Page 73 of Espíritu

“Who’s there?” he called out, trying to sound intimidating, but it came out strangled. “This ain’t funny!”

Then he saw it—

A shadowy figure detached itself from the gloom. It materialized, standing before the bare, cracked wall like something peeled from a nightmare.

Julian scrambled back with a yelp, slamming into the cabinets hard enough to make them rattle. “Stay away from me, I’m warning you!”

But even as he said it, Julian knew his fists were useless against whatever this was. Could he even fight off a ghost without a brujo’s blade?

The figure didn’t move. It just stood there.

The lights from the drain writhed upward like mist, catching the edges of its silhouette—too long in places, too jagged in others. And there was something—familiar? Not exactly. But it almost looked like—

He blinked, and it was suddenly closer. Looming. Shadows danced around it like flames.

Julian’s breath hitched. His voice caught in his throat.

The figure stepped forward, the blue light from the sink casting an eerie luminance over its form.

“Who are you?!” Julian demanded, trying to keep the tremble from his voice. “What do you want?!”

The figure remained silent, but its presence filled the kitchen, oppressive and heavy, snuffing out every source of light except for the watery glow.

Julian swallowed hard. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to wake his friends. But he couldn’t move, rooted to the spot by terror, or something else.

“Julian?”

The sudden voice snapped Julian out of his trance, spinning him around with a startled jerk.

Flaca stood in the kitchen, barefoot in a tank top and sweatpants, squinting against the dim light. Her lip gloss was half smeared and her hair was pulled into a messy bun. She blinked sleepily. “What are you doing?”

Julian whipped around—

The figure was gone.

Just the cracked kitchen wall. Just him.

The glow in the sink had vanished.

Julian pressed a hand to his chest. “Shit,” he breathed, swallowing hard. “I—nothing. Just thought I saw a roach or something.”

Flaca stared at him. “You look like you saw a demon.” She stepped closer, the soft slap of her bare feet over the linoleum flooring oddly loud in the bizarre silence that seemed to cling to the apartment.

Julian barked a sharp laugh. “Roaches kinda are the devil.”

“You were talking to the wall,” she went on. “Like … full-on whispering.”

“I wasn’t—” He rubbed the back of his neck. His skin was clammy. “It’s late. I think I was sleepwalking or something. Dunno.”

Flaca didn’t look convinced. She stepped closer, arms folded. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” he said too fast. “I’m fine. Seriously.”

Her expression didn’t change. “You don’t seem fine.”

Julian forced a grin. “You waking up to catch me talking to a cockroach or whatever? Totally fine.”

After a beat, Flaca rolled her eyes and turned away, muttering, “Whatever. Just go back to bed before Rio hears you and adds another tracker.”