10. Bella - A Discovery
Chapter ten
Bella - A Discovery
I sit up in my bed for a full ten seconds, listening to my own heartbeat and the low, steady growl building in Charlie’s chest.
“Okay,” I whisper into the dark. “We’re not doing the ‘pretend it didn’t happen’ thing.”
Charlie doesn’t take his eyes off the door. Something is there, Bella. I will protect you.
“I’m sure it’s nothing. Stay, Charlie,” I say, sliding carefully out of bed. My feet hit the floor, the wood cool under my skin. I reach for the lamp, hesitate, then flick it on.
Soft light spills across the room. Normal. Everything looks completely, reassuringly normal.
“See?” I murmur. “Old house. No problem.”
Charlie doesn’t move.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, more for the light than anything else, and step toward the door. My hand hovers over the knob for a second.
Then I open it.
The hallway beyond is dim, lit only by the weak spill of light from downstairs and the faint glow of a wall sconce halfway down. Shadows stretch long and uneven across the floor.
“Hello?” I call softly. “Finn, are you up here?”
No answer. Apparently not him.
Charlie slips past me before I can stop him, moving into the hall with a purpose that makes my stomach nervous. His posture is alert but not panicked. His ears are forward, tail low but not tucked.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Charlie, slow down.”
He doesn’t. He pads down the hallway, nails clicking softly against the wood, then stops near the far end—right where the floorboard creaked earlier.
He stands there for a second. Then … his tail lifts. It wags.
Once. Twice. More, as if he is listening to someone kind.
My stomach twists. Because Charlie only greets people like that when he already trusts them.
“Okay,” I say, because that is not the reaction I was expecting. “What is it, Charlie?”
He’s kind. He has memories. He’s smart.
I move toward him carefully, every sense on high alert.
“What are you talking about?” I ask quietly.
Charlie’s head tilts slightly, like he’s looking at someone standing just out of my range of vision. Then he steps forward another pace … and sits.
Like he’s waiting.
“Charlie,” I murmur, crouching beside him. “There’s nothing here. See?” I murmur. “Old house.”
You are lying to yourself again, Charlie says calmly.
There isn’t anything or anyone. Not that I can see. Just the hallway. A closed door on one side, slightly ajar on the other.
Except, now that I think of it, it wasn’t open before.
“Hmm.”
Charlie looks at the door, then back at me, then back again.
Well?
“Fine,” I whisper. “We investigate.”
I push the door open. It creaks—not loudly, but enough to make the sound feel deliberate.
The room beyond is smaller than I expected, cluttered but not chaotic. Shelves line the walls, stacked with boxes, old equipment, and what looks like decades of accumulated stuff. A single narrow window lets in a sliver of pale moonlight.
Dust hangs in the air, undisturbed.
Except … I stop in the doorway.
A book lies on the floor. Open. Face down, pages splayed like it was dropped recently.
Charlie sniffs it, tail wagging slowly now, and walks into the room like he’s greeting someone.
Someone loved this book once, he says softly. He’s trying not to scare you.
“Traitor,” I mutter, following him in. The air in here feels different. Not colder, exactly. Just … different. Like the room is holding onto something the rest of the house let go.
Be nice, Charlie says.
“I’m always nice,” I grumble, knowing it isn’t exactly true. I step around a stack of old crates and crouch, reaching for the book.
The cover is worn, leather cracked with age. No title on the front. When I lift it, the binding and pages inside are surprisingly intact.
There’s handwriting inside. My pulse quickens. It’s a log or a journal. I turn it over, scanning the open page.
Patient intake: October 12
Male, mid-fifties. Fisherman. Presents with fatigue, pallor, unexplained bruising.
I freeze.
“Oh,” I whisper. “That sounds familiar.”
Charlie makes a soft sound, like a huff, and nudges my arm. I flip the page. See, helpful, he grunts.
Wound observed at lateral neck. Punctures with irregular tearing. Bleeding persists beyond expected clotting time. Thin and oily.
My breath catches.
“That’s—”
It’s like the wound Silas has.
The same pattern. The same description I just made in my own notes a few hours ago. I glance up, scanning the room.
“Hello?” I say again, softer now. No one answers. But the subtle feeling of something watching me hasn’t gone away.
Charlie’s tail keeps moving, slow and steady.
“You like them,” I say quietly. Whoever them is.
He looks at me, unbothered.
Yes, at least you get that. He says not to scare you, Bella.
I look back down at the journal, turning a few more pages. More entries. Similar symptoms. A line catches my eye:
Recurrence suspected. Pattern not yet confirmed.
“Recurrence,” I repeat under my breath.
My mind starts moving faster now, pieces clicking into place that I don’t fully understand yet.
“This has happened before,” I say.
Charlie sneezes, which I choose to interpret as agreement. I flip back to the inside cover. There, in faded ink, barely legible:
Dr. Elias Mercer
The name means nothing to me. Not yet. But it will.
I straighten slowly, the journal still in my hands.
“Okay,” I say, more firmly now. “So we have a former doctor who apparently dealt with something very similar to what I saw today… and left his notes lying around in a room that was definitely closed earlier.”
Charlie sits again, looking at the empty space beside the shelves. Tail wagging.
“Right,” I murmur. “And you’re making friends.”
Of course, Charlie says.
A faint shift brushes the edge of my vision. I turn—fast this time. But there’s nothing. Just the shelves. The window. The quiet.
But the air feels… lighter. Maybe like it’s satisfied.
I swallow, tightening my grip on the journal.
“Thank you,” I say before I can stop myself. It seemed the right thing to do. The words hang in the room.
No answer.
Charlie lets out a soft, content sigh. You made an effort at being nice. Five stars for you, Bella.
“Okay, calm down,” I tell him quickly. “Back to bed now.”
I back out of the room slowly, pulling the door closed behind me with more care than necessary. In the hallway, everything feels normal again. Or as normal as it gets here.
“Bed,” I say, nodding toward the bedroom. “We’re going to bed. We’re not overthinking this. We’re definitely not assuming we’re being helped by … anything.”
Charlie trots ahead of me like he’s already decided that part. I trust the dead doctor more than several living people we met today. You are absolutely being helped, so don’t resist it.
I follow, journal tucked under my arm.
As I slide back under the covers, I set it on the nightstand, within easy reach. Just in case.
“Charlie,” I whisper as I climb back into bed, “have you ever seen ghosts before? If that’s what you saw…”
Charlie circles once on the rug before settling. Of course, he says.
I stare at him.
“You’re saying that way too casually.”
Most ghosts are harmless, Charlie replies. Living people are usually the bigger problem.
I pull the blanket up. “We’re definitely talking about this in the morning.”
Sleep comes faster this time. But not before one last thought slips through.
These injuries have happened before. Documented.
And now, they’re happening again.