15. Bram
Bram
It’s the middle of the day, autumn light dimmed by rain clouds pressing low against the windows.
The glass fogs at the corners, raindrops streaking down in steady rivulets.
It should feel cozy—the patter of rain, the smell of damp earth—but instead my skin prickles.
The house feels… off, as if the storm has pressed all the shadows closer.
I’ve been staring at my laptop all morning, the cursor blinking on a blank screen. I’ve gone through every single one of my pre-writing procrastination rituals. People always joke that it’s writers being lazy, but honestly? It used to help me work through plots.
It doesn’t anymore. That’s why we’re here. I haven’t written anything good in almost a year.
My newest release came from old notebooks. It was already mostly finished from years prior. Recently I haven’t come up with anything new. I’m burned out and I have no clue how to fix it.
Clara’s face won’t stop popping into my mind. My alpha snaps forward every time, and he does not like being ignored. He’s a dominant asshole.
A tapping sound pulls me from my spiral.
Dagan left about an hour ago to check out the shipwreck site.
Victor muttered something about coffee. Jack went out for more things to make the place feel like a home.
Mugs, blankets, extra pillows, firewood for that ridicu lous fireplace in the living room.
He’s been on a “real home” kick since we got here.
None of us follow a normal nine-to-five, not with the kind of work we do.
The tapping comes again. I glance at my still-blank screen and give up, pushing back from the desk.
I follow the faint noise through the kitchen and around the corner to the butler’s pantry. I ease open the door, but nothing’s inside except a few dry goods Jack brought home.
The tapping comes again. Not from the pantry. From the door beside it.
I open it slowly. A staircase leads down into the basement.
I flip the light switch. A single, dim bulb flickers to life far below. The clicking continues. I descend the stairs one careful step at a time, cataloging possible explanations. My logical brain votes chipmunk. My writer brain offers… haunted chipmunk corpse. Like I said—burned out.
The wooden steps creak under my weight. It’s colder down here. Damp. We’ll need to check for foundation issues.
A water boiler and furnace sit on a dirt floor. The stone walls are bare and uneven. It feels less like a basement and more like a grave.
The door slams shut behind me.
I don’t panic. I don’t even flinch. I’ve been writing horror for fifteen years. Twenty if you count my middle school attempts. Creepy basements don’t do much for me anymore. It’s windy outside. Probably a breeze through the front or back door.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
The clicking continues, leading me deeper into the cold. One old steamer trunk sits in the far corner. Dust coats it thick enough to leave prints. It looks like it’s been here a century.
I crouch down and lift the lid. It groans open and the clicking stops.
I b race myself for something to scurry out. A rat or a chipmunk, maybe a cursed raccoon. Nothing moves.
Inside is a gray wool suit, a newsboy cap and a pair of vintage shoes. I can’t imagine why they’re here.
The hanging bulb overhead flickers. One slow pulse like a dying heartbeat. I close the trunk. The lid thuds shut, loud in the stillness.
The light flickers again. And again. Slower now. Like it’s thinking. Watching.
I wait. No way I’m tripping in the dark like an idiot. But instead of fixing itself, the bulb starts blinking faster in an erratic, frantic dance. Like a warning.
Then it changes again. Longer pauses. Longer dark. And in one of those dark gaps, something doesn’t disappear. A shape lingers. Too still. Too large.
When the light flares again, it’s still there. A hulking mass of darkness, fed by the absence of light. Broad shoulders. No reflection in the eyes. Just watching. The shape doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t breathe.
I stand taller, my alpha rising hard and fast. The scent of baked bread twists sharp and wrong in my nose. Cold. Angry. Dead.
A low growl rises in my chest. My stance shifts. I brace to defend. But the shadow just tilts its head.
“Who—” I begin, stepping forward. But the light goes out.
Darkness swallows everything. My breath comes sharp. My fists are clenched.
Then, right beside my ear, a whisper.
“Alpha to alpha… don’t test me.”
The light clicks back on, and the basement door creaks open upstairs.