Epilogue
2 Years Later
T he guys are gathered around the table, their sharp eyes scanning the specs of the location I spent the past few weeks meticulously researching.
Blueprints, tunnel layouts, security reports—every piece of information I could dig up is spread out in front of us.
Beckett studies them with his usual meticulous perusal. Whit leans back with his arms crossed, processing the details. And Quinn—well, Quinn looks downright excited. He’s highly entertained by the YouTube videos I’ve provided.
“You’re sure you don’t want to handle this at home?” Beckett finally asks, his voice level.
It’s a solid question. The manor would work, and we know it well enough to walk it in our sleep—even with its never-ending shifting.
I shake my head. “No. This is our home. It’s where we eat, sleep, live… Nothing about it should feel tainted.”
Which it would if we were to do this here.
Whit nods, his quiet agreement settling into the room. He understands that this place is our sanctuary.
“Alright then.” He glances back at the plans. “Looks like we’ve got some work to do in Louisville, Kentucky.”
Beckett exhales, already mentally running through logistics. “We’ll need to make some calls. Getting access, off the books, isn’t going to be as simple as breaking into a corporate office or a private estate. An abandoned sanatorium draws attention. We don’t need anyone poking around and finding more than the ghosts they’re looking for.”
“We can make it happen,” Whit assures. “I’ll reach out to Wraith, maybe he can help keep the thrill-seekers away.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Beckett agrees.
Quinn stretches his arms over his head, grinning like this is the most fun he’s had all week. “You know, while we’re there, we should do some ghost hunting. Really get into the spirit of things.”
The collective groan from the rest of us is immediate.
“For fuck’s sake, Quinn,” Beckett mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Whit sighs. “Jesus Christ, here we go.”
“Oh, come on! You don’t think it would be fun to fuck with some ghost hunters?” Quinn grins, wiggling his fingers in an exaggerated spooky motion. “Make them think we’re the ghosts?”
“That’s literally the plan, just minus the ghost hunters,” Whit says, looking at Quinn in disbelief.
“Practice.” Quinn shrugs.
“It would be fun, but let’s focus,” I remind him, though I can’t help but smirk. “How long do you think we’ll need?”
Beckett studies the plans again. “A couple of days to prep. How long will you need to complete it?”
“From dusk till dawn should cover it,” I respond, a vicious smile cutting across my face. Then, looking at each of them, I ask, “Y’all still have your masks?”
Their slow, wicked grins are confirmation enough.
Waverly Hills Sanatorium.
Even if you don’t believe in ghosts, you’ve probably heard of it.
A decaying relic of history, one of the most haunted buildings in America—if you buy into that kind of thing. The long, crumbling halls once housed thousands of tuberculosis patients, many of whom died within its walls.
It’s the kind of place where history seeps into the bones of the structure, where the air carries the weight of untold stories. The perfect environment for the notoriety of ghosts to thrive.
We don’t believe in ghosts. Not even a little bit. Living people are far more terrifying than dead ones.
However, he does. If he didn’t before, he sure does now.
For months, we’ve been feeding him breadcrumbs—sending him anonymous letters, delivering unsettling messages scrawled in what looks like old patient notes.
He’s been receiving details about the histories of Waverly’s most infamous deaths, the eerie tales of those who allegedly never left. We’ve even sent him actual patient files.
And for the final touch?
We made him a patient.
Naturally, it was Quinn’s idea—and a brilliant one at that. One final file arrived on his doorstep weeks ago, detailing his admittance into Waverly Hills.
It was fabricated, of course—painstakingly recreated using era-appropriate documentation. Every grim detail, every symptom, every scheduled “treatment” meticulously noted.
We know he read it.
We know because his search history led him straight to late-night deep dives into Waverly’s haunted past. Because he’s been losing sleep, refreshing his security cameras, jumping at shadows.
It’s been highly entertaining.
The groundwork has already been laid with months of paranoia, carefully crafted to make him believe that something—or someone—is watching him.
Which, to be fair, someone is.
Me.
He believes that Waverly Hills isn’t just a story, isn’t just a decaying building where history has rotted into legend, but something more. Something hungry.
And then, we pushed him off the edge.
Last night, the first part of the game began.
It was simple, really. He’d already been primed to believe in the unseen, desperate for confirmation that his growing unease wasn’t just in his head. So we gave him exactly what he feared most—proof. While also satiating Quinn’s unending desire to practice on unsuspecting ghost hunters.
The blackout happened at exactly 2:37 AM.
His security cameras went dark for precisely six minutes and thirty-two seconds—long enough for a skilled team to slip inside, for shadows to move unnaturally through his home, for the air to feel wrong. Exactly like we’d done for the past several nights.
When the power returned, so did the cameras. And with them, a gift we left behind.
The footage showed his house, just as he left it—almost. He would see himself standing in the living room, just as he’d been when the power went out. There, in the reflection of his glass coffee table, if he looked closely, he would see a figure standing behind him.
A blurred shape, just out of focus, watching. Waiting.
The moment he saw it, he bolted—just as expected.
He threw a duffel bag together, barely bothering to check what he packed. Keys, phone, gun. But he was too rattled, too panicked, too desperate to think clearly. The supernatural had come for him, and he needed to get as far away as possible.
He didn’t think to check his car. Just hurried into the driver’s seat, his keys missing the ignition several times. Perhaps if he’d looked in the rearview mirror, he would’ve noticed the syringe. But he didn’t—not until it was too late.
Whit had been the one to do it. He slipped into the backseat and waited for the predictable coward to do exactly what we knew he would.
All it took was a single press of the needle against his neck. There was a sharp inhale of confusion, and then… silence.
He was out before he even realized what was happening. Which is almost a shame.
We took his phone, powered it off, and tossed it. His car was left where it was, door slightly ajar, the keys on the ground. A staged struggle, just enough to make it look like a theft gone wrong—just another missing man in a world full of missing people.
Not that anyone would miss him. Nor would anyone care to find him, once the authorities realized he was a fugitive with a list of crimes that would make anyone’s stomach churn.
The world would be a safer place without the likes of someone like him.
We drive all the way from Pulaski, Tennessee, where he’d been hiding out. It’s a long, quiet ride to Waverly Hills, the road stretching endlessly beneath the cover of night. By the time we arrive, the sanatorium looms in the darkness, its jagged silhouette cutting against the sky, as if it’s waiting to swallow him whole.
We waste no time. His body is heavier than expected as we haul him inside, dragging him down the ruined halls, past broken beds, and rooms that haven’t housed life in decades.
Past the remnants of ghosts we don’t believe in—but he does.
When we strap him into the chair, his breathing is slow and steady, his mind still lost in a drugged unconsciousness. The outdated medical recliner creaks under his weight, the cracked leather rough against his skin.
The fun will really begin once he realizes where he is.
I lean back, watching the grainy monitor in front of me as he begins to stir. His fingers twitch, and a gasp of an inhale escapes him.
A slow smile spreads across my face at the sight.
“Have I told you lately how fucking terrifying you are?” Quinn asks.
I laugh at the look of pure adoration on his face. “It’s been at least thirty minutes since the last time you did.”
“Allow me to rectify that. You are fucking terrifying, and I don’t think I’ve ever loved you more.”
Beckett and Whit laugh, nodding in agreement.
My cheeks heat, as they always do when all of their attention is directed at me at once.
I glance out the window and watch as the sun begins to disappear beyond the horizon.
The man comes fully to, right on time, and begins thrashing in his chair. Which is hilarious, considering he’s not restrained at all.
It took very little time to find him. However, it took a year to come up with the perfect plan. Then, a few months after that, to set everything up and bring us to this point.
It’s been two years since we buried my mother, but I never forgot the promises I made. My life is exceedingly happy.
While it might not be traditional in any sense of the word, it’s mine—and I wouldn’t choose any other life or life partners. I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love the three men around me, and I’ve never been loved as thoroughly as they love me.
That leaves just one promise left to keep.
“Hello, Father,” I say through the speaker hidden in the room. He stills instantly. “I hope you’re enjoying your accommodations.”
“You little bitch!” He screams into the empty room. “Where the fuck am I?”
“Language, Father.”
Whit and Quinn chuckle as they each kiss me on the cheek before pulling their neon masks on and moving to their positions throughout the building.
Before Beckett leaves, he leans in, voice a quiet snarl against my ear. “Be a good girl, and I’ll bend you over the nearest surface before his blood even cools.” Then he’s gone. No glance. No pause. Like he didn’t just wreck my focus.
I shake my head, exhaling through my nose. “Ass,” I mutter under my breath—more habit than heat—then turn to my father.
“As for where you are? This is it. Your forever. I even sent over files on your new roommates.”
“I should’ve known you were behind that evil insanity!” my father seethes, face reddening. The past two years have stripped him bare—skin slack, hair thinning. He looks like a ghost already.
“Now, now,” I murmur, savoring the moment. “Let’s not throw stones, especially when you live in a glass house.” A thrill shoots through me, “Shall we go over the rules of our game?”
I’ve been waiting for this far longer than the past two years—since before I even understood what vengeance tasted like. Back to the first moment he made me feel less than. I might not remember the details exactly, but it doesn’t matter.
His fate was sealed then.
And it ends by my hands.
“I’ll make sure you rot in the same hole as your mother!”
His eyes are wide with fear, and satisfaction hums through me. Good. He deserves this—deserves to feel what Mother and I lived with for years. And worse. Which he will get.
“That might be difficult,” I say smoothly. “Considering you no longer know where she is.” I tilt my head, watching realization settle over him. “I’m surprised you didn’t hear about the authorities finding the bodies. But don’t worry—you won’t be seeing Mother again.”
His breath stutters, then, as if clinging to something sturdy, he steadies himself. “What is this, then? If you’re not planning to kill me?”
I watch it happen. The hope. The desperate, reckless belief that maybe—just maybe—he still has a way out.
And I love that he let it in.
“Oh, I fully intend to kill you.” I let the words settle, let him feel them. “You just won’t end up anywhere near whatever heavenly plane Mother has. I have a feeling you’ll burn with your dear friend Josiah for eternity.”
He splutters, mouth opening to spit his twisted beliefs?—
I don’t let him.
“The rules are simple. Make it till dawn without getting caught, and you walk free.”
For a second, nothing. Then he laughs, sharp and derisive, shaking his head. “You’ll never catch me, Celestina. And when I walk out of here, I’ll find you and kill you like I should have decades ago.”
“Hmmm. I guess we’ll see.”
I slide the Momo mask over my head, adjusting the edges. The old nurse’s uniform clings to me in all the wrong ways—eerily out of place, like something yanked from a nightmare.
“Run and hide, Father.”
He doesn’t hesitate. Good. He bolts down the dark hallway—straight toward Quinn. He’ll be thrilled to have the first crack at him.
I turn to the mirror, tilting my head as I study my reflection. A walking horror story. A smear of fake blood here, a touch more there—just for fun. Hopefully, he doesn’t die of a heart attack before I get my hands on him. I’d be really upset if my fun got cut short.
Outside, I watch him stumble, arms outstretched against the dark.
I press the button.
A low click echoes through the space as the rigged doors engage, the traps wake up, and the asylum turns against him.
Somewhere in the blackness, a motion sensor triggers. A baseball rolls lazily down the hall, bumping against the walls—an invitation. A little game of fetch from Timmy O’Shea himself.
I inhale, slow and deep, letting the weight of this moment settle into my bones.
The darkness within me smiles wickedly, and I smile back.
It took some time after killing Josiah for me to realize, that the darkness within me?—
had been me the whole time.
A pause…
“Ready or not…”
Just long enough for the darkness to breathe.
“Here I come.”