Ethan lay on the dirt, gasping like he'd been underwater for years. The world was quiet—too quiet. No pulsing walls, no red light, no whispering bones. Just the cool brush of night air and the distant hum of insects.
For a long time, he didn't move. Neither did the ninja. They just lay there, side by side, the sky stretching endlessly above them, as if the universe itself was pretending nothing had happened.
Then came the sound.
Thud.
A single heartbeat.
Not from him.
From the earth.
Ethan slowly turned his head. His breath caught in his throat.
The house stood there again.
Perfect. Whole. Ordinary.
Not the crooked, haunted ruin he'd first arrived to. No cracks, no sagging wood, no ominous tilts or hissing floorboards. The windows gleamed with reflected moonlight, and the little welcome mat sat neatly by the front door—bright, clean, new.
It shouldn't exist. It should've been gone—burned, buried, devoured by whatever hellish dimension they'd escaped from. But here it was. Serene. Beautiful. Deceptive.
Ethan stared for a long time, jaw slack. His mind whispered the obvious word: run. But his body was done listening.
He whispered, "You've got to be kidding me."
The ninja stirred beside him, groaning. "We didn't escape?"
Ethan forced a shaky laugh. "Oh, we escaped. We're just… back home. Congratulations. We're the world's worst escape artists."
She tried to sit up, failed, and winced. Her bandaged leg looked worse under moonlight, the wound dark and crusted. Ethan sighed.
"Alright," he muttered. "You can't even stand. I guess that makes me the responsible adult tonight. Great. Just what I needed."
He stood, his legs trembling, and helped her up. Together they limped toward the house that shouldn't exist.
Every step made his stomach twist.
The closer they got, the more real the house felt—fresh paint smell, faint glow from the porch light, clean curtains fluttering behind windows. It wasn't rebuilt. It was reset.
When they reached the door, Ethan hesitated. The mat read the same word it always did: STAY—but this time, the letters were embroidered in gold thread, not red.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Subtle upgrade. Not creepy at all."
He pushed the door open. It didn't creak. It swung smoothly, like a well-oiled hinge.
Inside, the air was warm. The furniture was new, the floor polished. His couch was back—no rips, no stains. The walls were clean, repainted a soft beige that looked disgustingly inviting.
If not for the faint throbbing in his chest where the ghost's mark burned, he could almost believe it.
Almost.
He guided the ninja to the first-floor guest room. The bed inside was made, white sheets tucked tight. He eased her down carefully. She tried to protest, but he shook his head.
"Don't even start. You need rest. I'll… figure this out."
"You're staying?" she asked quietly.
Ethan managed a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Lady, at this point, I'd rather fight a ghost than sleep outside."
She didn't argue. Her exhaustion won. Within minutes, she was asleep—steady breathing, hand still clutching the hilt of her sword even in dreams.
Ethan lingered at the door, watching her. Then he looked around the room. Everything in it was too clean, too symmetrical. Even the shadows seemed placed on purpose.
He whispered, "Don't you dare be alive again."
No response. Just silence.
He turned and left.
Morning came like a trick. The sunlight felt fake—soft, golden, perfect. The birds outside sang in a harmony too precise to be natural. Ethan stared at the clock on the wall. 7:45 a.m.
He hadn't slept. Not a wink. He sat on the couch, hair a mess, staring blankly at the TV that wasn't plugged in but was somehow showing static anyway.
"Alright," he muttered, clapping his hands together. "New day. Totally fine. I'm fine. Just living in a haunted house that spontaneously renovated itself overnight. Normal."
He stood, grabbed his backpack, and headed for the door.
Halfway out, he paused and looked up the stairs. The ninja was still asleep—or pretending to be. He'd left her water and a first aid kit from the bathroom. She'd live. Probably.
He exhaled. "Take it easy, stabby. Don't burn the place down while I'm gone."
The door shut behind him with a quiet click.
The streets of Nolite were brighter than he remembered. Too bright. Students laughed, cars rolled by, birds perched neatly in rows on telephone wires. For once, nobody stared at him. No whispers. No sense of wrongness.
Ethan walked to campus, head down, muttering to himself.
"Two days gone. No sleep. Ghost trauma. Cult trauma. Demon house trauma. But sure—let's go learn calculus."
When he reached the main gate, the guard just waved him in. No questions. No strange looks.
Inside, the college buzzed like a hive. Students ran between buildings, shouting, laughing, alive. Everything looked normal. Too normal. Ethan's brain kept waiting for the punchline—blood dripping from walls, eyes in reflections, something. But nothing came.
He went to class. Sat by the window again. The sunlight felt warm on his face, real.
The professor droned about thermodynamics, and Ethan found himself actually taking notes. For a while, it was almost peaceful.
Then he noticed the reflection.
In the window, the classroom looked exactly as it should—except for one small thing. In the reflection, he wasn't alone.
Behind him, sitting two rows back, was a pale figure in a white dress.
He turned instantly—nothing there. Just empty seats.
His pulse quickened.
He looked back at the reflection. Still there. The figure didn't move. Didn't fade. Just stared.
Ethan forced a grin and whispered under his breath, "Not today. Not in public. You haunt me after class like a civilized ghost, alright?"
He didn't look at the window again.
By the time he got home that evening, the sun was dipping below the horizon. The house glowed in orange light, peaceful and beautiful.
He opened the door, expecting silence.
Instead, he heard movement upstairs—the soft sound of pacing.
He called out, "Hey! You're awake?"
No answer.
He frowned, setting his bag down. "Look, if you're gonna sneak up on me again, at least don't stab me this time."
Still nothing.
He climbed the stairs slowly. The hallway was dim now, the evening sun barely touching the edges. The first-floor room door stood open.
Inside, the ninja was sitting by the window, still in her torn outfit, mask on, one leg bandaged. She didn't look at him.
Ethan smiled faintly. "You're up. That's—uh—good. Feeling better?"
No reply.
He stepped closer. "Hey. You alright?"
She turned her head slowly. Her eye—the one visible through the cracked mask—was glassy. Empty.
Then, from somewhere deep inside the house, he heard a faint, familiar whisper.
Stay.
Ethan froze.
The ninja blinked, as if waking from a trance, and looked at him like nothing had happened. "You said something?"
Ethan forced a shaky laugh. "Yeah. Dinner. I said dinner. You hungry?"
She nodded faintly, confused but too tired to question.
Ethan smiled, but his reflection in the window behind her wasn't smiling back. It stood perfectly still—eyes glowing faintly red.