My sleep deprivation was causing hallucinations by the time morning came. I had yet to catch a wink of sleep by the time the chirping of crickets faded into the melodic song of birds. It wasn't unusual; it'd been a common occurrence since my father died. My dreams were plagued by unexplainable nightmares that even the psychologist I'd visited a few times over the last couple months wouldn't be able to decipher. However, what did come with this new house was all the sounds.

If it weren't bad enough that I could hear every single pipe in this house and the mice scurrying in the walls and floorboards, the footsteps I swear I heard from upstairs in the library only added to my inability to sleep. I spent over two hours listening intently as the sound of footsteps sounded overhead, trying everything I could to excuse the sound. It could be the wind blowing the old overgrown elm outside- except when I peered out my own window it wasn't windy in the slightest. It's just a mouse or rat rummaging around-but I could hear the distinct difference. The sounds weren't little flighty sounds. They were loud footsteps, that of an adult.

By the time I swung my legs over the side of my bed, I hit a patch of dust with the heel of my right foot and inhaled it. My coughing fit lasted until I'd finished washing myself up and splashing cold water in my face. There wasn't any point in sitting in bed and freaking myself out more. I may as well put my anxiety and desire to use and get some stuff done. I still had a ton of boxes to unpack downstairs in the living room and dining area, and there was so much more to be done outside of that. I still needed to clean up and see just how much remodeling this old mansion truly needed.

Given that the sun hadn't quite risen yet, I grabbed my phone and a flashlight from my nightstand and crept out of the room. I jumped at the creaking floorboards under my light steps and quickly cast a look up the flight of stairs leading to the third story-and the library I'd heard the steps all night. I contemplated going up for a good five minutes, standing in the hallway in my sheer shirt and shorts, before deciding I ultimately didn't want to end up with the same fate as every final girl ever. If there was any chance, however slight it may be, that there was a squatter hiding out up there, I wasn't going to risk it when I couldn't see.

I kept my right hand wrapped tightly around the railing of the stairs leading back downstairs, listening for any noise outside of myself. I shook my head to myself and smacked a cold hand against my cheek a couple times to shake myself from my thoughts.

I smacked the flashlight and started down the hall to the back of the staircase, slowly lifting the small, dim light so it illuminated the portrait that hung from the wall. It was of a man, sitting on a bar stool, one foot raised and the other flat against the grey floor. The man was faceless, only a cool toned splotch with a mess of black resembling curls encasing the face. It was eerie, but surely wasn't the creepiest painting I'd caught sight of on my tour through the place. The second, however, had me stop in my tracks and my feet remained glued to the ground.

It was some kind of creature; not a bear, but not quite a lion either. Its head was atop a silver platter at the center of the dining table, eyes amber and seemingly glowing as it stared me down in the picture. A candle holder was at its right, a broken teacup on its left. A cold chill shot down my back at the sight of it, and the fear that I could swear I read an old fairytale with a similar monstrous prince at one point in my childhood.

A loud crashing came from the end of the hall; so loud that I jumped and slammed my forehead into the outer edge of the picture frame. I inhaled sharply and shone the light toward the door at the end of the hall, directly in front of me. I could swear that it'd been at least a few feet away not even a minute prior. On cue, another slamming sounded against the door and I tried to unglue my feet from the floor.

Instead, my body started involuntarily inching forward, closer to the sound. It was as if I'd lost full control of my legs and as hard as I willed myself to stop, the desire to see what was behind that door overpowered the need to run in the opposite direction. Coming to this realization, the minute I threw open the door open, I held the flashlight up and breathed out a quiet, "Hello?"

Of course there was no response. With a staircase before me, I could only assume it was some kind of basement. I hadn't explored anything passed this door when I'd come a couple weeks ago. I tried to step back, but a quick dancing of a shadow across the bottom of the stairs had my body paralyzed in place against my will.

"Who's down there?" I called, clutching my phone and readying my fingers to call the police. I took another step in despite having absolutely no idea why, and within seconds a cracking echoed through the house, my foot when straight through the top stair of the unlit room, and I let out an agonized cry. My flashlight was gone, somewhere behind me, allowing only a small spot of light visible to my right, and I couldn't even see my phone anymore.

This was it. This was how I was going to die. By some crazy lunatic squatter living in the basement of this old mansion.

"I'm sorry, Dad." I whispered aloud, trying to retract my leg, but my ankle was throbbing, the pain so excruciating a sob managed to get itself in between my apology. "I know you told me to live for you, but look at me now."

I was greeted with silence and squeezed my eyes shut. I'd have to hope they at least made the death quick. Because I was already in so much pain I couldn't imagine more.

Just as I turned my head to the right to stare at the spot of light I felt the cold brushing of fingertips against my shin. I gasped, but as hard as I tried to pull my leg back into me, to wiggle it free from the hole I the stair, it wouldn't budge.

"Please." I pled, and though I was met with only darkness, I hoped they could hear the sincerity in my voice. "Please don't hurt me."

There was something between a scoff and a laugh that escaped the owner of the cold fingertips, and I cocked my head to the right. Because though they sounded so very masculine, they also sounded incredibly familiar.

"I'll leave." I whispered, trying to reason with him. "Just let me get my foot free. You can have the house."

There was a long pause of silence before an entire hand, so cold my entire body tensed, wrapped itself around the bottom of my left leg. I breathed out shakily, ready for him to finish me off, but after a moment of complete and utter stillness on my end, I realized he wasn't trying to hurt me further, but trying to get my ankle free.

"You're helping me." I croaked, confused. "Why?"

There was something close to a chuckle before a very hoarse, husky, "Last I remember, you were supposed to thank someone for helping you, not question them."

I blinked, and in the moment I lost complete ability to think, he yanked my foot free and I let out another cry and felt my entire body start to tremble. Because even five years later and vocal chords damaged, I recognized that voice. I could place bets on everyone in Obscurum recognizing it too.

"I'm dead." I whispered, my hand scrambling for my phone. "I'm dead."

"You're not dead."

I shook my head in response. "No."

"Huh?"

"You're dead." I leaned to the left, not realizing that was where his body was leaning and slammed right into his chest. He caught my waist and held me flush against him as my other hand secured the flashlight and I slowly raised it so it shone across our faces.

It was him.

It was Kieran Blackwell.

Even with his hair an untamable mess of thick, dark black waves, a full beard, and his crystal blue eyes hardly visible through overgrown bangs, I could still see the angsty, infuriating seventeen-year-old boy that stared back at me every time I walked into a store back home. Even though he'd been missing for almost six years, nobody had ever taken the missing posters down. An elderly woman had explained to me in passing that she hoped it'd call him back home where he belonged.

"Kieran." I fought the impulse to reach up and touch his face to see if he truly were real or this was just some really lucid dream. Or maybe. . . maybe I was dead.

"I'm not dead either." he breathed, and as he said it, I saw the agony clear as day in his eyes. "Though I'd give anything to be."

I thought he'd drop me then, move away and disappear into the darkness to leave me to wake up from this nightmare in peace. But he kept me against him, as if he were afraid that I'd fall down the flight of stairs the minute he let go.

"But you. . . dead. . . what?"

He shifted suddenly, set me so I was out of the small, claustrophobic space, but remained in the shadow of the room so I couldn't see him fully. He extended his arm into the light of the hallway to touch my bleeding ankle, and my hand shot to my mouth. Though my foot appeared a mangled mess, I was starting to get feeling back in it. My eyes were on his wrist, completely skinned and a bloody mess. He looked as if he'd been restrained by something and had fought against it to escape, taking the top layer of skin with it.

"It's not broken. Might be sprained." he whispered, retracting his arm back so all I could see were his eyes in the darkness. "Get it looked at. Be more careful."

"This isn't real." I shook my head again. "No way."

He stared for a long time before he whispered. "You can believe what you want to, love. Whatever you do don't go down those stairs. Do not go in that basement."

I blinked, "Why?"

"Stay out of the basement."

I blinked once more and he was gone, the door shut itself a couple seconds later. I turned my leg and stared in horror at my ankle, then back at the door, before letting out a quiet cry. The cries quickly turned to sobs until it was the only thing that could be heard in the old building.