Chapter 5 #2
"What about Jimmy?" Raven kept her voice steady, though I saw the concern in her eyes as she watched me prepare his medication.
"Good kid. Nineteen. Always fixing things, making jokes..." Walt's breathing was evening out slightly. "They were planning to get married. After she finished school."
I administered his blood pressure medication, then helped him sip water. "Small sips, Walt. That's it."
For the next twenty minutes, we sat with him on the floor of the lobby. Raven hummed softly—an old lullaby—while I monitored his vitals. Gradually, his heart rate dropped to 95. Still high, but safer. His blood pressure slowly descended to 150/85.
"The fire," Walt mumbled, exhaustion creeping into his voice. "I dream about it. Hear them calling for help. But I can never find them in the smoke."
"They know you tried," Raven said. "They know you cared."
Walt's eyes drooped. "So tired. Been so tired for so long."
"Let's get you to bed," I said, helping him to his feet. He swayed, and I steadied him, essentially carrying most of his weight. He felt frailer than even a week ago, as if the approaching anniversary was physically diminishing him.
We walked him slowly to his room, Raven gathering his scattered blankets while I helped him sit on the cot.
"My pills?" he asked, confused.
"Already took them," I assured him, helping him lie down. "Just rest now."
Raven pulled the blanket up to his chin, and for a moment, Walt looked at her with perfect clarity.
"You're not Rebecca," he said softly. "But you're kind like her. Don't let this place take you too."
"It won't," she promised. "Shane won't let it."
Walt's eyes closed, his breathing becoming deep and even. We stood there for several minutes, making sure he was truly asleep. His face, which had been twisted with anguish, finally relaxed into something approaching peace.
I checked his pulse one more time—steady now, if still elevated—then motioned for Raven to follow me out.
In the hallway, she slumped against the wall, and I saw her hands were shaking.
"That was..." she started.
"Intense." I pulled her against me, feeling her trembling. "You did good. The breathing technique, keeping him grounded—that was exactly right."
"His blood pressure—"
"Is concerning. If it spikes much higher..." I didn't finish. We both knew what could happen.
"Do you think he is right about the insurance fraud?" Raven asked as we walked back to our room. "About this Carlson guy covering up Rebecca and Jimmy’s deaths?”
"I don't know." I ran a hand through my hair, exhausted. "Walt's memories are so scrambled. Half of what he says is from different years, different contexts."
“I’m going to look into it tomorrow.”
“Even if it's true, what can we do about it? It was thirty years ago. Everyone involved is probably dead or gone."
"Except Walt."
"Walt can't testify to anything. His mind is too fractured. Half the time he doesn't even know what year it is."
Raven was quiet for a moment. "Maybe that's why he can't let go. Maybe his mind keeps him trapped here because there's something unfinished. Some truth that needs to come out."
"Or maybe he's just a sick old man whose brain is failing." The words were harsher than I intended.
"You don't believe that."
She was right. I didn't. There was something about the way Walt talked about the fire, something that felt too consistent despite his confusion. The names never changed. The guilt never wavered.
“There’s something else. What if they're still here?"
"Who?"
"Rebecca and Jimmy.”
I scoffed at her. “Raven, there’s enough shit going on without you playing haunted house here.”
“I’m not playing. My thermal camera keeps picking up cold spots and EMF spikes. There’s a harmonic undertone when Walt hums—like someone's humming along with him." She pulled out her phone, scrolling footage. "Look at this."
She showed me thermal imaging from the dining room. Two distinct cold spots, human-shaped, near where Walt had been polishing silverware.
"That's just drafts from the broken windows."
"Drafts that follow Walt around? I've been documenting everything. Every anomaly, every unexplained reading." She looked up at me. "What if Rebecca and Jimmy never left? What if they're trying to tell us something?"
"Ghosts aren't real, Raven."
"Maybe not. Or maybe trauma leaves an imprint. Maybe guilt keeps them tethered here, just like it keeps Walt." She pulled up more footage—shadows moving in empty hallways, doors opening on their own, that persistent smell of smoke in rooms where no fire had burned for thirty years.
"Even if you're right," I said slowly, "what can we do about it?"
"Find out the truth. Give them justice. Maybe then they can rest." She paused. "Maybe then Walt can rest too."
I thought about all the times I'd heard footsteps above us, the way certain rooms always felt colder than others, the occasional glimpse of movement in my peripheral vision that I'd attributed to exhaustion.
"Tomorrow's Halloween," Raven continued. "The veil between worlds is supposedly thinnest. If Rebecca and Jimmy are trying to communicate, tomorrow might be when they're strongest."
"You want to ghost hunt on Halloween. In the lodge where two people died. I suppose you want to film this too."
"Yes, but I also I want to help Walt find peace.”
“Well, if we’re going to do this. I’m bringing in backup,” I said.
“Back up?”
“My brothers.”