Nightwalker

Twenty Eight

Riordan

The night was still and raining heavily. A lot calmer than hours ago when we'd faced the Incubaré.

However, I knew it wouldn't last. Something felt off. While I was supposed to feel relief that my brother regained consciousness, that relief was fleeting.

He'd been absent from his own body since the first signs of possession appeared, indicating that the Incubaré was far more insidious and active in its hosts than I had realized.

He went about his daily routine—attending school, playing video games, and embracing our dad—as if nothing had changed. But none of that was truly my brother.

I stood in the bathtub, wringing out my clothes, annoyed about how to rid my jeans of the inky vomit stain Sean left for me to deal with. Whatever substance it was, it was stuck like glue.

As I shook out my pants, the energy dampener tumbled from the pocket and crashed into the bath, breaking apart as though it were made of anything but stone.

Fuck.

That's what I get for trying to stay up.

I didn't need another person to save. I needed a break. As long as I stayed awake, the three day cycle would continue without me having to worry about a single soul.

Christian was still sleeping soundly on my couch while Thor, Martie, and Soren left for home.

We couldn't find his address, so dropping him at his house before he woke was no longer an option.

He was going to wake up any minute now, and I wasn't in the slightest bit prepared to explain why he was there.

I jump at a chiming sound coming from downstairs.

Who the hell is at my door at 1:30 in the morning?

I slowly make my way downstairs, wishing I had my father's hunting gun equipped.

It's been raining heavily for hours now--there shouldn't be a soul out in Solaris here at their own will, especially this late.

Listening with my ear flat on my front door, I mumble a quick prayer before looking through the peephole.

No one.

In a horror film, this would be the moment when I typically reach my limit with the main character's foolishness. Logically, I'd be shouting at the screen, swearing at them to tighten up and refrain from opening any doors to strangers.

However, lately, I couldn't care less about being the person on TV. Each day already feels like a horror movie in itself.

I unlock the door, and swiftly turn the knob, opening it.

Not a single soul in sight.

Did I manage to let a spirit in my house after just banishing one? Or am I seriously hearing things?

I peek my head through a bit and look around to see if I'd just missed them, but the only thing that greeted me was the water spattering on my front porch right onto my bare feet.

Before closing the door, I notice a foil-covered glass dish sitting right on our welcome mat.

A yellow sticky note was attached to it.

𝙷𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗, 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚋𝚘𝚛. -L

It must've been the guy Dad was talking to us about at dinner a couple of weeks ago.