tommy said, his voice softer now. "Stress isn't good for the babies. You'll need to call wildlife removal tomorrow, someone who can relocate them humanely."
Buck nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from Tommy's face, half-illuminated in the glow of the flashlight. "Yeah. Tomorrow."
They climbed down one at a time, careful on the ladder. When they reached the floor, Buck stared up at the jagged hole where the flashlight had punched through the ceiling. A ring of plaster dust covered the hallway floor like frost.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Add that to the list, I guess.”
Tommy followed his gaze. “What list?”
Buck gave a tired laugh. “The porch steps. The water heater. The floors that won’t shut up. Now the ceiling. The house is… a mess.”
Tommy studied him for a long beat, something thoughtful behind his eyes. Then, softly, “I can help with that. All of it.”
Buck blinked. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” Tommy said. “But I want to." A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Fresh start, right?”
Buck’s breath caught. He nodded, trying for casual and failing. “Yeah. Fresh start.”
Tommy stepped closer, close enough that Buck could feel the warmth of him, smell the faint trace of bodywash on his skin. “I’ll bring supplies Saturday,” Tommy said quietly. His mouth curved into something small but sure, though there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. “You can take me to dinner after.”
Buck’s brows lifted, a rush of heat crawling up the back of his neck. “Dinner?”
“Yeah,” Tommy said with a faint grin, but it wavered, like he wasn’t sure if he’d pushed too far.
Buck hesitated, heartbeat quickening, the question catching somewhere between nerves and hope. “Like… dinner-dinner? Or…” He trailed off, then forced the words out before he could lose his nerve. “Like a date?”
The question hung between them, fragile and uncertain.
Tommy blinked, the grin fading into something softer. His shoulders shifted, as if fighting the urge to look away. For a moment, he looked like he might deflect, but then his expression steadied—open, honest, a little unguarded. “If you want it to be,” he said quietly.
Buck’s breath caught, the warmth in his chest rising all the way to his face. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough but sure. “I think I do.”
Tommy’s smile deepened just a little, shy around the edges. “Then it’s a date.”
They stood there for a long moment, the house around them quiet, expectant. For once, the silence didn’t feel heavy. It felt like possibility.
Tommy nodded toward the door. “Saturday, then.”
“Saturday,” Buck echoed, smiling now.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The house seemed to listen, every creak and shadow holding still. Buck’s voice finally cut through, quiet and aching. “Tommy...”
Tommy looked up, and whatever Buck had meant to say vanished under the weight of that gaze. All the air seemed to thin between them. Buck didn’t even remember leaning in, just the familiar press of warmth and the tentative brush of lips.
It wasn’t deep, or desperate. Just a moment that felt like breathing for the first time in months. When they finally parted, Tommy’s hand lingered against Buck’s jaw, thumb ghosting over the corner of his mouth.
“Saturday,” Tommy said again, voice roughened.
Buck nodded, heart thudding. “Saturday.”
Tommy hesitated, as if wanting to say more, then stepped back and crossed to the door. The porch light haloed him in gold as he looked over his shoulder. “Get some sleep, Evan.”
Buck managed a small, dazed smile. “I’ll try.”
When Tommy left, the door closed softly behind him. The house exhaled and the scratching above resumed, faint and harmless now—a mother squirrel tending her nest.
Buck stood there for a long time, fingers brushing his lips, the ghost of the kiss still warm on his skin. The house wasn’t fixed. Neither was he. But maybe, come Saturday, both could start to be.