Ghostbane

Richard pedaled his cycle down the familiar roads, the night air cool against his face. The weight of the day settled heavily on his shoulders. The cemetery, Oliver, the strange cult—everything felt like a tangled mess. He had seen too much in too little time.

As he neared home, the dim glow of streetlights flickered, casting long shadows across the pavement. His house came into view, a small comfort in the midst of everything. He hopped off his cycle and leaned it against the porch railing before stepping inside.

The sound of running water echoed from the bathroom—his grandma was taking a bath. The faint murmur of the TV drifted from the living room. Richard turned his head and saw George, lounging on the couch, eyes fixed on the screen, a half-empty mug of tea resting on the table beside him.

George didn't even look up as he spoke. "You're late."

Richard sighed, dropping his bag on the floor. "Yeah, no shit."

George muted the TV and turned his head slightly. "So? How was it?"

Richard rubbed his temple. "A mess." He walked over and sat down across from his grandfather. "We tracked down Oliver. He was hiding out in a shack in the cemetery. Place was filled with drugs, skulls, blood—whole place looked like a goddamn horror movie."

George raised a brow. "And?"

"We caught him. Beat some answers out of him, but he's not saying much. We found some weird stuff too. A tree with ritual markings, and—" Richard hesitated, then pulled out his phone, scrolling through his photos. "—this."

He turned the screen to George, showing him the image of Oliver in the red robe, surrounded by other cult members. The black-robed figure with the goat skull in the center stood out like a nightmare.

George leaned in, eyes narrowing. He stayed silent for a long moment before exhaling. "Shit."

"Yeah."

George studied the image. "So where's Oliver now?"

"Max took him," Richard said, leaning back. "Figured we'd get more out of him later."

George let out a tired sigh. "You know, back in my day, we used to kill cult bastards like him on sight. Saved everyone a lot of trouble."

Richard scoffed. "Yeah, well, I don't think Max wants to go to prison just yet."

George set the phone down and stretched his arms. "Alright, you two keep at it. Keep digging. I want to know exactly what the hell you're dealing with before things get worse."

Richard frowned. "Why aren't you helping us? You're literally an exorcist."

George waved a hand lazily. "I'm old. You want me to be running around like a goddamn teenager? My knees will give out before I reach the crime scene."

Richard smirked. "Maybe if you didn't eat like a pig, your knees wouldn't be giving up on you."

George shot him a glare. "Watch your mouth, kid, or I'll throw you back into that damn cemetery."

Richard snorted and stood up. "Whatever, old man. I'm heading to my room."

George grumbled something under his breath and unmuted the TV.

Richard grabbed his phone and headed upstairs,

Richard closed the door behind him and collapsed onto his bed, letting out a long exhale. His body felt sore from the entire day, but his mind refused to rest. There were too many pieces to this puzzle, and none of them fit together just yet.

He pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and scrolled to his photo gallery. He had taken a lot of pictures of the shack and the cemetery—anything that seemed even remotely important.

He clicked on the first image.

It was a shot of the shack's entrance. The door was barely hanging onto its rusted hinges, the wood rotting and covered in graffiti. The words "Offer your blood" were faintly visible, written in something that looked too dark and thick to be regular paint.

Richard swiped to the next photo.

Inside the shack—broken wooden planks, dirt-streaked walls, and a pile of old, stained mattresses in the corner. The floor was littered with cigarette butts, crushed beer cans, and empty pill bottles. The entire place reeked of filth and death.

He zoomed in on the wall near the mattress. There were carvings—dozens of them. Some were just random scribbles, but others looked like symbols. Strange shapes and spirals, some crossed over with deep scratches as if someone had tried to erase them.

Swipe.

A picture of the small wooden table in the shack. On it were leftover food scraps, a lighter, a half-empty bottle of cheap alcohol, and a rusted knife. The blade was coated in something dark—dried blood? Richard wasn't sure.

Swipe.

The next photo showed a close-up of a candle—half-burnt, red wax melted onto the table. Around it were bones. Small ones. Not animal bones. Richard wasn't an expert, but they looked eerily similar to finger bones. His stomach turned.

Swipe.

Then came the most unsettling image.

The photo of Oliver and his cult.

Richard had taken the picture from inside the shack, where he found it hidden in one of the drawers. Even now, just looking at it made his skin crawl.

Oliver stood on the far left, wearing a deep red robe. His face looked twisted—eyes wild, lips curled into a sick grin. He wasn't alone. There were at least seven others in similar red robes, all standing in a row in what looked like a basement or an underground chamber.

And then, at the center of the group, was him.

The black-robed figure.

Unlike the others, his robe was pitch black, the hood casting a shadow over his face. He wore a goat skull as a mask, its hollow eyes peering into nothingness. The air around him seemed… off. Like the photograph itself carried his presence.

Richard zoomed in on the figure's hands. His right hand was raised slightly, fingers stretched in an unnatural way. Was he holding something? No, there was nothing visible, but Richard had a gut feeling—this was the leader.

He stared at the photo for a long time, something gnawing at the back of his mind.

Who was this guy?

Swipe.

The next picture was different—it wasn't from the shack but from the tree Max and Amelia found.

It showed an old, massive tree, its bark covered in more of those strange carvings. Skulls—human and animal—were placed at its roots, as if arranged for a ritual. Some were broken, others still intact, their hollow sockets staring into the abyss.

There was something tied to the trunk. Richard had barely noticed it earlier, but now that he looked closer… a piece of red cloth.

Same color as the cult robes.

Swipe.

The last image was the wide shot of the entire area. The shack. The tree. The graves surrounding them.

Richard exhaled, locking his phone.

It was too much to process in one night.

He leaned back on his bed, eyes staring at the ceiling.

Richard sat on his bed, scrolling through the photos he had taken at the shack. His mind was still clouded with everything that had happened today. He was exhausted, but sleep wasn't an option—not with everything racing through his head.

Then, his phone started vibrating.

Emma.

His eyes narrowed at the screen. He hadn't spoken to her in a while. Not because he was mad at her or anything—but because he just… didn't feel like it. He had too much on his plate, too much that he couldn't even begin to explain.

He let it ring a little longer than he should have, debating whether to answer.

Eventually, he sighed and picked up. "Yeah?"

There was a pause before Emma spoke. "Hey... Richard."

Richard immediately noticed it. Her voice was off. She wasn't talking like she usually did. No teasing, no attitude. Just… hesitant.

He leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. "What do you want?" His tone wasn't rude, but it was flat, uninterested.

Another pause.

"Are you… busy right now?"

Richard glanced at his phone screen, then at the stack of notes beside him. He could've said yes. He could've used any excuse to get out of this conversation. But for some reason, he just muttered—"Not really."

"Can we talk? In person?" Emma's voice sounded weird.

Richard frowned. "Why?"

"I just… I need to tell you something. But not over the phone."

Richard sighed, rubbing his temple. "If you have something to say, just say it now."

"No," she insisted. "Not over the phone. Just—can you come outside? Please?"

Richard exhaled slowly. There was a time when he wouldn't have questioned her. A time when he would've immediately gotten up and gone to meet her.

But things were different now.

Still, something about her voice made it hard to ignore.

He pushed himself off the bed, grabbing his hoodie. "Fine."

"Okay," Emma said, relief clear in her tone. "I'm outside."

Richard blinked. "Outside where?"

"Your house."

Richard froze for a second. He hadn't even noticed her presence.

He shook his head and muttered, "Alright, I'm coming."

Hanging up, he shoved his phone in his pocket and headed outside

Richard stood outside his house, the streetlights casting an orange glow on the pavement. The night air was still, too quiet, except for the faint sound of distant traffic. He spotted Emma standing near an electric pole, arms crossed, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

She looked anxious.

Richard exhaled slowly before making his way toward her, his steps measured. His mind was still on the photos he had been reviewing, and now, this? It was late, and Emma showing up unannounced didn't sit right with him.

"Emma," he greeted, his voice flat.

Emma turned, her eyes widening slightly as if seeing him up close made her second-guess coming here. But she didn't back away. Instead, she swallowed hard and spoke.

"Richard… do you have a minute?"

Richard stared at her. "You're already here. Might as well say whatever it is you need to say."

Emma hesitated, glancing down at her feet before shaking her head. "Not here. Can we sit somewhere?"

Richard sighed, rubbing his temple. "Fine." He motioned toward the porch. "Let's talk."

They sat on the steps, Emma clasping her hands together tightly while Richard leaned back, his arms resting on his knees.

A few moments of silence passed before Emma finally spoke. "I… I don't know how to explain this, but something's been bothering me."

Richard gave her a side glance. "Go on."

Emma took a shaky breath. "I feel like… I'm forgetting something. No—someone." She clenched her fists. "There's this girl. I remember her face, but I don't remember her name. I remember her voice, but not the words she said."

Richard's breath hitched slightly, but he kept his expression neutral.

"And it's not just her," Emma continued, staring at the ground. "There was someone else too… I think. A guy. I remember laughing with him, walking home with him after school. But when I try to picture his face, it's like my mind refuses to see it."

Richard stayed silent, his hands gripping his knees slightly.

Emma let out a frustrated sigh. "And the worst part? No one else remembers them. I asked around. Our classmates, our teachers—hell, even my parents. They all looked at me like I was insane. Like those people never existed." She looked up at Richard, her eyes filled with something close to desperation. "But you… you remember them, don't you?"

Richard's jaw tightened. He didn't answer right away. Instead, he looked away, staring at the dark street ahead.

"What makes you think that?" he finally muttered.

Emma scoffed, shaking her head. "Because you've been acting different. Ever since… whatever the hell happened, you haven't been the same. And I know I'm not crazy, Richard. I know I didn't just imagine two whole people."

Richard sighed through his nose, running a hand through his hair. "Emma… drop it."

Emma's head snapped toward him. "What?"

Richard turned to look at her fully, his gaze unreadable. "You're right. No one remembers them. No one but you. So why do you think that is?"

Emma frowned, processing his words. "Because…" Her voice trailed off as realization hit her. "Because something doesn't want me to remember?"

Richard nodded slightly. "And if that's the case… maybe you should stop trying."

Emma's face twisted in disbelief. "Are you hearing yourself right now? Richard, these were our friends! How can you just—just let them be forgotten?"

Richard's expression darkened. "Because no matter how hard you try, Emma, you can't bring back something that no longer exists."

Emma stared at him, her breath hitching. The weight in his voice, the way he said it—it wasn't just cold. It was painful.

"You do remember," she whispered.

Richard didn't confirm or deny it. He simply stood up, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Go home, Emma. Get some rest."

Emma remained seated, gripping her knees tightly. "This isn't over, Richard."

Richard sighed, stepping back toward his house. "I know."