Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Sammie
The morning after practice creeps in gray and silent. My alarm buzzes, but I don’t need it. I’ve been awake for over an hour, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the old furnace rattling through the vents.
The house always feels emptier in October.
My brother’s room is just down the hall.
The door is shut, same as it’s been for a year now, and even though Dad hasn’t said the words, I know I’m not supposed to open it.
Andrew’s things are still inside, hockey sticks propped against the wall, a jersey draped across his chair.
I’ve seen it through the crack when I pass too slowly. I pretend I don’t.
Halloween was Andrew’s favorite holiday.
Last year, the night we lost him, our house was strung up in cobwebs and fake bats, laughter spilling through the hallways.
Now, the same decorations are boxed in the basement, waiting for me to unpack them for tonight’s party.
A tradition that feels more like a haunting.
I drag myself out of bed and into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Dad is already there, hunched over the table with a mug of coffee, paper spread open in front of him. He’s in his Storm Cats jacket, hood pulled up even though it’s not cold inside. His eyes lift when I shuffle in.
“You’re up early.” He says, voice rough.
I shrug, pulling a bowl from the cabinet. “Didn’t really sleep.”
His gaze lingers, heavy in that way it always does now, like he’s studying me for cracks he can tape back together. But he doesn’t push. Instead, he grunts and sips his coffee, eyes returning to the headlines.
The silence stretches. I pour my cereal while my mind replays last night. Not practice. Not my dad yelling at drills. Not even the team’s laughter echoing through the rink.
Him.
Triston Knight.
The way his gaze cut through the glass like a blade. The way his voice had slid low and quiet, meant only for me. You should stop pretending you don’t want me.
I grip my spoon too tight, milk sloshing against the rim. My skin prickles just remembering it. The way my breath hitched, the way my knees almost buckled. It wasn’t fair, the power he had with just a few words.
“You’re quiet this morning.” Dad says. His tone sharpens, suspicious. “Something on your mind?”
I glance up too fast. “No. Just… tired.”
He studies me again. He doesn’t buy it. “You were at the rink too long last night. You’ve been distracted lately.”
I force a laugh that sounds brittle even to me. “I always spend too much time at the rink, Dad. It’s our second home, remember?”
His frown deepens. “You know what I mean.”
Heat creeps up my neck. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. Still, I drop my gaze to my cereal, pushing soggy flakes around with the spoon.
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Those boys…” His voice drops, edged with something sharp. “They’re not for you, Sammie. They’re older, rough around the edges. You stay out of their way.”
My chest squeezes. He doesn’t say Triston’s name, but I hear it anyway.
“I know.” I whisper.
And I do. I know exactly what Dad wants. I know what Andrew would’ve wanted too. Stay away from the team. Be the good daughter. Don’t play with fire.
But fire is all I can think about. And crave.
The rest of the day slips into motion. After breakfast, Dad leaves for the rink to prep drills, and I’m left with a list of party errands scribbled in his handwriting. Candy. Chips. Soda.
It feels surreal. Planning a Halloween party in a house still stained with grief. But Dad insists. Says Andrew wouldn’t want the night to die with him. Says celebrating is honoring.
So I pull on a jacket, stuff the list in my pocket, and head into town.
Main Street is buzzing. Storefronts are painted with witches and pumpkins, cobwebs draped from lampposts. Kids in costumes dart between parents’ legs, their laughter piercing through the cool air.
I duck into the grocery store, basket in hand. The fluorescent lights hum above me as I wander the aisles, checking items off the list. Chips. Soda. Plastic cups.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me. I yank it out, half-expecting Dad’s name on the screen. But it isn’t.
It’s blank. No number. Just a message.
Did you dream about me?
My throat goes dry. My fingers tremble as I glance around the aisle, scanning faces. No one’s looking at me. No one seems out of place. But the words burn against my skin.
I type fast:
Who is this?
No answer.
I lock the screen and shove my phone back into my pocket as my pulse races. I try to shake it off, finish the shopping. But the words cling to me, whispering at the edge of my mind.
Did you dream about me?
I know who it is.
By the time I’m home, the house smells faintly of dust and pine from the old boxes Dad hauled up. Decorations spill across the living room — fake cobwebs, strings of orange lights, plastic skeletons. I kneel to sort through them, my hands moving on autopilot as my mind drifts.
Every Halloween memory is Andrew. The way he carved pumpkins too big for his hands. The way he told ghost stories that left me sleepless for nights. The way he stuck by me at parties, keeping the older boys at bay.
My throat tightens. He’s not here to do that anymore.
And someone else is watching instead.
I glance at the window. For a second, I swear I see a shadow move across the lawn, tall and broad. My chest seizes — but when I blink, it’s gone.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling. The sense of being followed. Haunted.
The boxes creak when I pull the lids open, a puff of dust clouding the air.
Inside, the fake cobwebs cling to themselves like old secrets, and the orange lights are tangled so badly I know I’ll never get them straight.
I sit cross-legged on the living room floor, sorting through Andrew’s favorite decorations.
Every piece is him.
The skeleton hand candy bowl he used to leave by the door. The rubber bats he’d tape to the ceiling fan so they’d whirl around in dizzy circles. The cheap mask with broken straps that he wore year after year because he thought it was funny.
I trace the edge of the mask with my finger, and for a moment I swear I can still hear his laugh. That high-pitched wheeze he got when he was laughing too hard. My chest aches. Tears sting.
“Need help?”
Dad’s voice makes me jump. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, brow furrowed. His Storm Cats jacket is unzipped now, his tie loosened from an afternoon of practice.
“I’m fine.” I say quickly, shoving the mask back in the box like it burned me.
He doesn’t move. His eyes study me too closely, the way they always do now, like he’s searching for something broken he can fix.
“You’re jumpy.” he says.
“I’m not.”
“You are.” His mouth presses into a thin line. “You’re distracted.”
I force a laugh, shaking my head. “I’m just… tired. Long day.”
He doesn’t buy it. He never does. “You’ve been like this for weeks, Sammie. Don’t think I don’t notice.”
My throat tightens. I look back down at the lights in my lap, fingers twisting them until they dig into my skin. “It’s just Halloween, Dad. It’s hard without Andrew.”
That softens him, just a little. His shoulders sink, and he rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah.” He murmurs. “It is.”
The silence stretches. I almost let it end there. Almost.
But then I feel it again.
That prickle at the back of my neck. The weight of eyes, heavy and burning.
I glance at the window. The curtains stir even though the air is still, and for a split second I see movement — a shape too big to be a trick of the light. My pulse spikes, heat rushing to my face.
Dad follows my gaze. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” I say it too fast. “Just… thought I saw something.”
His eyes are narrow, sharp. “Something or someone?”
I swallow hard. My hands tremble around the string of lights. “No. It was nothing.”
He studies me for a long moment, then sighs. “Get those up before the guests arrive. I’ll get the ladder for the porch.”
He leaves, footsteps heavy on the stairs, and I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
But the feeling lingers.
That heat. That hunger. He’s out there. I know he is.
The afternoon slides into evening faster than I expect.
One moment I’m tangled in boxes of orange and black decorations, the next the sky outside has darkened into an indigo canvas streaked with the first hints of night.
The air feels charged, restless, as if the whole world knows something is about to happen.
Pumpkins line the front steps, their carved faces crooked and mischievous.
Cobwebs stretch across corners of the living room, catching the glint of the porch light.
I drape Andrew’s old skeleton garland across the bannister, my hands trembling when I realize one of the paper skulls still has a doodle he’d drawn in marker years ago.
A crooked grin with fangs. My throat tightens, and for a moment I have to sit down on the stairs to breathe.
It feels wrong to cry on Halloween. This was his night, his favorite. He would’ve laughed at me for tearing up over a stupid garland. But grief doesn’t follow rules. It creeps up in shadows and memories, pressing down when you least expect it.
The house smells of cinnamon candles and roasted pumpkin seeds. From the kitchen, Dad clatters with trays of food, muttering under his breath. I know he’s trying to fill the silence with noise. He hates how quiet the house has been since Andrew died.
I climb back to my feet and continue decorating, but every time I move past a window, I pause. The reflection stares back at me — pale face, messy hair, wide eyes that look too much like Andrew’s — and behind it, only the dark of the yard. Still, my pulse spikes.
Because I swear I see something. A flicker of movement. A shadow too solid, lingering too long.