CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Emma clutched at the threadbare blanket she’d found in a closet, her mind caught in a tangle of dreams.
“Piper,” a voice whispered. “Piper. Wake up.”
The familiar voice tugged her from the depths of troubled sleep. Her eyelids fluttered, then flew open—and there he was. A face she knew better than her own, yet hadn’t seen in twenty years. She’d been far away when he had died.
“Dad!”
“Piper,” he replied.
Greg Graves smiled down at her, his form translucent at the edges but his eyes as warm as she remembered.
She pushed herself up on her elbows. The thin mattress sank beneath her weight, springs protesting. Dust particles dancing in the shafts of early sunlight passed through her father’s form as he sat on the edge of the mattress. She couldn’t feel his weight—there was none—but his presence was strong.
“Is it really you?” she whispered.
“It’s me, sweetheart.” He reached toward her face, and though he couldn’t truly touch her skin, Piper felt a whisper of warmth. “I’ve been watching over you.”
A rush of memories flooded back—not the fragmented, confused images that had plagued her for years, but crystal-clear recollections of her childhood home, her mother’s garden, Jenna’s laugh, her father teaching her to fish in a nearby creek.
“Piper,” she whispered, “that’s my real name, isn’t it?”
A movement at the foot of the bed caught her attention. The air shimmered and condensed, forming the familiar silhouette of Loyalynne. The doll-woman’s painted features twisted in an expression of displeasure, her china-blue eyes hard and unyielding.
“Don’t listen to this stranger,” Loyalynne said, her voice like glass bells ringing. “Your name is Emma Kirby. You know this. We discussed it last night.”
Piper glanced between her father and the doll-woman, confusion clouding her thoughts. “I—”
“She’s not real, Piper,” her father said gently. “Look at her closely.”
“I’m more real than this...” Loyalynne spat, gesturing dismissively at Dad. “He’s just a figment of your imagination, Emma. You created him because you’re afraid of being alone.”
“That’s not true,” Piper said, but doubt made her voice waver.
“Isn’t it?” Loyalynne stepped closer. “You were Emma for twenty years. And now, suddenly, a ‘ghost’ appears to tell you differently?”
Dad’s expression remained calm, his eyes fixed on Piper. “Ask yourself who benefits from keeping you confused about who you are. Ask yourself why she appeared to you only recently, even though you’ve heard your voices for years.”
Piper forced herself to stare directly at Loyalynne, to see past the doll-like appearance that had seemed so real, so comforting in its strange way. As she did, cracks appeared in the illusion—literally, hairline fractures running across the porcelain face, the painted lips, the perfect hands.
“She’s not an independent entity,” her father continued. “She’s a phantom—an echo from another person’s tortured memories. You picked up on it and made it your own.”
“Lies,” Loyalynne hissed, but her voice had changed, carrying an underlying strain that hadn’t been there before. “Don’t listen to him, Emma. We need to keep moving. We need to get farther away from Trentville.”
As Dad explained, his voice was steady and clear. “Your mind reached out to a troubled woman who believed that a doll named Loyalynne was her protector, her friend—the only one who understood her pain.”
Piper’s mind flashed to conversations with Jenna, fragments about that case her sister had shared.
“Stop it!” Loyalynne shrieked, the sound inhuman now, a discordant noise that made Piper flinch. “He’s trying to take me away from you!”
Piper pressed her hands to her temples, the conflicting narratives battling for dominance in her mind. “Why would I do that? Why would I create... you?”
Her father’s expression softened with understanding. “For the same reason you ran away the first time. Protection. Your fears became overwhelming.”
“My fears?”
“You were sixteen,” Dad said, “when those voices first came to you. But you had no idea what they were, no one to talk to about them. So, you started believing that you were dangerous. You thought that leaving was the only way to keep your family safe.”
“I remember feeling like I was losing my mind.”
“And when you found your way home again,” her father continued, “when you started to rebuild your life with Jenna and your mother, the fear came back. You were still hearing those voices. What if you really had brought danger to their door?”
“Yes, I was so afraid,” Piper said.
“At that same time, your sister solved an important case,” Dad explained.
“She told you all about it. And somewhere deep in your mind, you made a connection—the killer your sister brought to justice had created a protector, a companion that kept her separate from others. You felt a need for the same solution.”
Piper turned to look at Loyalynne, seeing the doll-woman with new eyes. The perfect, porcelain features that had seemed so comforting now appeared cold, artificial. The painted smile hides something hard and unforgiving beneath.
“You’re saying I created her? That she’s not real?”
“Not in the way you think,” her father said. “She’s a projection—your mind’s way of expressing your fear of hurting those you love.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, tears blurring her vision. “I left everyone. I forgot who I was.”
“You were trying to protect us,” he said. “But we all want you back home.”
Loyalynne’s form flickered like a candle in a draft. “Don’t listen to him, Emma,” she pleaded, but her voice had lost its melodic quality, sounding thin and desperate. “We’re friends. I’ve been helping you.”
“No,” Piper said, the truth settling into her bones. “I imagined you too well. You’ve been isolating me. Cutting me off from my family again.”
“They’re not your family!” Loyalynne insisted, but her outline was blurring, the edges of her form dispersing like smoke. “You’re Emma Kirby! You’ve always been Emma! You know that’s safer…”
“My name is Piper Graves,” she interrupted, each word stronger than the last. “I’m Margaret and Greg Graves’ daughter. Jenna’s twin sister.”
With each declaration, Loyalynne’s form grew more transparent, the illusion unraveling. The doll-woman reached toward Piper, her movements jerky now, less fluid.
“Please,” Loyalynne begged, “don’t send me away. I don’t want to go back to the darkness.”
Unexpected compassion welled in Piper’s chest. Whatever this apparition was—creation of her mind, psychic echo, or something else entirely—there was a genuine desperation in those fading blue eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Piper said softly. “But you’re not real. Not in this world. And now I need to be who I truly am.”
With those words, Loyalynne's form dissolved completely, dispersing into the morning light like mist touched by the sun. For a moment, Piper felt a pang of loss—the phantom had been her constant companion for days, however misguided her influence.
“She’s gone,” Piper whispered, turning back to her father.
“Yes,” he agreed. “But the voices—your voices—they’re still with you. They are your special talent, just like your sister has her own unusual skills. Some things you’ve seen have already given Jenna insights into cases. And that’s important, because right now Jenna needs your help.”
“Jenna? What’s wrong?”
“There’s a ghost that’s not really a ghost.” Dad’s form was beginning to fade at the edges, his time in this realm growing short. “She’s in danger.”
“I don’t understand,” Piper said, reaching toward him instinctively.
“The voices will explain,” he said, his figure growing more transparent. “Listen to them, Piper. Trust them. They were never your enemy—they just overwhelmed you because you didn’t know how to manage them.”
“Dad, don’t go,” she pleaded, her hands passing through his fading form.
“I’m always watching over you girls,” he said as he faded from view. “Tell your sister and your mother I love them.”
And then he was gone, leaving Piper alone in the dusty room with sunlight now streaming fully through the windows.
The abrupt return to solitude was jarring, but she felt different—clearer, more whole than she could remember being before.
She could feel the fractured pieces of her identity finally coming together.
She pushed herself up to sit properly, her back against the wall. The farmhouse was quiet around her. Taking a deep breath, Piper closed her eyes and did something she’d spent so much time trying to avoid—she deliberately opened herself to the voices.
“I’m listening,” she said aloud. “I need your help. Jenna needs your help.”
At first, nothing happened. The silence stretched on, broken only by the soft sounds of the old house settling and birds beginning their morning songs outside.
Then, like water seeping through cracks in a dam, the whispers came—tentative at first, then growing in volume and clarity, the voices returned.
They didn't overwhelm her this time. They swirled around her like leaves caught in a gentle eddy, bringing fragments of knowledge, insights, and warnings.
Piper listened.
Images began to flash behind her closed eyelids—a mansion standing stark against a twilight sky, someone with a candle moving through darkened halls, hidden passages, secrets buried in walls.
“Show me,” Piper whispered. “Show me what Jenna needs to know.”