Elias did not like ghosts.
He never had. Not in his old life, not in this one, not even during that brief and embarrassing phase where he convinced himself horror was interesting, that reading about the dead somehow made him braver.
It did not.
There was a difference between curiosity and proximity. Between reading about something and having it stand close enough that the air itself changed.
Ghosts did not belong to stories.
They lingered.
They pressed.
They made space feel smaller than it should be.
And worst of all, they did not stay separate.
Elias leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers resting against the wooden surface beside him. The afternoon light fell through the front window in pale lines, cutting across the floor and catching the slow drift of dust in the air.
The funeral house was quiet, almost peaceful, if one ignored the two figures standing near the far wall.
He had placed a tray between them.
A cup of water. Still. Untouched.
A plate of plain biscuits, beginning to harden at the edges.
And a folded strip of paper, the prayer written halfway before he had given up trying to remember the rest.
It was not a ritual.
It would not help.
But it felt wrong not to put something there.
Courtesy, nothing more.
The ghosts watched him.
They were young.
Sixteen, maybe seventeen. A boy and a girl. They stood close together, their forms faint, edges flickering as though the world had not fully decided whether they were still meant to exist.
Death had not been kind to them.
The boy's neck carried the dark imprint of fingers, bruises that remained even now, visible beneath skin that no longer held weight. The girl's arm bent at the wrong angle, the shape incomplete, as if something had broken and never settled back into place.
They were not horrifying because they were grotesque.
They were horrifying because they were ordinary.
Elias exhaled quietly.
"I don't know you," he said.
His voice was calm, without comfort, without hostility.
"But the man who came earlier, the things he brought, and the way you're anchored here…" His gaze shifted briefly, noting the faint pull that kept them from drifting too far. "It isn't difficult to guess."
The boy hesitated, then spoke. "My name is Lucas."
The girl followed, her voice softer. "Grace."
Elias nodded once.
"So you're the ones."
He closed his eyes briefly, not because he needed to think, but because he already knew.
Ouija board.
Mountain.
A ritual done poorly, or worse, half understood.
The details arranged themselves easily.
He remembered one line, not because it was well written, but because it had been underlined by someone else.
When the door is opened without being closed, something always stays behind.
Elias opened his eyes.
"So," he said quietly, "you played."
Grace nodded, tears forming and slipping through her face without leaving a trace. "We thought it wasn't real."
Of course.
Lucas shook his head quickly. "We followed the rules. We said goodbye."
Elias did not respond.
Rules only mattered if both sides agreed to them.
And whatever they had reached had no reason to care.
He leaned back slightly.
"Hunters will come," he said. "Exorcists too. They always do."
Lucas looked at him, something like desperation breaking through. "They won't make it in time."
No.
They would not.
Elias could already feel it.
The weight of the mountain. The thickness of it. Not just a place, but something that had been pressed down for years, sealed rather than resolved. It had not faded. It had been waiting.
And now it had been disturbed.
His thoughts shifted, aligning with something he had once read, something he had not expected to matter.
A case.
A story.
A child killed and hidden.
A lie built over the truth.
A ritual done not to cleanse, but to contain.
A game.
Hide and seek.
He opened his eyes again.
"You didn't summon something wandering," Elias said. "You disturbed something sealed."
Grace's voice trembled. "Is it… a monster?"
"No."
Elias looked at her.
"It's a child."
The room felt colder.
Lucas swallowed. "What happens to the others?"
Elias did not answer immediately.
He did not need to imagine it. He could see it clearly enough.
Students wandering deeper into the forest, laughter fading, replaced by confusion, then fear. The rules shifting without them noticing. The game becoming something else.
Hunters would arrive later.
Bodies would be found.
Reports would be written.
He leaned forward slightly, fingers interlacing.
Outside the window, people passed by without pause, their shadows stretching along the street, unaware of how thin the boundary was between their world and everything else.
Elias closed his eyes.
If he did nothing, the outcome would not change.
When he opened them again, his decision was already made.
"Stay here," he said. "Don't wander. Don't attach yourselves to anyone else."
Lucas hesitated. "What are you going to do?"
Elias stood.
"I'm going for a walk."
By the time he reached the mountain path, the talismans were gone.
Not removed, not torn away with intent. Just gone, as if whatever had been placed here had never truly mattered to begin with.
Only when he stepped closer did he begin to understand what remained.
Fragments of paper clung stubbornly to the stones and the low branches, softened by moisture until they sagged under their own weight. Ink had bled through the fibers, once neat strokes dissolving into blurred, shapeless stains.
The formation had not been dismantled.
It had been disturbed.
Handled without understanding, pulled apart piece by piece by hands that did not know what they were touching, what they were undoing. The balance had not been broken carefully. It had simply been ruined.
Elias stood there for a moment, looking down at the remains.
"They saw something interesting," he said quietly, his voice carrying no accusation, only a quiet certainty, "and scrambled."
Children.
It was almost always children.
He exhaled, the breath leaving him slowly, faintly visible in the cooling air. The forest ahead stretched into dimness, the light already thinning beneath the cover of branches. There was no trace of intention here, no careful arrangement of fear, no guiding hand shaping belief into something precise.
Whatever had been sealed here had simply been left.
Left long enough to settle.
Long enough to change.
"Just end it," he murmured, more to himself than anything else.
The umbrella at his side shifted slightly, the handle giving a faint vibration beneath his fingers. Beneath the fabric of his sleeve, the tattoo stirred in response, a slow, deliberate warmth spreading along his skin, pulsing in a rhythm that was not his own.
It was aware.
Or perhaps it had never stopped being aware.
He could call for assistance. He knew that. There were protocols, contingencies, people who would come if he asked.
But they would not arrive in time.
They never did.
So he stepped forward.
The path narrowed as he climbed, the ground uneven beneath his feet, roots pushing up through the soil like something trying to surface.
The trees drew closer together, their branches weaving overhead until the sky disappeared entirely, cutting off what little light remained. The air changed as he moved deeper, growing heavier, damp against his skin, clinging to his breath.
The sounds faded gradually, not all at once, but piece by piece.
First the insects.
Then the distant calls of birds.
Until even the wind seemed to withdraw, leaving behind a stillness that felt deliberate, as if the forest itself had decided to remain silent.
Elias did not slow.
He kept walking until the trees broke without warning, the path opening into a clearing that did not belong.
At the center of it all lay a warped Ouija board.
Its surface had swollen from moisture, the wood uneven, the edges curling slightly where water had seeped in. The letters were still there, but barely, their shapes faded and distorted, as though they had been worn away by time rather than use.
Beside it rested the planchette.
Cracked.
Split along one edge, as if something had pressed too hard, or something had tried to break free.
And nearby,
A girl.
Small, slight, her bare feet pressed into the damp earth without leaving clear prints. Her dress hung loosely from her frame, once light in color, now darkened almost entirely by blood. The fabric clung where it had dried, stiff and heavy, the stains layered too thickly to be recent.
She crouched low, her back to him, her shoulders moving in small, steady motions.
Eating.
Elias stopped.
The body beneath her was no longer whole. What remained was difficult to separate, the shape broken, opened, its form lost beneath the way it had been handled.
The smell reached him a moment later, heavy and metallic, carrying a warmth that did not belong in the open air, something thick enough to settle at the back of his throat.
The girl lifted her head.
Blood stained her mouth, dark against her skin, smeared carelessly as if it had never occurred to her to wipe it away. Her eyes met his, bright in a way that felt wrong, too clear, too aware.
When she smiled, it was wide and unguarded, the kind of smile that belonged to a child who had found something they liked.
She pointed toward the board.
"Do you want to play?"
Everything in his body reacted at once.
His stomach tighten. His breath caught before he forced it steady, his fingers tensing briefly at his side before stilling.
Instinct pressed against him, urgent and insistent, telling him to step back, to leave, to put distance between himself and what stood in front of him.
He did not move.
The girl tilted her head slightly, studying him with open curiosity.
"You're not scared."
Elias knew her.
Not her face, not her voice, not anything that could be called personal. But he knew what she was, knew the pattern well enough to recognize it even without context.
He knew how this ended.
So he answered her.
"Alright."
The word left him calm, even, without hesitation.
Her expression changed instantly.
"Really?"
There was something eager in the way she leaned forward, something bright and expectant, as if she had been waiting for that answer.
"Yes," he said. "Let's play."
She clapped her hands together, the sound soft against the damp air, leaving faint, wet marks on her palms where blood had not yet dried. She moved lightly as she stepped toward the board, her feet barely disturbing the mist, as if she weighed nothing at all.
"Sit," she said, the word carrying a small, pleased authority.
Elias did.
He lowered himself onto the ground across from her, ignoring the dampness that seeped through the fabric. The umbrella rested beside him within easy reach.
The mist seemed to close in around them.
"Ask," she said, her voice softer now, almost patient.
Elias looked at her.
At the blood on her mouth.
At the remains beside her.
At the way she watched him without blinking.
"What's your name?" he asked.
She giggled, the sound light, almost playful.
"You already know."
"I want to hear it."
For a moment, she pouted, her lips pressing together in something that resembled annoyance, before the expression slipped away just as quickly.
"Lily," she said, smiling again.
Elias inclined his head slightly, as if acknowledging something formal, something expected.
"Who killed you, Lily?"
The change was subtle.
Her smile did not vanish, not completely, but it faltered, the corners of her lips hesitating for a fraction too long. Her eyes shifted, not meeting his, drifting instead toward the mist, toward something that was not there.
Then she looked back at him.
"Let's play hide and seek," she said, the words light, almost careless, as if the question had never been asked.
Elias did not respond immediately.
Instead, he placed his fingers on the planchette, the wood cool and damp beneath his touch. He did not press down, did not guide it, simply let his hand rest there, light enough that any movement would not be his own.
The silence stretched.
The air grew heavier.
"Hide and seek," he repeated quietly, as if considering it.
Her smile widened again, relief slipping back into her expression.
"Yes," she said. "You find me."
Elias watched her for a moment longer, then lowered his gaze to the board.
"And if I do?"
She leaned forward slightly, her eyes bright again, something sharp flickering beneath the surface.
"Then I won't hide anymore."
The planchette shifted.
Just a fraction.
Elias did not look up.
"Alright," he said quietly.
And he waited.