My voice cracks. The image slams back into my head, vivid and wrong and smiling.
“Val.” Shaun grips my arm. His eyes meet mine, wide and wrecked in a way that mirrors exactly how I feel. “I don’t know.”
We stand there whispering like idiots in a house soaked in blood and vines, trying to have a calm, rational discussion about the impossible.
“This is . . . not ideal,” I whisper.
Shaun nods gravely, also whispering. “Strong agree.”
“On a scale from one to haunted murder farmhouse,” I whisper, my voice barely holding together, “where are we right now?”
Shaun doesn’t hesitate, his stance taking on full-blown panic mode. “Oh, we blew past haunted murder farmhouse. We’re in the dimension where haunted murder farmhouse is run by demonic pumpkinheads with a necromancy quota.”
“Cool,” I murmur. “Love an organized threat. Cool, cool, cool.”
My laugh comes out thin and wrong, more air than sound. My pulse won’t slow.
Shaun shifts closer, like the walls might be listening. His hand settles at my back, solid and warm, thumb tracing circles that ground me to the moment. To him. The world narrows to that small motion.
Then his other hand cups my jaw, gently turning my face toward his. Like he needs me focused. Like he won’t let me spiral.
“It’s going to be okay,” he whispers.
The words feel dangerous. Reckless. Like saying them out loud might tempt fate to prove him wrong.
He presses his forehead to mine for a heartbeat. I feel his breath. His tension. His resolve.
“I’ve got you.”
My brain latches on to that. Holds tight. “And I’ve got you.”
I pull my phone from my pocket. No bars. Just that stupid spinning wheel, endlessly searching like it’s mocking me. “No signal,” I whisper, like lowering my voice might magically convince a cell tower to care.
Shaun checks his. Same blank lie.
We tear through the kitchen. The landline dangles from the wall, receiver cracked in half, cord ripped straight from the baselike someone jerked it loose in pure panic. How did we miss that?
“Great,” I mutter. Of course the one thing designed for emergencies is very dead.
Shaun steps past me, jaw set. “Stay here.”
I snort, sharp and shaky. “Like hell I will.”
He ignores me and moves back into the living room. My nerves spike until I hear him murmur, quiet and grim, “Bingo.”
He reaches above the mantel and pulls down a shotgun. Dust and dried pumpkin pulp rain onto the floor. He checks the chamber. Empty. His mouth tightens. “Shit.”
I nod at an old buffet table nearby. “Check the drawers.”
We start pulling them open and it's not until Shaun gets to the bottom right one that he exhales in relief. He takes out a box of shells and loads the gun with smooth, practiced movements. The click of metal immediately makes me feel better. Atinybit.
He pockets what he can, then presses a few shells into my hand. “Hold these.”
I nod and shove the shells into my jeans pocket, fingers clumsy and slick with sweat. They rattle together. I wince and still them with my palm. It’s not like the vines can warn the others. Right?
By the door, something catches the light. Fred’s truck keys hang from a hook shaped like a smiling pumpkin. Of course they do. I tug them free. “We’re not staying here.”
Shaun nods immediately. No argument. “Couldn’t agree more.”
