Page 5

AUTUMN

A utumn didn’t do small talk, and she sure as hell didn’t do small towns. At least, not in any permanent sense. But Celestial Pines had a way of settling into your bones like it belonged there.

Still, it was strange—unsettling, even—to walk down Main Street and feel… noticed.

Not stared at. Not in that suspicious “who’s the outsider?” way most tight-knit supernatural communities wielded like a passive-aggressive welcome mat. This was different. The townsfolk smiled, nodded, greeted her like she was someone. Like she might stay. Like she mattered.

She wasn’t used to being seen—not really. Not beyond her work, not beyond the label of ghost whisperer. Back in the city, most people kept her at arm’s length. They liked the idea of her. They didn’t like the reality. Too weird and quiet.

Too much.

Dorian hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t pulled away when she mentioned the dead, or the heaviness that came with them. He watched her, not like a man trying to figure out her secrets, but like one memorizing the way she stirred her coffee or smiled without meaning to.

It was unnerving. And if she thought about it too long, she’d bolt.

Which was why, after their meander through the town square and a brief detour past Everglen Market “You don’t know fear until you’ve faced Celeste’s clipboard,” Dorian had whispered, genuinely spooked.

Autumn excused herself and returned to the inn with the excuse of “ward placement.”

Dorian had offered to help—of course he had—but she needed the quiet.

The kind of quiet only the dead could provide.

She moved through the inn with practiced steps, fingers brushing along wallpaper and wooden railings.

Every room had its own feel. The sitting room was dense with regret.

The hallway by the back kitchen buzzed with frantic, unfinished energy.

But it was the upstairs bedroom, the one with the warped mirror and a dresser that always stuck, that whispered loudest.

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The air chilled immediately.

Autumn exhaled slow, grounding herself. She removed the small red jasper charm from her pocket, kissed the stone, and laid it on the dresser beside the cracked mirror. Then she lit a single beeswax candle, inscribed with a runic sigil meant to draw truth from shadows.

“Alright,” she said softly. “Let’s talk.”

At first, nothing.

Just the usual flicker of cool air brushing against her skin, the creak of old boards, the faint hum of something unseen pressing against the edges of her senses. But then the room changed.

Not dramatically or like in movies. Just… a shift.

The wallpaper near the window darkened, the florals bleeding into shadow. The mirror fogged. The flame of the candle leaned sharply to the left. And then, a voice.

Barely a breath, right next to her ear.

“ You shouldn’t be here .”

Autumn’s spine went rigid. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t run.

“I was invited,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “I’m here to help.”

Another pause. A colder draft, this time curling around her calves like a warning.

“ He brings death with him .”

Her fingers tightened on the lip of the dresser.

“Dorian?” she asked. “You’re talking about Dorian?”

The mirror pulsed once—just once—and then cleared. Her reflection stared back at her, eyes wide, chest rising and falling with too-sharp breaths.

The candle flickered violently. And on the wall beside her, a message appeared, scrawled as if by invisible chalk.

GO.

Autumn backed up slowly, grabbing the charm with one hand and the candle with the other. Her heart thudded wildly, too loud in her ears.

She’d spoken with hundreds of spirits. Angry ones. Lost ones. Even violent ones.

But this? This one wasn’t just angry. It was scared.

She retreated downstairs, her boots thudding against the steps with each pace. Dorian was in the front parlor, shirt sleeves rolled up again, sanding a window frame that had clearly offended his sense of symmetry.

He looked up the moment she stepped in, eyes narrowing with concern.

“You okay?”

Autumn stopped in the archway, breath still shallow. “No.”

He dropped the sanding block immediately. “What happened?”

“I talked to it,” she said. “Or it talked to me.”

Dorian stepped forward, slower than usual. He didn’t crowd her, but the room suddenly felt smaller with him in it.

“What did it say?”

She met his eyes. “That I shouldn’t be here. That you bring death.”

His jaw tightened.

“Does that mean anything to you?” she asked.

Silence stretched between them, brittle and heavy.

He nodded. Just once.

“I haven’t told you everything,” he said.

Autumn crossed her arms, grounding herself with motion. “No kidding.”

He sighed, ran a hand through his hair. “There’s a story. A rumor, mostly. When my great-uncle Alaric lived here, they said he was part of something. A… coven, maybe. Or a circle. I don’t know. It was never clear.”

“What kind of something?”

“Blood magic.” His eyes met hers. “Ritual stuff. Forbidden. Dangerous. The kind that ties souls to places.”

She blinked, heart dropping. “That would explain the residue I’m feeling. The grief. The fear.”

“Alaric was the last one. After he died, the energy spiked. The spirits didn’t just wake up—they started reacting.”

Autumn sat down on the edge of the dusty velvet settee. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“I didn’t think it mattered,” he admitted, crouching down beside her. “Until now. Until you.”

Her eyes searched his face. “Why me?”

Dorian’s voice dropped low. “Because the house reacts to you. Not just the spirit. The house itself. It listens. It shifts. When you’re near, it gets quieter.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It should be,” he said. “It means you’re what it needs.”

Autumn stared at him. “And what if I’m not what it wants?”

Dorian didn’t hesitate. “Then we find out what is. Together.”

That word. Together. It hung in the air between them, potent and heavier than it had any right to be.

His hand brushed against hers on the cushion. Not intentional. Not overt.

But neither of them moved away.

“You’re a lot,” she whispered.

He smiled gently. “So are you.”

She looked down, watched their fingers nearly touch, then curled hers into her palm.

“Don’t fall for me,” she said, trying to make it a joke but it came out too honest.

Dorian leaned back just enough to look her in the eye. She could tell he wanted to say something, but instead, he held it in took a breath and returned to sanding the window. Leaving Autumn alone with her nervousness of being seen and what the house really wanted from her… or from them.