The book wouldn't close.
It wouldn't let go.
The sheets of paper, which had been scattered in the air until now, were now slowly rearranging themselves, but they weren't forming a new image. They just floated, as if waiting. The air had become thicker. Not cold—heavy. It was as if permission had to be asked for every breath.
Ken was still kneeling.
He wasn't sobbing.
He wasn't shouting.
This was worse.
His eyes were open, but he wasn't looking. His hands were shaking slightly, his fingers gripping his coat tightly, as if it were holding him here, in the present.
Courtney had always found a phrase.
A half-smile.
A comment that could defuse the situation.
Not now.
She knelt in front of Ken.
Not next to him.
Not above him.
In front of him.
The sarcasm disappeared from her face. Not consciously—there simply wasn't room for it. Her soft beautiful voice, when she spoke, was barely above a whisper.
"Ken…" she said. "Look at me."
Ken didn't react.
Courtney took his hand slowly, very slowly. She didn't tug. She didn't squeeze.
He was just there.
As real.
"You're here," she continued. "Now. Not there. Not then."
Ken's eyes flickered.
For a single moment.
That was enough.
Martin instinctively pulled back. He wasn't joking. He didn't move. Even he could sense that this moment was as fragile as glass.
And then…
The book cracked.
It didn't open.
It didn't turn.
It moved from within.
The ink on one of the floating pages slowly flowed together. It wasn't writing words. Not sentences. Just a fragment.
A name.
Not completely.
Not clearly.
The letters appeared distorted, as if someone had stopped writing:
— FAC—
— THE V—
— GUEST —
The ink smeared. The paper screamed—not with sound, but with vibration. Ken gasped suddenly, as if someone had sat on his chest.
"No…" he whispered. "This… this wasn't a guest."
Norman had been silent until now.
Now he stepped forward.
His eyes were not on the name, but on the missing part. The broken letters. The part that had been deliberately hidden.
"It's incomplete," he said slowly, "because you can't give it a complete name."
Courtney looked up at him.
"What are you talking about?"
Norman swallowed.
"It's not a ghost. It's not dead. It's not an entity that's "stuck there."
Ken looked up at him. His eyes were blank, but he was listening.
"So what happened?" he asked hoarsely.
Norman moved closer to the book, but he didn't touch it.
"A watcher," he said finally. "Something that's not here… but not over there either. It doesn't haunt. It doesn't hunt."
"Then what is it doing?" Martin asked quietly.
Norman's voice tightened.
"Wait."
The word cut through the silence.
The ink in the book moved again, as if reacting.
The letters became clearer for a moment.
THE V—
— GUEST
"Guest…" Courtney repeated quietly. "But no one called."
Norman nodded.
"And it didn't leave. It just… withdrew."
Ken's body trembled.
"My dog…" he whispered. "He knew. He knew before I did."
"Animals sense things like that," Norman said.
"Because they don't see faces. They don't see shapes."
"They see intent," Courtney finished.
And then he realized he was trembling.
Not from fear.
But from the realization that Ken had been through this alone.
Courtney leaned closer to him.
"Ken…" she said. "If this came back… it wasn't because you were weak."
The Ken looked at her. "Then why?"
Courtney's voice broke. Not dramatically. Just a hair's breadth. "Because you survived."
The pages of the book slowly fell to the floor.
But no one believed it was over.
Because there was still a feeling in the air:
Something was watching.
And now it had a name.
Not complete.
But enough to let them know:
this was just the beginning.