Ghostbane

Richard stood still, his hands tucked into his pockets as Emma's voice trembled with desperation. Her eyes were glossy, her breath uneven.

"Richard… please," she whispered, wiping her face with her sleeve. "I know this sounds crazy, but I swear something's wrong. I keep remembering—faces, moments, people—but no one else does. It's like… like I dreamed them, but I know I didn't. I know they were real."

Richard's expression remained cold. He barely blinked, his face unreadable. "Go home, Emma."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "Don't do that. Don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about. I feel it, Richard. There was someone—some people—but when I try to think harder, their names, their voices… it's all slipping away. Like my brain is fighting against it."

Richard exhaled sharply, turning his head away. He had heard enough.

"The less you know, the better," he muttered, stepping past her.

Emma grabbed his wrist. "No. You don't get to brush this off like it's nothing."

Richard pulled his hand away, not aggressively, but firm enough to make her let go. He looked at her then—really looked at her. The confusion, the fear, the cracks in her sanity from trying to hold on to people the world had erased.

"It is nothing," Richard finally said. "Go home, Emma. Forget about it."

And with that, he walked back inside his house, leaving Emma standing alone beneath the streetlight, silent and lost in her thoughts.

Richard stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. His grandma glanced up from the kitchen, her eyes filled with quiet concern.

"Where did you go?" she asked.

"Just outside for some air," Richard said flatly, slipping off his shoes.

She hesitated for a second, as if about to ask something else, but just sighed and went back to stirring a pot on the stove.

In the living room, George sat on the couch, lazily watching the TV. His posture was relaxed, but his sharp eyes flickered toward Richard the second he entered.

"You're back," George muttered, not looking away from the screen.

"Yeah," Richard replied, stepping closer. "I need to ask you something."

George raised an eyebrow. "You? Asking questions? Must be serious."

Richard ignored him. "I just ran into someone. She remembers things she shouldn't."

That got George's attention. He turned the volume down and fully faced Richard. "Explain."

Richard exhaled. "Emma. She—she doesn't remember everything. But she knows something's missing. Like a gap in her memory. She remembers a girl… a name she can't quite recall. And she's losing it, trying to figure out why she feels that way."

George leaned back, rubbing his chin. "Huh."

"Huh?" Richard snapped. "That's all you have to say?"

George sighed. "You want a full lecture? Fine. People with strong spiritual power don't just forget things like normal people do. When something gets erased, most just move on without even noticing the gap. But those with high enough spirit energy? They feel it. Like a hole in their memories that never fully closes."

Richard's fingers curled into a fist. "So she's not crazy."

"Nope," George said. "But if she keeps trying to force herself to remember, it's going to drive her mad. It's like grabbing onto smoke—the harder you try, the faster it slips through your fingers."

Richard clenched his jaw. "What happens if she does remember?"

George looked at him, dead serious. "Then she starts seeing things she shouldn't. And trust me, kid, no one wants that."

Richard let out a dry laugh. "Already told her to forget it."

"Smart," George said with a nod. "Then don't think too hard about it either."

Richard scoffed but didn't argue. He turned toward the stairs, but George called out, "One more thing."

Richard stopped.

"Emma's not the only one," George said. "You're gonna start meeting more people like that—people who almost remember, people whose spiritual energy is just strong enough to notice the cracks but not enough to see through them."

Richard didn't respond. He just walked up the stairs, each step heavier than the last.

He entered his room, shut the door, and sat on his bed. His phone was still in his hand, his fingers tightening around it.

It wasn't fair.

Why was he the only one who had to carry this knowledge? Why did he have to remember?

Richard exhaled sharply and flopped onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

Eventually, his body gave in to exhaustion, and his thoughts faded into sleep.

Here's an expanded version of Part 3:

Richard woke up to the sound of his phone ringing. Groggily, he rubbed his eyes and glanced at the screen. Max.

"Max?" Richard mumbled, still half-asleep, as he picked up the call.

"Where the hell are you?" Max's voice came through, loud and impatient. "It's already 9 AM, and we still have unfinished business with Oliver and his little cult. Get your ass over here, now."

Richard sat up, wiping sleep from his eyes. "Give me a second," he muttered, still trying to shake off the grogginess.

Max sighed through the phone. "I swear, you're lucky I don't come over and drag you out of bed."

Richard forced himself to get up, still feeling the weight of last night's events. He needed time to process everything, but that wasn't an option. Max wasn't the type to wait.

He quickly grabbed his clothes, throwing on a brown leather jacket with white stripes, a pair of baggy jeans, and some white sneakers. His arm sleeve went on next, just in case he needed to use his abilities. He couldn't afford another situation where he couldn't control the flames.

Richard grabbed his phone again, opening the message from Max. The location Max sent was a little further out, but nothing he couldn't handle. Richard strapped his phone to his jacket, grabbed his bike, and headed out.

The day was quieter than usual. It was a Sunday, after all, and the streets weren't filled with the usual hustle and bustle of people rushing to work or school. Richard didn't mind the peacefulness, but it also gave him more time to think.

He tried to push thoughts of Emma out of his mind. He couldn't afford to be distracted by all this uncertainty. She remembered Jackson. She remembered Hannah. People weren't supposed to remember things like that. But that wasn't his problem to fix, was it?

Richard pedaled through the quiet Sunday streets, the crisp morning air brushing against his face. The roads were emptier than usual, with most people still inside, enjoying their day off. It was a strange contrast to the chaos of the past few days. For a brief moment, it almost felt like everything was normal.

But it wasn't.

Richard tightened his grip on the handlebars, his thoughts clouded with everything that had happened—Oliver, the cult, the black-robed figure in the photo, and now Emma remembering things she shouldn't. It was too much to process, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. Max was waiting, and he had no doubt that the guy would be pissed if he took too long.

After some time, Richard arrived at the location Max had sent—a middle-class apartment complex that looked just a little run-down. It wasn't anything fancy, but it was decent. He hopped off his cycle and locked it up near the entrance before heading inside.

Taking the stairs, Richard reached the fourth floor and found Room 5. He knocked twice.

The door swung open almost immediately, revealing Max, who was holding a half-eaten sandwich.

"Took you long enough," Max said, stepping aside to let him in. "You stop to write a novel on the way here?"

Richard rolled his eyes. "Yeah, my autobiography. First chapter's about dealing with annoying assholes."

Max smirked. "Bet it's a best-seller."

Richard walked in and immediately noticed Amelia sitting on the couch. She looked up and waved at him.

"Morning," she said.

"Morning," Richard replied before glancing around. "Where's the guest of honor?"

Max took another bite of his sandwich before jerking his thumb toward the bedroom. "Tied up. Knocked out. Woke up screaming, so I put him back to sleep."

Richard raised an eyebrow. "You knocked him out again?"

"Amelia, gave him some water, and he calmed down. He's been quiet since."

Richard glanced toward the closed door. "So, what's the plan?"

Max finished his sandwich, dusted off his hands, and grinned. "We make him talk."