Then—
Something cold, smooth, and distinctly unwelcome wrapped around my waist.
"GAH! What now!?" I screeched, swatting blindly like a cat in a bath.
It coiled tighter, yanking me—no, yanking all of us—backward into the shadows like a horror movie's idea of a group hug.
Maria screamed. Ronette shouted, "No tentacles, please!" And I just flailed helplessly, torn between feeling rescued or insulted.
The stone floor vanished beneath us as we were slurped—yes, slurped—into a narrow crevice in the wall. The last thing I saw before the darkness swallowed us whole was the Whisper Man, still eerily still, still calm, as the ceiling caved in above him.
A final, massive slab of stone crashed down where we'd been.
BOOOOM.
Then—silence.
Real, honest silence. The kind that usually follows disaster… or a failed magic trick.
I coughed. Everything hurt. My ribs felt like they'd been used as xylophone keys in a demon marching band. My limbs screamed like they'd been personally offended.
"Ouch…"
My voice was a whisper. A tiny, injured whisper.
I tried to sit up and immediately regretted every decision I'd ever made.
"Ow ow ow ow ow ow ow."
It was like all my internal organs had gone on strike—and sent a very strongly worded letter about it.
I sniffed dramatically. "Please don't let me have any broken bones. I'm too young to hobble around with a cane."
I turned my head, which felt like dragging a bowling ball with my neck muscles. Ronette was sprawled beside me, out cold. One sock was missing. His hair stood on end like a failed science experiment.
'He's not dead, right?' I thought, mildly concerned.
I gave him a few gentle slaps. Then not-so-gentle ones.
"Ronette. Hey. Wake up."
"Mmmf. Go away… spider…"
My eye twitched.
"Spider?" I muttered, fists tightening. "If I weren't this injured, you'd be airborne right now."
Before I could make good on that thought (or find a trumpet), a shadow fell over me.
Maria.
She stood above me like a dramatic painting, hair wild, eyes glassy, smiling like someone who'd just seen the light at the end of the tunnel and waved at it.
"You're alive," she said with a relieved grin.
"Yup," I managed to say, wincing. "Thanks to whatever yanked us out of there."
Maria raised her arms triumphantly. "Oh! That was Hannah. Hannah saved us!"
"Hannah…?"
Before I could ask more, something big—no, massive—moved beside her.
It didn't walk.
It slid.
I looked up.
And up.
And up.
My neck creaked in protest, but I had to see the whole thing. Slowly—hesitantly—I tilted my head back, eyes climbing inch by inch until they reached the top.
And then I saw it: a wide, hooded head, dark beady eyes locked on me, and a tongue flicking out with slow, deliberate menace—like it was taste-testing the air... or maybe just deciding if my soul would pair well with red wine.
I blinked once.
Twice.
A third time, just in case I was hallucinating.
Finally, my brain processed what was in front of me—despite every cell in my body hoping it wouldn't.
'Ah. A cobra.'
'A giant cobra.'
'A literal nightmare noodle the size of a delivery truck, glistening and majestic in the most terrifying way.'
My brain made a soft pop.
Soul: attempting emergency evacuation.
And then I fainted.
Hard.
I could almost hear my soul exiting, dragging a suitcase and muttering, "Nope. We're done here."
And just before consciousness slipped away, one last thought crossed my mind:
'Come back here, you chicken-hearted ghost! Ain't no snake can hurt a soul—but they sure can chew on a physical body!'
A few moments later, I realized my back was resting on something soft.
'Soft… and oddly warm.'
'And it smelled nice—like lavender and sugar cookies.'
Still half-conscious, I shifted slightly and turned my face into it.
'Ah. This is what heaven must feel like.'
Silence settled around me.
Peaceful. Serene.
'...'
'...'
'...'
'Wait... This is...'
I pushed myself up on trembling arms.
"Déjà vu!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, as if yelling it would make the universe explain itself.
Sure enough, I was back in our room.
Same bookshelves. Same dust. Same faint smell of ghost sweat and disappointment.
I turned to the side—and there he was. Ronette. Blissfully asleep, mouth slightly open, hair defying gravity in several directions, as if the trauma hadn't so much as nudged him.
'Ronette's here too.'
'... Wait! What about Maria and the cobra.'
I glanced around the room, scanning every shadow and corner.
'No Maria. No snake.'
Just the usual haunted silence and an ominous hum from the ceiling light that might've been plotting something.
Sitting up properly, I crossed my legs like a professional disaster survivor and rubbed my chin in deep, dramatic thought.
"What happened after I fainted…?"
The silence refused to answer.
Typical.
I flopped onto my back and stared blankly at the ceiling. My brain, still sore from existing, tried to convince me everything had been a bizarre, overcooked dream.
"Was that all a dream?" I mumbled, not even convincing myself.
I stretched lazily.
Big mistake.
A white-hot jolt of pain shot down my spine, through my limbs, and exploded in every nerve like tiny, vengeful fireworks.
"AAACCKKKK!!!"
My body spasmed into a rigid arc before curling up like a terrified shrimp. I rolled into a tight ball, sniffling as I blinked away involuntary tears. I now understood the life of a sushi roll on a spiritual level.
I lay there, shivering slightly, gazing at the ceiling as if it held answers. But all it held was silence.
Then—bit by bit—the memories returned.
Not like a gentle slideshow.
No.
Each moment slammed back into my mind with full cinematic violence: the fog, the Whisper Man, the airborne teacups, Mr. Woo's relentless cane, Ronette's furniture war, Maria's butterknife rebellion, the giant cobra.
Twitch.
Every time I remembered a hit, a chase, or a terrifying whisper, my body involuntarily twitched. A chorus of prickles ran along my limbs like pins had joined a parade.
I sniffed hard, my bottom lip jutting out.
"It wasn't a dream at all," I said to no one in particular, voice small and full of betrayal.
And then I pouted like the world owed me an apology.
Because honestly? It did.
Seconds later, a knock tapped gently at the door.
I turned toward the sound just as a voice floated in, polite and practiced.
"Young Master Hogg, Young Lady Hogg. Breakfast is ready."
Right on cue, my stomach let out a traitorous growl that could've doubled as a dragon's roar.
"Okay, okay," I muttered, patting my stomach like a grumpy pet. "Enough thinking. It's time to eat."
I sat up and gave the blanket a good yank.
Unfortunately, Ronette had been peacefully napping on top of said blanket.
"WAAAH—!"
He flailed dramatically as he was rolled up like a human burrito and launched into the air, landing on the floor with a thud and a bewildered yelp.
"Ouch!" He scrambled upright, eyes wide and hair sticking up at every possible angle. "What happened? What happened!?"
I casually pointed toward the door. "Breakfast's ready. That's what."
Ronette stared at me, clearly trying to reboot his internal system. His face twisted into that look he wore when he was doing math or trying to remember if ghosts could use spoons.
I snorted. "I'll explain everything while you doll yourself up."
Still blinking in confusion, Ronette nodded and began tugging on a clean shirt like his body was moving on autopilot.
'One mystery at a time,' I figured.
'Breakfast first. Existential horror later.'
Ronette was still groggy when we stepped out into the hallway. His hair looked like it had lost a fight with a thundercloud, and his eyes had that foggy, post-nightmare shine. I didn't comment. Partly because I was being nice. Mostly because I was too hungry to be witty.
The scent of toast, eggs, and something suspiciously buttery floated through the air like a siren song.
"This way, doll-face," I said, tugging Ronette's sleeve as he wandered straight on even though we've arrived.
He corrected course with a sheepish nod.
The dining room doors were already open when we arrived, golden morning light pouring across the long table like syrup. It would've looked peaceful—charming, even—if not for the absurd number of silver domes covering every plate, as though the food needed to be protected from assassination.
I nodded silently. 'Looks like there aren't an poison.'
A butler appeared, bowed, and gestured toward two seats.
"Please, sit."
I dropped into the chair and inhaled deeply.
"Smells like salvation."
Ronette sat beside me, eyes darting to every corner like he expected the Whisper Man to pop out from behind the sugar bowl.
"You don't think the Whisper Man might appear, right?," he whispered.
I lifted one of the domes.
A perfectly fluffy omelet, sprinkled with herbs and cheese, steamed beneath.
I made direct eye contact with Ronette. "If this is a dream, I will cry."
He peeled the lid off his own plate—a mountain of pancakes stacked like a holy shrine.
"…I take it back," he muttered. "Maybe the Whisper Man just wanted us to appreciate breakfast more."
"Then he's officially forgiven."
The moment we took our first bites, our souls floated several inches out of our bodies and sighed in relief. For a brief, blessed moment, there was no fog, no spider, no ghostly teacher with anger issues—just eggs, syrup, and peace.
And then—
The floor creaked.
We both froze, forks in midair.
Ronette whispered, "That isn't the Whisper Man, right?"
I didn't answer.
Mostly because I was busy reaching for the butter knife.
Just in case.