Nightmare Fuel #46: The Liminal Lodge (2 of 4)

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Welcome to another edition of Nightmare Fuel Creeps and Peepers. I'm Dan Cummins and I'll be sharing the continuation of another original short story of the fictional horror variety and good news, bad news. I truly thought this was going to be a two-part story arc when I finished recording part one last week. Clearly, I jumped the gun. Originally, I thought it was going to be a standalone episode when the concept came to me. And yes, truly sorry about that. This story just kind of took on a...

new life of its own. The rhythm of it pulled me along a lot farther than I thought it was going to. It is now going to be four parts, four big meaty parts, but that really is it. because I stayed up really late to finish a rough draft of the entire story arc so I would definitively know when it would end. Yeah, truly sorry for the false advertisement after the first recording. I will try not to make a false prediction again.

This story, it weirdly freaked me out more than the rest. I'm not even saying that I like it more than any of the others or that it is scarier. It's just, I don't know, it just got under my skin. I have not loved recording it by myself at the studio at night or working on it at night because Dr. Blackwell feels weirdly real to me. Like she's out there somewhere, chose me to tell her story instead of me coming up with it.

That makes sense. I don't know. I almost never dream, but lately I've been waking up like I just came out of a dream. Not a good one. And I think it has something to do with the shit being in my head. I pushed aside a bunch of time suck and scared to death work to finish a rough draft of the full arc.

I hope I can get it all recorded soon and be done with it for a while. I don't know. Maybe I'm just becoming a scaredy cat as I get older, but this one's weird. And now before we jump in, a recap of the previous installment. Ned Watkins... A man in his early 40s, originally from just south of Seattle, has returned to the Seattle area after retiring early and making tens of millions of dollars in tech in the Bay Area. He bought a former sanitarium of sorts, the Hermetic Healing Institute.

across the sound from Seattle in Olala. Nearly a century earlier, a woman named Dr. Mildred Blackwell had carried out strange experiments there based on crossing over and exploring life after death. Her experiments involve starvation, shedding one's shell to loosen one's hold on this life and make a type of astral projection more attainable. And enough of her patients died for the area around her institute to become known as Death Mountain.

Ned, lost in his grief over losing the love of his life, a woman named Courtney, found out about the former institute after becoming obsessed with the occult years earlier due to an intense longing to find Courtney. He truly believes...

that he'll be able to do just that at the old institute, and also help others not just find closure by reaching their deceased loved ones, but to actually be able to travel back and forth between the land of the living and the land of the dead, just like you might travel abroad on vacation. Come home, then return the next year, and the year after that. And because of that belief, he is trying to reopen the Institute as a high-end, occult-themed resort called the Liminal Lodge.

He's also, especially after finding some of Dr. Blackwell's old notebooks, starving himself in an attempt to loosen his shell enough to cross over before he opens the lodge to the public. His sister Ellen...

and his contractor, Cal, are both worried that he will die in this attempt. And Ellen is especially worried after a Ouija board session at the lodge with her brother proved to her that his quest... while dangerous, is not being led by delusion alone, but also by something supernatural, possibly the ghost of a murderous doctor still performing horrific experiments in the afterlife on the souls of former patients.

Hope that recap helped, and now it's time for the story. Highly recommend noise cancellation headphones for the best experience, and hope you enjoy this new nightmare. Time now for the tale of the Liminal Lodge.

Chapter 2 of 4. Early September, 2016. Just over five weeks following Ned and Ellen's Ouija board session at the Liminal Lodge, Ellen was at work. and on break at the Harborview Medical Center in Seattle when Cal called. The late afternoon light slanting in through the hospital windows made everything look a little too sharp, a little too unreal. When her phone first buzzed,

She almost let it go to voicemail. Unknown number with a local area code. But something in her gut twisted, and she answered. Hello? Ellen? A familiar voice asked. This is Cal. From your brother's project. For half a second, she couldn't place him, her brain still thinking about some post-surgical complications with a young patient that morning. Then her stomach dropped. Cal, of course. After getting his number...

She must have somehow forgotten, lost in all her worried thoughts about her brother and still shaken up by her experiences in the lodge to actually finish adding him as a contact. Cal, of course, God. Hi, is everything okay? A beat of silence. Then, I mean, the house is fine. The crew's fine. Work's coming along. But your brother... Her heartbeat quickened as she tensed and stood straighter. What about him? Another pause.

He's... he's off, Cal said carefully. More off than before. He hasn't been checking in like he used to. Missed a couple walkthroughs, like he was here, somewhere. He doesn't go anywhere much, but we couldn't find him. And when he does show up, he looks like he's been through a war. He's real thin, Ellen. And he keeps saying stuff like, well... I've worked with rich, eccentric guys before. Tech dudes, artists, guys who I strongly assume made their money in less than legal ways. You name it.

I've seen all sorts of supposedly sacred crystals, sound baths, people who think their house is on a ley line and they're going to live forever if we orient the kitchen sink right. He tried to chuckle, but it came out thin. But your brother, lately...

This feels different. Ellen swallowed. She and her brother hadn't talked for a few weeks. They texted, and what he had written had seemed fine, but he could be pretty good at hiding whatever he was really going through when he truly didn't want her to know. And also...

The more she'd thought about what she'd experienced at the lodge, the shadow in the hallway, the intense communication exchange with something from the other side, it had all scared the hell out of her. She'd gotten real twitchy over the past few weeks. jumping at shadows and unfamiliar sounds, and she started having trouble sleeping. That, as much as she didn't like to admit it, had been a factor in why she hadn't called as well.

She'd had paranormal experiences before or experiences she thought were likely paranormal, but nothing like what she'd witnessed at the lodge, not even close. She'd always loved a ghost story or a horror movie, but now, now that whole world freaked her out.

especially at night. And while she'd do whatever she needed to do to be there and help her brother, who was possibly, if not probably, losing his mind, she had to look out for her own mind as well. What's he saying? She asked before biting her lip. Kyle cleared his throat. Keeps talking about how he doesn't need food as much anymore, he said. And the other day he told me how he's weaning himself off of matter. Says he's...

Learning to live on the hum. Those last two words came out like he didn't want to be saying them out loud. Ellen closed her eyes. Cal continued. He keeps going down to that old clinic wing by himself and... Putting his hands on the wall like he's trying to summon something. He'll even put up his ear against the wall and react like someone on the other side is speaking to him. But whatever he thinks he's hearing, he's the only one hearing it. There is a strange kind of hum.

The rest of us here, though, I'll give him that. But it's nothing like Ned's described. It definitely doesn't feel like it's communicating with us. Sometimes I gotta hunt him down to sign off on stuff, and I'll find him in there just staring at nothing. Listening. Ellen pressed her fingers hard into the bridge of her nose. Has he mentioned wanting to hurt himself? She asked. Or anything else along those lines? No, Cal said quickly. Nothing like that.

He doesn't seem depressed at all. Just distracted and vacant. Or sometimes wired. Depends on the hour. A sigh, and then he continued. Feels like something about this place is wearing him down somehow. If that makes any sense. It made too much sense. It does, Cal. It does. Too much to explain now, but thank you for calling me. She said, her voice tight.

I'll come out this weekend. Good. You should, Cal said. I'm not saying you need to, like, baker act him or whatever, but he's really not right. In this house, something about it is not helping. I didn't want to overstep, but I also don't want to be the guy who had kept his mouth shut when he'd still had a chance to help somebody. That last sentence stung. Cal hadn't seemed like much of a worrier when she'd met him. If he was concerned that her brother could be gone.

Before long, Ned's condition was exactly as bad as she had feared it would become when she last saw him. You're not overstepping, she said, at all. You're doing exactly what I asked you to. Thank you for that. Please, text or call me if he gets worse before this weekend. Or if he disappears. Or if he starts talking about crossing over or something. Cal hesitated. He already has, he admitted. Not in a...

I'm gonna kill myself way more like my real work starts once I'm not stuck in my meat. That kind of thing. And those are his exact words, by the way. Part of what pushed me to call you. Her throat felt tight. Okay. She said quietly, okay, I'll definitely be there soon to assess next steps. She hung up and stared out the window for a long moment, her eyes unfocused and her vision blurred. In her mind, she could see that damn planchette again.

Could feel it working under her fingers. Could hear that single awful word. Work. She cringed. What was that? That presence in the room with them? Ghost? Demon? Something else entirely? How bad was it messing up her brother? She just had a little taste of whatever it was and it freaked her out. But Ned had been eating it three meals a day for months. She shuddered. An hour later.

She half-lied to her supervisor about a family emergency on Saturday and was already checking the ferry's schedule to Southworth. The crossing felt shorter this time, or maybe she was just more distracted. The sky had shifted into early fall mode, still bright, still beautiful, but with a thin edge of chill that told you summer was definitively on its way out. She stayed in her car for most of the ride, her fingers drumming nonstop on the steering wheel.

Every time she closed her eyes, she felt a cold, heavy slice of fear edge into her chest, and she saw those words again. Let me go. She will not let me go. She sees you. She felt like she was going to have a panic attack. She caught herself holding her breath and forced herself to exhale, counting slow in her head like one of the therapists at the hospital had taught her once. In for four. Hold for four. Out for six.

It didn't hurt, but it didn't help much either. However, by the time she rolled off the ferry and headed through town, something had shifted inside her. Worry and fear had hardened into something new. Resolve. She was on a mission. and she wouldn't let the lodge and whatever things were inside of it scare her away from trying to save Ned. She wasn't just dropping in to check on him this time. If what she found was bad enough, she was going to start the process of having Ned institutionalized.

For real, not just talk about it with her mom and then talk herself out of it. She turned on to the gravel lane. If anything, the trees seemed to crowd in closer now, leaning further over the road in a way that felt decidedly menacing. listening more intently, relaying to the lodge, to the doctor, that an enemy was approaching. When the forest finally opened and the liminal lodge emerged, she felt like she was looking at a photograph that had put through some kind of haunted filter.

It was the same structure, with less scaffolding and more finished work. The same bones, but darker now, and sharper. The main lodge's stain had deepened into an almost black sheen. Waves of new roofing shingles caught the light. and several windows were no longer empty holes, but gleaming panes of glass reflecting the sky back at her. The new sign was no longer leaning. It had been bolted to a pair of heavy posts at the head of the drive.

The liminal lodge where we erase the line between life and death. No more testing the waters. This place had a name now. A name that felt like a face. A face that wasn't friendly. Ellen parked and just sat there for a moment, the engine idling, her fingers wrapped too tight around the steering wheel. Okay, she whispered to herself. Don't overthink this. Don't freak yourself out. What you experienced last time was scary.

Fucking terrifying, but it didn't actually hurt you. Just focus on seeing him. One thing at a time. She shut off the car and stepped out. The air was colder than it had any right to be in early September. A little wind cut down off the hill, off Death Mountain, and through the clearing. And it carried with it a smell she couldn't quite place. Dust and old wood and something sharper, like antiseptic.

Or maybe just her imagination, supplying whatever it thought a haunted sanitarium should smell like. Ned's Jeep was parked near the house, but he didn't come out to meet her this time. She climbed the temporary steps and knocked on the front door, listening. No footsteps. No shouted greeting. So she let herself in. Inside, the foyer looked quite a bit closer to being finished. The trim work had been completed, and the walls had been painted a rich, warm gray.

A massive dark reception desk had been installed, waiting for future staff. Somehow, all of the progress, as beautiful as it was, made everything worse. Transforming this place from abandoned asylum to luxury occult hotel felt like rolling fresh paint over the blood of a massacre. Hello? She called. Ned? Her voice echoed back to her. The rest of the house answered with the usual creaks and sighs and low groans, like a big animal shifting in its sleep.

A few power tools whined faintly from somewhere deeper in the structure, then went silent, quietly announcing the coming end of the workday. Ellen! She turned. Cal stood in a side doorway, wiping his hands on a rag. Dust clung to his pants and the sleeves of his flannel shirt. Hey, she said. Thanks again for calling. Do you know where my brother is? He gave her a grim little nod. He's around. And he's...

Office, I think. Hasn't left that wing much today. Which office? She asked. Cal jerked his head toward the hallway that led to the rear doctor's wing. The one off the clinic corridor. The one with that nice lamp he likes. Is he alone? She asked. Cal's brow furrowed. He might not think so, but yeah. She nodded, then hesitated. Has he gotten even worse over the past few days?

She asked quietly. Cal exhaled, his breath feathering in the cooler indoor air. It's hard to say, but only because he was already looking rough when I called you. He certainly doesn't look better. He looks like he's on one of those juice cleanses that sends you to the ER. He said. I asked him what he's been eating and he said... He trailed off. What did he say? She pressed. He said, I'm eating less and less.

Because I'm needing less and less, Cal answered. I'm learning to live on what she lived on. Ellen's stomach nodded. She? She asked, even though she knew the answer. Dr. Blackwell. Cal said, or whatever he thinks is left of her. Look, I'm not a therapist or anything, but I don't like the way his eyes look when he says that. Like he's halfway somewhere else already. Ellen swallowed. Thank you, she said again.

for not writing this off is just him being eccentric. Cal shrugged, but his face was serious. I've seen plenty of weird. I'm not bothered by weird or eccentric. I would have never taken this job if I was, he said. Someone tells me their house is haunted. I don't flinch. I can handle haunted. But this isn't just weird or spooky or whatever. This is just plain old bad. Go talk to him. If you need anything, I'll be around for another half hour or so finishing up out back.

She nodded and turned toward the clinic wing. The deeper she went, the colder it got. The walls here were still far from finished. While some sections were tiled and intact, others were stripped down to the studs. The overhead lights were dimmer. One flickered fitfully, buzzing quietly like an annoyed insect. She found her brother in the room he had turned into his office near the end of the hall, the same one from before with the mismatched desk and the expensive lamp.

He sat hunched over that desk. The lamp light a hotspot in an otherwise dim room, his head bent over a notebook. For a second, he didn't look up. Didn't seem to have heard her. Lost in whatever he was writing. Ned, she said softly. He jumped. His pen jerked, scratching a dark line across the page. He blinked, turned, and then forced a smile onto his face. Helen! Hey! He said. He sounded genuinely happy to see her. What are you doing here? She stepped closer, studying him.

She thought she was prepared. She wasn't. He looked hollowed out. Deep shadows pooled under his eyes. His cheeks were sunken, the stubble rough on sharper angles. His skin looked too thin. stretched too tight over his bones. His t-shirt, he'd almost always wore his shirts pretty fitted. It hung loose because it had to. There wasn't much muscle or any fat at all to fill it. Even his wrists looked too thin where his sleeves were pushed up.

His hands, when he set the pen down, shook a little before he stilled them. She flashed on Christian Bale in The Machinist, and the thought, didn't he get so skinny he almost died for that role, flickered through her mind before she spoke. Oh my god. She said, Ned. She rolled his eyes lightly, trying to turn it all into a harmless joke. Let me guess, you look like shit, he said. You should see the other guy.

He exclaimed with an overly forced smile that only made him look psychotic on top of being anorexic. Not funny, she snapped, and then she immediately softened her tone off the hurt that washed over his face. You're not... Ned. You're not taking care of yourself, big brother. He leaned back in the chair, nodded more to himself than to her, and then spread his arms out a little theatrically. But I am, sis. I'm taking excellent care of myself, only in a...

A different way, he beamed confidently. I've been experimenting like she did. He tapped the notebook in front of him. Ellen glanced down. Her brother's handwriting filled the pages, some of it neat and orderly, some of it cramped and frantic, crowding the margins. She caught a few fragments. Thirty-six hours, no solids. Lightness in limbs. Buzzing in skull area.

voice just outside right ear female and near the bottom of one page underlined three times felt myself watching myself what the fuck is all this ellen asked with more than a hint of concern and judgment in her voice. She hated the vibe of this conversation. She wanted to scream in anger, but also break down and sob. Ned reminded her of patients experiencing psychosis that she'd spoken with in the ER.

They had that same look in their eyes. It was something worse than vacant. It was all-knowing, actually. Only what they claimed to know made zero sense. Gibberish. And you were left feeling so helpless speaking with them. You knew that no matter how gently or firmly you might try to correct them, that they wouldn't be brought to reason because they weren't capable of comprehending reason anymore. Their mind was too far gone, lost in dangerous delusions.

Those interactions always left her with such a heavy mixture of deep sadness and fear, fear over how unpredictable their next move or statement would be, sadness over how truly buried in their own minds they were. And now her only sibling, is that where he was? buried inside his mind, too deep to ever dig back out. A log, Ned said matter-of-factly. He said it like he was an actual scientist working in a legit lab.

as opposed to a long, grieving man being led deeper and deeper into madness by mental illness, actual spirits, or both. This is a log. My own trials, he continued. Fasting, deprivation, meditative states, testing my perception.

I'm not just guessing, Elle. I'm collecting data. I'm documenting. She looked from the notebook back to his face. She did her best to hide how much all of this was upsetting her. She couldn't break down and cry, couldn't scream in anger. Either option would only push him further away.

If she wanted to keep him talking, to let her in further to whatever his true mental state was, she had to try and listen more than speak, empathize more than judge, but also not enable these delusions any further. It was going to be a thin tightrope to walk. And if she fell, Ned fell with her. You're starving yourself, big brother, she said gently. You're saying what anorexics say. I'm experimenting. I'm in control. But you're not.

You're not eating enough and you're not sleeping enough. And on top of all that, you're wandering around a haunted sanitarium thinking that some woman who died long ago is going to help you reach the other side. You're going to crack. I'm not going to crack.

He said defiantly, jaw tight. I know how this all sounds, how I look, but I'm not crazy. I've never been more clear. He gestured vaguely towards the corridor, off his sister, who was clearly doing her damnedest not to break down and cry. I've been getting closer. He said warmly, vainly attempting to be comforting. Sometimes at night, when it's quietest, I can feel myself step a little out of phase. Just a little.

Like my body is one radio, but my mind is tuning into a second station while remaining tuned to my, to my meat. He smiled, small and fierce. It's working. L, he said, I'm starting to feel what she described, the doubling, the membrane. This isn't an illusion. I know the difference. I can feel it. Ellen's chest ached. She wished she'd been able to come with a few officers and that they could grab her brother and take him to the hospital right now.

Even if some of this is real, she said, choosing her words carefully, you're still a living person with a living brain. And living bodies need food and rest or they break. You know that. And if you break, then it won't matter. How close you are to some kind of breakthrough because you'll be stuck in a locked ward somewhere drooling on yourself. Ned's mouth twisted. You sound like mom now, he sneered.

warning me that if I'm not careful, that if I work too hard or push myself too long, I'll end up like Dad. Ellen nodded. Neither one of them had ever known their father. They only knew that shortly after Ellen was born, he'd suffered some kind of breakdown. that had left him stuck in an institution, one he never got out of because he died a few years later when he'd stepped off of its six-story roof. Good, she shot back. Maybe you'll take this seriously. You should.

He pushed his chair back and stood. The motion seemed to cost him a little. For a second, he steadied himself with one hand on the desk. I am taking it seriously, he said, anger and hurt flashing across his eyes. That's why I'm not just running in blind. I have protocols. I have limits. I'm not trying to die, L. I'm trying to prove that none of us have to. He gingerly walked over to his shelf and picked something up. When he turned back...

She saw it was the Ouija board from her last visit and her whole body tensed and the hair stood up on the back of her neck. Are you fucking kidding me? Ned, please. No, she said immediately. He held up his free hand. Just listen, sis. After you left last time.

I kept working the board by myself. I know, I know, he added quickly, off her expression. Save the lecture. But I made contact with someone different, not Adeline. Someone who says he's a former patient who actually benefited from her work. He's not begging for release. He's grateful. He calls her the loving surgeon. Ellen stared at him.

like he was an alcoholic trying to convince her that he was going to be fine now because he'd only drink gin and rum going forward. No more whiskey and tequila because that had been the real problem the whole time. Can't you see? Well, can't you? The loving surgeon. She repeated flatly. Ned nodded. He says people, people like Adeline, they've twisted her story. That the newspapers lied. That all she was ever doing was trying to help them transcend. And he did transcend.

He keeps telling me I'm on the right track, that I'm like her, that I can do what she did, only possibly go even further. Jesus Christ, Ellen muttered. So now the propaganda machine has gone supernatural. You don't know who or what you're talking to. I know what we felt and saw last time. I've thought about it far more than I've ever wanted to since. But I don't really know what was with us that night. A ghost, a monster, something else. You don't know either.

Neg hugged the board to his chest like it was a precious family heirloom. But I do. I do know. And I want you to sit with me again so I can show you, he said. Just once more. Meet him. You'll see. It's not all torture and screaming. There are successes. Or, she said, you're being catfished by a dead malevolent narcissist using, I don't know, fucking sock puppet ghost accounts. He actually laughed at that.

The sound a little raw. Please, he said. You're here. Your word and I get it. Let me show you why I'm not just dance in the dark. Give me one hour. Then if you still think I'm completely gone, you can... Start whatever intervention. I know you're already planning. Ellen's heart stuttered. He knew. Of course he did. He'd always been so damn good at pattern recognition. I'm not... She started, then stopped herself. There was no point in line.

Ned, I am worried. You're going to hurt yourself or let something hurt you. I'm worried you could die out here if you don't stop. Ned smiled thinly, his eyes watered, just barely, for only a few moments. Then he quickly regained control of his emotions and spoke softly.

I know you're only looking out for me, sis. I do. But just give me another hour. Sit with me. Meet who I've met. I'll even let you call the shots. You can lead the questions. She stared at him, weighing her options. It broke her heart to see him like this. He looked absolutely awful. but he also looked fiercely determined. Such a strange paradox of appearing so weak and so strong simultaneously. He looked like someone already half in love with the world that didn't belong to him yet. An hour.

Maybe seeing whatever bullshit this is up close again will give me something else concrete to talk about with the doctor, she thought. More evidence to have him committed. She exhaled slowly. One hour. She told him. And after that, if I'm still worried, we talk about you've seen an actual therapist who is alive and licensed. A smile broke across his face, bright and boyish, for just a moment. Deal, sis, he said.

And now before we jump into another messed up Ouija board session, time for our mid-show sponsor break. If you don't want to hear these ad breaks anymore, if you want to get these episodes early, please become a Robert or Annabelle on Scared to Death's Patreon. And get these Nightmare Fuel stories and all other Scared to Death episodes ad-free and more.

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Thank you for hearing out our sponsors. And now let's return to Ned talking to Sister Ellen into One More Go on the Ouija board. They met again that night in the meditation parlor after Ned reluctantly agreed to have dinner with her. After she watched how it seemed to actually pain him to eat more than a few bites. After she was almost certain he had sneakily hidden some food in a few moments and then thrown it away. The room had evolved since her last visit.

Ned had installed sheer black curtains over the windows, which billowed faintly with the moving air. A large circular rug covered most of the floor, woven in a subtle pattern of interlocked rings. The onyx table sat in the center. The pentagram design on its surface catching the candlelight and pearly glints. He'd added more candles this time. Tall black pillars and wrought iron holders around the perimeter. Shorter tea lights and clusters near the table.

When he dimmed the overhead lamp, the room took on the feel of a chapel or a stage. Remember, Ellen said, sitting cross-legged on her cushion. We're not doing this all night. This body still needs eight hours or more of sleep. Ned smiled and then set the board down with careful reverence. It looked exactly the same.

and it unfortunately felt exactly the same when she rested her fingertips lightly against the planchette. Cool wood, warm glass, and a faint pulse of something in the air above it. Okay, Ned said quietly. Same invite as last time. Then he raised his voice to the volume and tone of someone delivering a monologue for what he announced next. Any spirits attached to this place who wish to speak, you're invited to communicate through this board.

but I'd especially like to speak with the man who called himself William, the former patient. The silence that followed felt thick, like they were sitting underwater. Nothing moved. The candles burned steady. For a moment, Ellen allowed herself to hope that whatever they had stirred up last time was gone. That maybe, somehow, what she thought had happened hadn't.

that it had been some fluke, some weird intersection of subconscious twitch, concern over her brother's obsession, and her own knowledge of the dark history of the place he'd bought. But then the planchette slid. Slowly, confidently. Over to the word in the top left-hand corner. Yes. Ellen's throat tightened. You're sure that's not you? She muttered. I'm barely touching it, he quietly replied. Promise.

William? She asked carefully. Is that you? A few seconds of stillness, and then the planchette moved toward the center, and then back to... Yes. Okay. She said her heart already beginning to thump faster. William, my name is Ellen. I'm Ned's sister. I'd like to know more about you. When were you a living patient here? The planchette moved more quickly now, dragging their fingertips over the numbers.

One. Nine. One. Two. 1912, Ned murmured. Peak years. Ellen wondered again if her brother wasn't somehow steering this. He knew so much about the place's history. He'd know exactly what he'd want to hear. But when she looked at him and saw the intensity of discovery in his eyes, the relaxed nature of his arm leading to fingers, he rested on the planchette, she reluctantly accepted that whatever was answering them was not his subconscious.

and that triggered an amount of dread in her that equaled the amount of excitement she saw in him. Were you ill when you came here? She asked next. Another pause, and then, yes. What kind of illness? She asked, feeling foolish, even as she spoke the words. What did she expect, a ghost to spell out tuberculosis? The answer came in jagged bursts. P-A-I-N Pause. E-V-E. R. Y. W-H. E-R-E. Pain everywhere. Ellen's chest pinched. I'm sorry.

She said before she could stop herself. The planchette made a tiny circling motion, then slid to hello before re-centering. An odd, almost bashful gesture that left her feeling more upset than ever because it was so human. This definitely wasn't her brother doing this. They were speaking to someone who wasn't alive anymore in the physical sense, but were still somehow real and present. It would be such an amazing, beautiful, and transcendent experience if it wasn't killing her brother.

William, Ned now said gently. You told me before that you were helped here, that Dr. Blackwell, that she saved you, saved your soul. Can you tell my sister what you meant by that? The planchette glided again after almost no hesitation. B O D Y. Pause. D Y I N G. Pause. M I N D. Pause. O P E N. Body dying? Mind open? Ellen frowned. Did she hurt you while your body was dying? She asked. Was there pain?

The planchette seemed to consider her question for a few moments before moving again. P-A-I-N Then almost overlapping letters as if the spirit were in a hurry. P-A-T-H Pain is the path. Ned said under his breath, his eyes shining. That's in one of her notebooks. A wave of cold washed down Ellen's spine. William? She said slowly, masking her concern. Do you know about Adeline? The planchette jerked to, yes. Is she here too? She asked. A circle away from them and then back to, yes. Is she?

Ellen paused. Is she suffering? An uncomfortably long pause, Ellen shot a concerned glance at her brother. He looked back at her with the knowing calm countenance of the wise, or the insane. And then... S-C-A-R-E-D. Scared, Ellen's stomach knotted up. And you're not? she asked. The planchette slid more steadily this time to, No. And then back to the alphabet for I pause. U-N-D-E-R-S-T-A-N-D. Ned's fingers now trembled on the planchette. You understand what? He asked softly.

W-H-A-T. Pause. S-H-E. Pause. D-I-D. What she did. It was eerie how the board was echoing Dr. Blackwell's own phrasing from the journals. William? Ellen said carefully. What exactly did she do to you? The planchette didn't hesitate to answer, moving quickly and confidently as it did. T-O-O-K. Pause. M-E. Pause. O-U-T. Helen swallowed. Took you out of what? She asked, even though she was worried she already knew. M-E-A-T. Pause. F-E-A-R. Meat.

Fear. Ned let out a shaky breath that sounded too much like a choked laugh. You see, he whispered, he's not trapped. He's grateful. She liberated him from the trappings of physical form.

Or she scrambled him so badly he thinks being murdered and stuck here is a ghost with his murder is a liberation, Ellen shot back. Before Ned could argue, the planchette twitched again and started moving. No. Slight pause, then... C-H-O-S-E. He chose this, Ned said. This is what he wanted. Ellen clenched her jaw. Did you choose to die? She asked directly. The answer took a bit longer this time. No. Pause. C-H-O-S-E. Pause. P-A-T-H. Holti, she muttered.

He didn't choose to die. No, he chose the path. It's one and the same. Big, I was brainwashed into believing I chose this suffering energy. Ned smirked and shook his head and the planchette now suddenly sped up. D.R. The next letters stumbled, doubled back, then corrected. D-O-C-T-O-R. Pause. K-N-O-W-S. The dew of a cold sweat seemed to almost instantaneously cover most of Ellen's body.

The doctor knows what? She asked nervously. The board answered in crisp, sure movements. H-O-W, pause. T-O, pause. C-R-O-S-S. The last letter hit the board hard enough to make the wood jump and the air in the room correspondingly shifted. How to cross. The candles around them also reacted. They didn't flare or gutter this time, they elongated.

Their flames stretched tall and thin, then bent slightly toward Ned. And while all of this happened at once, Ellen felt it. The attention. Something in the room was watching her, leaning in. William? She said, throat tight. Did you cross? The planchette hesitated before moving again. P-A-R-T. Pause. S-T-A-Y. Pause. S-A-F-E. Heart stay safe? The word safe made her want to scream. Safe for who? She demanded. The planchette moved sluggishly, like something else was starting to grip it now. F-

O R. Pause. T H O S E. Pause. W H O. Pause. L E. A-R-N. For those who learn. Ned's eyes glistened. He clearly thought he knew what that meant. She's not trying to hurt everyone, he said, as if that was the only and obvious interpretation. She's trying to teach. Not everyone can handle it. But some can. People like William. People like me. Ellen could hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She was losing him. She was truly losing her brother. All of this was worse than insane.

It was insanity fueled by something really dark, really dark and really dead. Dead and in the room with him, still staring at her. No. She said, shaking her head, fighting off her fear of what was with them to keep fighting for her brother. What she's doing is grooming you. This is exactly how cult leaders operate.

Others are weak. You are strong. You're chosen. You're special. They isolate you, cut off your support systems, convince you that anyone who questions them is afraid or closed. The planchette jerked sharply, as if offended by what Ellen was saying. S-H-E, pause. S-A-W, pause. Y-O-U, pause. F-I-R-S-T. Ellen's skin crawled. What? She whispered. Saw him first howl.

L-I-G-H-T. Pause. I-N. Pause. H-I-M. She saw the light in me. Ned whispered, his voice raw with not fear but immense pride. Even before I came here. Great! Ellen said, her voice shaking. So the dead psychotic doctor thinks you're gifted that she chose you to come here because you're special. How comforting.

The candles all immediately lowered to the point of nearly going out. There was barely enough light to see the letters on the board, and the temperature dropped enough for Ned and Ellen to see their breath. The feeling of her presence in the room with them grew tenfold, and the planchette started to move again, faster, as if another hand had joined theirs. Because it had. The words that formed this time were different. They weren't spelled out in William's halting, grateful cadence.

The planchette moved with menace now and anger. S-T-O-P. Pause. T-A-L-K-I-N-G. Pause. F-O-R. Pause. H-I-M. Jesus. Stop talking for him? Words that felt less like a suggestion and more like a threat. Ned, she whispered fearfully. We're not talking to William anymore. His eyes were wide, but not with alarm. A hungry light was in them. Who are we talking to? He asked the board, even though they both knew. The response came in a smooth, unbroken glide. D.

O-C-T-O-R. Ellen's fingers went numb. Mildred? Ned asked. Yes, with no hesitation. The room felt smaller suddenly. Dr. Blackwell, Ellen said, barely willing her voice not to shake. What do you want? With my brother? The planchette paused at the center, then W-O-R-K. Work. Same as before. On him? Ellen pressed? Or with him? The answer came without hesitation. W-I-T-H. You see that?

Ned said his eyes bright with something like pride Not on, with I only hear a manipulative dead woman Ellen snapped She was scared to provoke her But a part of her also wanted to Maybe if the nasty old bitch threw her across the room like something from The Conjuring or The Exorcist, Ned's big brother protective instincts would kick in and he'd see all of this for what it was. Nothing but a deceptive, dangerous, and deadly game.

The planchette slid again, following Ellen's insult, but more forcefully. H-E, pause. C-A-M-E, pause. H-E, pause. K-N-O-W-S. Knows what? Ellen asked nervously. The planchette continued to move as quickly and decisively as before. T-H-E, pause. P-R-I-C-E, pause. A-N-D, pause. S-T-I-L-L, pause. C-A-M-E. He knows the price, and he still came. Ned swallowed and glanced sheepishly at his sister as some guilt, fear, flashed across his face. She's right, he admitted hoarsely.

I know the risks. I'm not some kid playing with candles hoping for a ghost story. I know what I'm risking to try this. I know I could lose my mind or my body or both. And I don't care. Ellen's voice broke. What about us? She demanded. What about the people who love you? Don't we get a say? The planchette jerked sharply, dragging their fingertips towards no, before it swung away, spelling S-H-E. Pause. F-E-A-R-S.

Ellen's heart hammered. Who? Who do I fear? You? She asked. Y-O-U. Pause. F-E-A-R. Pause. L-O-S-S. She laughed bitterly, the sound half choked. No shit, I fear loss, she said, speaking to the air around her, to the doctor's presence. Sane people do, she continued before looking at and speaking towards her brother. I've already lost you to your career once, then to your grief.

Then to this fucking building, and now I fear that this resident demon wants to take you forever. The planchette moved faster, more erratic. Y-O-U, pause. W-O-U-L-D, pause. C-A-G-E, pause. H-I-M. You would cage him. Tears burned Ellen's eyes. Her jaw clenched. She wasn't just having a paranormal experience. Another one after her previous two visits.

She was having a full-on, in-depth conversation with the sentient spirit of a sadistic, egomaniacal, insane murderer or a demon caused plain as a ghost. I wouldn't cage him. I'm saving him, she said. From you. The board stilled. And for a moment, nothing in the room moved. The air itself seemed to relax. The temperature increased to normal. The walls receded. The candle flames grew. The presence faded. And the only sound was her and her brother's tense, shallow breathing.

and a nervous thump at their hearts. It all came rushing back in a moment, following the slamming of what sounded like at least a dozen doors in the lodge at once. The air thickening, the dimming light, the temperature dropping, the walls closing in, the presence filling the space with a tension Ellen felt in her temples and chest, an ominous weight.

that left her feeling for a moment like she was on the verge of passing out before it lessened, just enough to leave her paralyzed but able to breathe. The planchette moved again, sliding smooth and slow with a vibrating strength that signaled resistance was futile, and underneath it all, a powerful hum pulsed throughout the room and, Ellen imagined, throughout the entire property. H.E. Pause.

I-S, pause. N-O-T, pause. Y-O-U-R-S, pause. Every letter felt like a slap. He is mine. He's my brother, Ellen said defiantly. He's not your fucking lab rat. The temperature dropped another few degrees. The air thickened further, the fingers of the presence virtually squeezing Ellen's windpipe just a bit more with its smothering energy, taking her to the edge of consciousness as a thin trickle of cold sweat slid down her spine.

Ned, she rasped, voice shaking now. This is wrong. She's trying to separate you from everyone who cares about you. That's what abusers do. They isolate you. They make you think the people who love you are your jailers. If Ned was feeling any of the pressure Ellen was, he didn't show it.

You don't understand, he said with a smile of the indoctrinated that Ellen was becoming all too familiar with. You haven't seen what I've seen, felt what I felt. If you had even one second of what I feel when I stand in that room and my skin starts buzzing, you'd...

I had my second when she stood behind me and it felt like she wanted to crawl into my bones, Ellen spat. And I feel her hatred now. She wants to kill me so she can have you. She ripped her fingers away from the planchette when it started to move again. It didn't let her go without effort.

It stuttered, slowed, and stopped as the weight in the room eased once more, not completely, but enough so that she could take a full breath again and no longer feel the claw-like grip on her throat. You want to keep talking to her? She said, her voice shaking with fury. Do it without me. I'm done. Ned stared at her, breathing hard. Then his shoulders slumped, and he slid the planchette to goodbye by himself. Session closed. He whispered, disappointed. The candles lifted.

The air warmed a fraction. A presence remained, but it felt much thinner now. Ellen guessed the only reason it was relenting was because hurting her in front of Ned could risk making him rethink his experimentation. The two sat in uncomfortable silence. For a long moment. I hate her. Ellen said finally. I really fucking hate her. And I hate that you like her. I hate this whole place. I hate everything she built and everything you think you're going to build on top of it.

Ned winced like she'd hit him. It's not about liking her, he said after a few more tense moments. It's about respecting her work. She's the only one who's ever gotten this far. Maybe she pushed too hard with some of them. Maybe she messed up. A lot of scientists whose work has pushed humanity forward have hurt people. Sometimes that's the price of progress. And it doesn't erase what she discovered. Ellen stood up so fast, her cushion tipped over.

This isn't science. This is dark, Ned. And if you keep going like this, she warned, you're going to end up dead or insane. Or I guess both is now an option. And I'm not going to sit back and watch that happen because you've decided your work matters more than your life. He looked up at her, eyes rimmed red, expression caught somewhere between anger and pleading. This is my life, he said. This is what it is now. You don't get to vote on what my purpose is. No, she agreed.

I don't. But I do get to step in when you're no longer capable of taking care of your body or your mind. That's what you do when someone you love can't see what everyone else around them can, that they're marching off a cliff. His expression hardened.

So that's it. You gonna lock me up? He asked. Throw me in some psych ward? Dope me up so I stop seeing the things that are actually there? Sounds awfully familiar, doesn't it? Doctor knows best. How'd that work out for dad? You sure you're not more like mom than you think? That's not fair, she whispered. He looked away. Neither of them spoke for a long time. Finally, softly, he said, I'm tired. I'm going to crash. You can have the guest room again.

Great. Can you tell your ghost guru to leave me alone? That I don't want to be disturbed? She said. Ned's lip twitched. He started to say something, then stopped. Good night, sis. See you in the morning.

He said solemnly, almost apologetically, before he started to walk towards the old surgical room, towards the call of the hum, but then turned around reluctantly and headed towards his room. That night, Ellen didn't sleep much. She lay in the guest bed with the covers pulled up to her chin, listening to the house and fearing Dr. Blackwell's return. The lodge was busier around her this time.

Not louder exactly, but more concentrated. Multiple sets of soft footsteps, many that stopped just short of her door. Whispers too faint to make out, but constant enough that she knew it wasn't just the plumbing. At some point, sometime after midnight, she heard Ned's door open down the hall. Soft, uneven steps followed. She waited, hoping he was going to the bathroom. But the footsteps didn't stop there.

They passed it, heading toward the clinic wing. For fuck's sake, she whispered, and climbed reluctantly out of bed. She needed to see what he was doing. Stepping out into the hallway felt like stepping into a refrigerator. She followed the sound of his bare feet on the wood past the half-finished rooms, past the intersection toward the foyer, until she reached the tiled corridor.

There she could see him standing at the far end in front of the surgical room with his back to her and his hands pressed flat against the wall where the hidden doorway waited. The overhead light above him flickered steadily, buzzing. Ned? She called quietly. He didn't react. For a moment, she thought he hadn't heard her, but then he spoke. His voice was low and distant, like someone half asleep. She quickly ascertained that he was not speaking to her, but instead...

To the doctor. Not yet, he murmured. I'm not ready, he continued before he paused, as if listening to her speak. Ellen couldn't hear her, but she could hear and feel the hum. And it fluctuated, its tones and vibrational clusters shifting and changing into what part of her new must be words. I know, I know. I'm trying. I'm doing what you wrote. I'm hungry. I'm trying. Please, don't rush me.

Ned responded to a lull in the hum, like an engine idling. Ellen's skin crawled. Ned? She said again louder. What are you doing? She would have asked, who are you talking to? But she knew the answer and didn't want to hear it. He flinched, as if woken from a trance, and then he yanked his hands away from the wall. He turned, blinking, squinting in the dim light. Ellen, he said, what are you doing up? What am I doing? She started and stopped herself. You were...

Sleepwalking? He frowned. I wasn't asleep, he admitted slowly. I was... I was just listening. He glanced back at the walls and back at her. Sometimes I can hear her better at night. The hum, it's like being in a server room, you know? All that energy, all that potential. You just have to know how to patch into it. Jesus, you are really scaring me, she said flatly. He sighed.

I'm sorry, he said. I'll go back to bed. You should too. Big day tomorrow. I want to show you the western grounds. I've got some ideas for the fire pit area. She stared at him and shook her head. Right. She said sarcastically, fire pit, great. He brushed past her, warm and faintly trembling. When she looked back at the wall, she swore for a moment she could see the outline, a woman's face ever so slightly emerging from it near where Ned's palms had been.

and the hum correspondingly vibrated a little more intensely at a slightly higher frequency in response. She shut her eyes, and when she opened them a few moments later, the face, her face, was thankfully gone.

Stay the fuck away from him. She whispered with a lot more threat in her voice than she felt in her bones. She had to get her brother out of this portal? Vortex? Door to hell or whatever it really was soon. or it would be too late. The next morning, after thankfully not being visited, to her knowledge anyway, by the doctor, not again, Ellen made Ned eat some breakfast. She cooked up some eggs in a half-finished kitchen.

Toasted bread and a brand new expensive toaster that looked ridiculous sitting on a bare plywood counter, sliced up an apple, and put it all in front of him. He sat at a temporary table, hair must and eyes bloodshot. Eat! She said, folding her arms. He smiled weakly. Yes, Mom, he said. Don't joke, she snapped. Do it. She could tell he thought about protesting, but he didn't. He ate. Slowly, grudgingly.

but he actually ate. But then halfway through the eggs, he set his fork down and pressed a hand to his stomach. Feels weird, he muttered. Yeah, she said. That would be nutrition you're feeling. Your cells are probably throwing a party.

He smirked. After he finished most but not all of his basic breakfast, telling his sister truthfully that if he ate any more he'd get sick, they walked the grounds as promised. He pointed out where he wanted to build the sauna, the liminal fire circle in the private paths.

He talked about future guests with the kind of feverish enthusiasm that made her heart ache. He sounded so alive when he talked about his resort of death. And if she needed any more convincing that his obsession was going to get him killed and soon... That would have been it. He wasn't going to stop. Not on his own. Not a chance. As she hugged him goodbye in the gravel lot later that morning, she held him even tighter than when she'd left the last time.

She hated how damn fragile he felt. She could feel his ribs through his shirt. They felt like if she squeezed just a little bit harder, they'd break. Please, big brother, please take care of yourself. She said into his shoulder with a voice that made him think of her as not a grown woman of nearly 40, but a child. His little kid sister, who he loved so intensely, even if he rarely, if ever showed it.

The goofy little girl with a perpetual rat's nest of hair on her bobblehead, big toothy grin and smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, who he alternately would be annoyed with for tagging along or miss for not being around. I am. He replied softly, I promise, just in a new way. She pulled back and looked him in the face. I love you, she said. I know, he said and smiled.

He was so used to fighting and expressing any deep emotion other than enthusiasm for whatever he was currently fixated on that he barely registered his voice catching with a deep pang of something that felt less like see you later and more like goodbye. I love you too.

Ellen got in her car as Ned turned and headed back inside his obsession, the Liminal Lodge. A few seconds later, Cal caught Ellen's eye as she backed out. He was standing near the side of the house, hands on his hips, brows drawn together. She rolled the window down as she idled near him. Worse? He asked quietly. Worse, she confirmed. He swore under his breath. You gonna do something? He asked.

Yes, she said quietly, afraid the house the doctor was listing. Immediately. On the ferry back to Seattle, Ellen didn't even look at the water. She sat in her car with the windows cracked, scrolling through her phone. Washington state laws on involuntary commitment. Emergency psychiatric holds. Criteria. Danger to self, danger to others. Grave disability.

She read case summaries and mental health advocacy pages on dry government websites. She made a list in her notes app. Not eating. Extreme fasting. Sleep disruption. Night wandering. Talking to unseen entities. Belief he can... Live without matter. Progressive withdrawal from daily functioning. Risk of self-harm via experiments. House with dangerous environmental factors. Old structure, hidden rooms, etc.

By the time the ferry docked, her hands were lightly shaking and a resting heart rate felt more like she had just returned from a run. She drove straight down to her mother's house instead of her own. They sat at the small kitchen table in Puyallup, the same table where she had done homework as a kid.

where Ned had once spread out computer parts like puzzle pieces. Her mom, Janet, she always felt so weird thinking of her as a Janet, the name never seemed to fit, looked older than she'd like to admit. More lines in her face and all of them deeper. Her eyes tired and perpetually a little bloodshot. How bad is it? Janet asked, hands wrapped around a mug she hadn't taken a sip from. Ellen didn't sugarcoat it. Bad mom. He's barely eating, she said.

He's experimenting on himself based on some dead woman's journals. He's talking about leaving matter behind and living on the hum. He's walking the halls at night, talking to walls. He's glowing when he talks about death. it's like he thinks he's in some kind of grad school for the afterlife she thought about also sharing that his new home was truly haunted

by, amongst other entities, a sentient and malevolent force that might actually be the spirit of the murderous doctor who gave the Ridge his complex sat on the deserved name of Death Mountain, but she felt that would only hurt her credibility. Now wasn't the time to share ghost stories. That could come later, when Ned was safe. Janet winced. Has he said anything about wanting to kill himself? She asked. Not directly, Ellen said.

He says he doesn't want to die. He wants to cross without dying. But he's doing things that could kill him or break him, that will kill or break him. And he doesn't seem to care. Her mother nodded and stared into her cold coffee. I don't want to be the one who locks my son up. Not after... She trailed off. I get that, Mom. Ellen nodded. But I don't want to be the one who plans his funeral, she said. And I think those are the only two choices now.

We can sit on our hands and pray he figures it out, or we can step in and be the bad guys for a while to give him a shot at not disappearing into that place forever. Her mother's eyes filled with tears. I thought when he moved back here... We'd get him back, she said, her voice barely above a whimper. Instead, he just, he found a new way to run away. Ellen reached across the table and took her hand. So let's do more to bring him back home, she said.

We'll call a lawyer and a psychiatrist and find out exactly what we have to document, what we have to say. If we overreact, the worst thing that happens is he's pissed at us for a little while. She swallowed. If we underreact. She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to. Her mom nodded slowly. Okay, she said. Okay, okay, we'll do it. They made calls. They got referrals. They left voicemails and sent emails.

By the time Ellen drove home that night, a plan was beginning to form. But of course, the lodge had plans of its own. Dr. Blackwell had no intention of letting her new prize student be taken away so easily. Back across the water. As the last light bled out of the sky over Olala, Ned sat alone at the onyx table with the board in front of him. His fingers rested lightly on the planchette. He didn't even bother with the usual invitation. He was past that now.

Doctor, he whispered. I think they're going to try and stop us. The planchette moved and answered without hesitation. Yes. What do I do? He asked. The air around him blew very, very still, and then slowly and deliberately the planchette spelled C-O-M-E. Pause. T-O. Pause. T H E Pause. Q U I E T Pause. R O O M

Come to the quiet room, the room he had yet to find, where Dr. Blackwell had perfected her self-experimentation and crossed over, where she'd performed her most advanced experiments where she was still experimenting. A shiver rippled through him. How? He whispered. And the board again answered. Y-O-U. Pause. A-R-E. Pause. A-L-M-O-S-T. Pause. T-H-E-R-E. You are almost there, he repeated aloud. His stomach growled faintly and his head swam a little, but he smiled anyway. Okay.

He breathed. Okay, I'll keep going. He didn't hear the faint echo of another voice layered just beneath hers began to speak. A dead woman's voice, thin with fear, carried on some frequency just outside his range.

He only heard the hum and the promise buried inside it. And the liminal lodge, once an institute, once a house of healing, settled itself deeper into the dark, readying its bones for what came next. Three days later, the air over Puget Sound had fully embraced fall. Shadows fell a little earlier. Colors muted a little sooner. And there was a grayness in the sky now that felt less like a passing mood and more like a decision.

At the liminal lodge, the same grave felt thicker. It clung to the timber and the glass, settled into the angles of the eaves and the dark stain and the siding. The house had crossed another invisible threshold in those few days. From a distance, it no longer looked like a project. It looked complete. Not quite finished. There were still tarps and scaffolding in places. Still ladders leaned against walls and piles of reclaimed wood.

But something underneath the cosmetic progress had clicked into place. The lodge didn't feel like it was becoming itself anymore. It felt like it was itself now. And it was hungry. And humming with a new intensity, everyone felt, not just Ned. But he, of course, felt it most strongly. Like some sort of transformer he had plugged not just his mind into, but the entirety of his being, soul, and all.

Ned woke up with his teeth buzzing. For a few disorienting seconds, he thought he was in the old black house in San Francisco again. The one he tried so hard to imbue with power. The one he'd wired with speakers and hidden lighting and all the theatrical trickery he could afford. The one that had felt like a movie set compared to this place. But then he tasted the air. Dry dust, old tile, the faint metallic tang of antique plumbing.

The clinic wing, of course. He opened his eyes and realized he hadn't fallen asleep in his bed. He was on the floor of the meditation parlor lying on his back beside the onyx table. Candles had burned all the way down to wax puddles. The board sat between his shoulder and the table leg, one corner pressing into his skeletal ribs. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he remembered the board and the word. Almost.

He also remembered the way his chest had tightened when she'd spelled it, the way his thoughts had sharpened and narrowed down to a single bright point, the quiet room.

The place where she'd done it, where she'd stepped out all the way, where she'd left her body behind like a lab coat tossed over a chair. He was so very close. His stomach cramped with hunger. It felt like someone had knotted his intestines and was slowly twisting them.

He smiled anyway. Worth it, he whispered. He sat up slowly, joints protesting, and rubbed his face with both hands. His stubble rasped against his palms. When he dropped his hands, his fingers trembled for a few seconds before settling. The lodge hummed around him, a low-layered vibration that threaded through the walls and floor, like a choir holding the same soft note in the distance.

And if he tilted his head just right, he could almost pick out individual voices in the sound, different pitches, different textures, but all of them centered there. down the hall, past the consultation rooms and the hydrotherapy chamber, to the surgical room in the wall beyond the cabinet. He pushed himself to his feet. Almost there, he murmured. You said it yourself.

He didn't bother with breakfast, didn't even think about it. He instead grabbed one of Dr. Blackwell's softer, most handled notebooks off his desk, slipped it under his arm and headed for the clinic wing barefoot. His footfalls on the tile echoed strangely, like they were layered. Just a faint double beat, the second half a breath behind the first, as if two sets of feet were moving an almost perfect sink. He reached the surgical room and stepped inside.

Right on cue and expected, the temperature dropped several degrees. Even without the crew there, without the tools and the noise and the distractions, this room always felt busy. like something was constantly happening just one moment ago and would be again just one moment from now. Behind a sealed table, the old cabinet leaned against the far wall, its doors slightly ajar, its shelves holding cracked jars and rusted instruments.

Ned crossed the room and put his hand on the cabinet. Under his palm, the metal vibrated faintly, barely, like holding a phone on silent just as it started to ring. He exhaled and then pushed. The cabinet scraped grudgingly across the floor and the magical wall behind it looked so ordinary. Old tile, dim yellowed grout lines, the faint discoloration where equipment had once been bolted.

He stepped closer and the hum grew louder. He felt it in every fiber of his beam. Okay, he said softly. Let's see what I missed. He slid the notebook onto the steel table behind him, flipped it open with one hand, and thumbed through pages until he found what he was looking for. An entry he had read a couple dozen times, at least. One he'd underlined so many phrases in, he was genuinely worried about tearing the paper.

June 17, 1911. Today the wall between shells thinned again. Not a metaphorical wall, the actual wall. The one I had installed at the end of the Western Surgical Chamber. How delicious that no one else suspects. A simple addition, they think, for storage. Only I know it is an invitation. The quiet room sits not behind it, but partially through it. I can feel it now without fasting when I press my hand to the tile. The trick, I believe, is matching the frequency of the hum.

It is a key hidden in plain vibration. In the margin, written later, tighter. I step further when I am least in my body, when it is weakest and I am strongest. Ned's heart hammered against his ribs. He pressed his palm flat against the tile. It was cold enough to hurt, like a frozen metal railing in winter. But the cold didn't repel him, it pulled him.

A low, insistent tugging that started at the surface of his skin, then sunk deeper. The hum under his hand matched the hum in his teeth, matched the hum in his chest. Layer on layer on layer, note on note on note, like a chord forming. He closed his eyes and the darkness behind his eyelids wasn't pure, it was textured. He saw static in it, faint gray flecks moving in waves. The longer he kept his eyes closed, the more the static shifted into patterns. Vertical bands, a hint of a doorway shape.

Something like the outline of a room seen from the corner of his vision. He pressed harder. The tile didn't give, but his sense of it did. It felt less like a wall now and more like the surface of some water that had been flash-frozen. Solid, but just barely.

Something that could be made soft again. Almost there, he whispered impatiently. His breath fogged faintly in front of his lips. He dug his fingers into the grooves between the tiles as if there should be an edge to pry up. There wasn't. Fine. He wasn't quite there, but he was close, so close, too close to quit trying. He turned his head and looked back at the notebook. I stepped further when I am least in my body, he repeated aloud. And he was the least in his body he had ever been.

He hadn't eaten more than a few bites in days. He'd slept only in scattered stretches, an hour or so here on the floor, 45 minutes in a chair, a few minutes sitting upright in a bed with a hum as a lullaby, nourished and rejuvenated by the promise of Courtney on the other side of the wall.

He felt barely in his body at all right now. That was good. Okay, he said, let's try it again. He pressed his forehead gently against the tile, palms still flat, eyes closed. He breathed with a hum. In on the rise, out on the fall. After a few cycles, he could feel the rhythm in his chest reshaping itself to match. His heartbeat started to sink with it. The static behind his eyelids brightened.

He wasn't seeing the darkness of his unlit surgical room anymore. He was seeing the suggestion of an echo. A second version of the same place, layered just to the left of where his senses normally sat. His ears began to ring and his limbs felt... Less heavy, but not lighter in the pleasant relaxed way. Lighter as in less attached. For one strange disorienting second, he felt like his body was a suit hung on a hook and his awareness was stepping a half inch out of it.

Then a sound like a pop cracked inside his skull, and he gasped. His finger still rested against what should have been hard tile, but his hand, the part of him that was now hovering just out of phase, it slid impossibly forward. For a fraction of a second, he felt both sensations at once, the bite of cold ceramic and the absence of any resistance. Then the physical numbness became total and his hand went through. He could feel it.

and possibly slide into something that felt like warm fog. He laughed, the sound high and startled. He nearly started to cry as the sound of his laughter echoed strangely off the tiles, doubling back to him with a half-second delay. Holy shit. He whispered, my God, I did it. I really did it. The hum surged as if to congratulate and embrace him. Cal had never really liked the clinic wing.

While he didn't consider himself all that sensitive, he'd had some possible paranormal encounters over the years. What sounded like footsteps coming from the hall above him where there was no one, or strange shadows in his peripheral vision that lingered a moment when he turned to look at them.

He told plenty of ghost stories over beers, heard a bunch from others, and watched a fair amount of paranormal shows over the years. But he'd still maintain the belief that at least 99% of all that stuff was bullshit. And even the real stories, including his own, were embellished. At least a little, and most of the time, probably a lot. But the lodge, the lodge felt different, very different. Not only was it definitely paranormally active, it was alive.

and it was starting to scare him. He told himself he was only staying a little late because they were behind on some of the plumbing work, and he wanted to get a jump on it while they still had a little break in the rain. But if he was honest, he was hanging around because of Ellen's concerns over Ned and his own. She hadn't called again, but he still felt their conversation rattling around in his chest. If he starts talking about leaving his body behind again, the memory made him grimace.

He shut off the exterior generator, wiped his hands on his work pants, and headed inside to check that all the main lights had been killed. Ned tended to drift around with lamps on at weird hours, and Cal didn't want him to fry something or start a fire because the wiring was still halfway in progress in a few places. The foyer was dim, but not dark. The big reception desk sat like a shadow at the far side.

polished and waiting. Hey, hey, Ned, he called out, more out of habit than expectation. You still around? No answer. He stopped and listened for a few seconds and heard nothing but the usual house noises. some wood settling, a far off creek. He moved through the east corridor, flicking switches, making sure saws were unplugged. His boots sounded loud per usual in the half-finished bases. But when he stepped into the clinic wing, the sound changed.

It was immediately quieter, tighter, like the walls were leaning forward and listening. He hated that thought as soon as he had it, and it wasn't the first time he'd had it in that room. Jesus, Cal, he muttered to himself. You're starting to sound like him. Then he heard something else he'd heard before. Just barely. That damn hum again. He stopped walking and there it was, a bit more clear. A low vibration. And it definitely wasn't a generator. That was off.

Not the water heater either. That had a different pitch. This was more like standing next to a big industrial transformer. And the sound was always accompanied by a feeling that was strongest at the far end of the hall, near the surgical room. His skin prickled. It wasn't natural, and it was connected somehow to Ned's decline. Ned? He called again. You in there? No answer. He walked ahead, and with every step, the hum grew stronger.

Not just in his ears, it also sunk deeper into his teeth, into his sinuses, into every bone in his body. By the time he reached the surgical room doorway, his jaw ached. He stepped inside and froze. There was Ned. standing at the far wall with both hands in his forehead pressed against the tiles. He was barefoot in overly well-worn, dirty jeans and the same black t-shirt he'd been wearing continually for at least a week that hung from his frame like it belonged to someone bigger.

His sharp shoulder blades were visible even through the fabric. His hair stuck up in messy tufts. His neck looked like it was the kind of stiff you get from going days without properly sleeping, but instead nodding off in the midst of sitting and reading and the like. He wasn't moving. Ned? Cal said sharply. Zero reaction. Ned! He yelled this time. And at the sound of his name spoken for the fourth time, Ned's shoulders flinched and his right hand spasmed against the tile.

He sucked in a harsh breath and staggered back, nearly losing his balance. Cal rushed forward on instinct, grabbing his elbow. Whoa, whoa, hey! Cal said, easy, you alright? Ned blinked, like someone had thrown cold water in his face. For a half second, his eyes didn't quite line up with Cal's. One pupil seemed to focus on the middle distance just to the side of him. Then he blinked again, and they snapped back. Cal, he rasped, trying to sound casual and cheerful, but not quite hitting the mark.

Hey, I'm fine. I'm good. He tried to pull away too fast and his knees buckled, nearly sending him to the floor. Cal tightened his grip and eased him down onto the edge of the steel table before he finally took his tumble. Sure. Cal said. You look great, buddy. Real GQ Corpse chic. Ned chuckled weakly and forced to grin that looked a lot more insane than jovial. You love to bust my balls, Cal. I like that. I got dizzy, he admitted.

That's all. Just stood up too fast. Happened to the best of us. Stood up from what? Cal demanded. You were standing there when I walked in, head on the wall, like you were trying to become one with it. Ned glanced at the tile and his expression flickered, part embarrassment. Part awe. I was working, he said. Cal looked at him incredulously, intentionally raising one eyebrow as high as it would go for dramatic effect. On what? He asked. A concussion?

Ned's mouth twitched. On the wall, he said simply. On what's behind it. Cal followed his gaze to the tile. He'd seen that wall a thousand times over the past year. In some ways, he knew it better than the back of his own hand. He checked it for cracks and leaks, for rot, for structural issues. It was just a wall. But even now, standing this close to it with Ned's weight, cold and shaky beside him, he had to admit something about it felt off. Not visibly, not tangibly.

It was more like standing next to a big animal that was very intensely pretending to be asleep. And it was connected somehow to that insidious hum. But Cal wasn't going to feed Ned's obsession with that. Instead, he said... What's behind it is dirt and more goddamn foundation. I personally have seen the other side when we cleared some dirt to lay some new pipes and conduits. We've been through the blueprints, remember? Ned shook his head. Not the physical plans.

He said. The original layout was altered after she built it. The quiet room wasn't on any of the official designs. It's not even officially here, but it's here. Okay. Yeah, buddy. That doesn't sound batshit crazy at all. Cal thought as he smiled faintly. Then he said, if there was a hidden room, I am confident we would have sussed it out by now. Ned ignored what he said. I touched it, he whispered, for a moment.

He pressed his thumb hard into his palm like he needed pain to keep himself grounded. My hand went through, he explained, his wide, sunken, skull-like eyes blankly staring into memory. Not physically, not all the way, but I don't know how to explain it without sounding completely insane. Buddy, I think you passed completely insane a few months ago, Cal said with just enough humor in his voice to avoid truly offending Ned to the point of confrontation.

We're deep into this is how horror movies start, he added. Ned huffed. I was on both sides for a second, he continued. Here and not here. I felt the room, the quiet room, like a space shaped like a thought. I could feel the air in there. Warm, thick. It's right there. He tapped the tile lightly with his knuckles. Behind them...

The hum seemed to pulse just once as if answering him, as if cheering him on. Yes, Ned. Yes, you're absolutely right. It's right there. Keep going. Cal clenched his jaw. He knew Ned was losing it or had lost it. The whole crew did.

Speculation regarding his mental and physical health had been becoming a more and more common point of conversation for months. And it had fully lost its tone of something to joke about weeks ago, replaced with a growing genuine concern. He hoped Ellen would be showing up soon.

even if that meant pausing construction and needing to move on to another project. Luckily, he and his crew were in high demand and had more work already lined up. But even if they didn't, putting a few paychecks above getting this poor bastard some help, if he actually did that... He'd become a victim of a haunting, too. His conscience would be the ghost. You need food, he said, and a nap. A lot of food and a lot of naps, frankly. And sorry if I'm overstepping here, but a therapist.

maybe even a little vacation to a place that has an in-house therapist. Ned bristled hard at the last suggestion, clenched his jaw and said nothing. Come on, I'll walk you back to your room, Kyle insisted. I'm fine. Ned snapped. I don't need. His stomach growled loudly enough that both of them heard it over the hum. Kyle arched an eyebrow. Your gut begs to differ, he said dryly. Ned laughed despite himself.

Okay, he conceded, maybe some food. But then I have to get back to work. I'm close, Cal. I'm really, really close. Cal clapped a hand on his shoulder. Let's focus on a half a sandwich, he said gently. How could you possibly conquer death on an empty stomach?

That night, back in Puyallup at her mom's place, Ellen couldn't stop refreshing her email. Her laptop screen bathed the small kitchen in cold light. Janet had gone to bed hours ago, claiming she'd try to sleep, but Ellen knew damn well she'd just lie there staring at the ceiling and listening for her phone. They'd spoken with a lawyer that morning. They'd spoken with a mental health advocate that afternoon.

They'd spoken briefly with a woman named Mary from the county crisis line, a designated crisis responder who'd walked them through the criteria for an involuntary hold of what kind of evidence was required, what the next steps would be. Document what you can, Mary had said. Dates, times, statements. If his behavior escalates, if there is a direct risk, call us immediately. Ellen had a new folder in her notes app. Ned, crisis documentation. Under it, she'd written, September 3.

Cal reports weaning himself off matter, learning to live on the hum. September 6. Witness night wandering, talking to Wall, describing Dr. B is speaking to him. September 9. Second board session. Here's voice claiming to be Dr. B. Wants to work with him. Says he knows the risks and doesn't care. September 12. Sleepwalking, listening at Wall again. She hums. Describes Wall as...

Access point. Appears emaciated. She stared at the list until the words blurred. And then she nearly jumped off her seat when her phone buzzed. A new email. She almost dropped the laptop scrambling to pick her phone up. Damn it. Wasn't from the county. but it was from Cal. The subject line read, Today. Ellen's stomach clenched as she opened it. Just saw him again by the wall, he wrote. Said his hand went through. Looked like he was going to pass out.

I got him back to his room and made him eat a little something. He's talking like this is a good thing, like almost blacking out means he's closer. I know I'm not family, but whatever you're planning, I think you need to do it real soon. She swallowed hard and her eyes misted.

Her thumb hovered over the call button next to crisis line in her contacts. Not quite yet, she told herself. Wait for the DCR, the designated crisis responder, to call back. Do this right. Don't give them any reason to write this off as... overprotective family drama. Her stomach twisted in on itself and she agreed to wait one more day, but not more than that. Soon, very soon, she whispered. Just hold on, big brother. Just a little bit longer. We're coming.

Across the water at that same moment, Ned sat on the edge of his bed with the lights off. He held the Ouija planchette in one hand and Dr. Blackwell's notebook in the other. He wasn't even using the board now. Not tonight. He didn't need the letters anymore. He could feel her without them. He didn't even need the planchette, but he held it all the same like some sort of security blanket. The hum in the walls had grown stronger since that afternoon. It had changed flavors, too.

When he'd first moved into the lodge, the vibration had felt diffuse, like the static between radio stations. After finding the notebooks, it had sharpened, like a distant chorus tuning up. After the first time he'd felt the wall soften under his hand, it had become something more like a voice clearing its throat. But now? Now it spoke. Not in sentences. Not with words he could write down.

It spoke in impressions, in pulses that carried meaning without language. Almost. Come. Soon. He exhaled calmly. The fear that had occasionally bubbled up in the beginning, that little flare of... What if I'm losing my mind? What if I end up exact like dad? Barely flickered anymore. He'd seen too much. He'd felt too much. And so had Ellen. Dr. Blackwell had spoken to her as well. She had visited her. And so had other spirits.

and he'd heard whisperings from the crew some of them had seen her as well or at least felt her or maybe one of the others and now they were all hearing feeling the hum maybe not like him but it was still further proof that this was all so much more than imagination or illness. This was real.

Besides, even if he was the only one who had seen what he had seen and felt what he had felt, he knew what delusion looked like. He had read about it. He had faced it. He'd watched Courtney's mind falter in her final days, watched her slip in and out of dreams she thought were happening in the room.

This was not that. Delusion felt chaotic. But this? This felt ordered. The hum had structure. It had rules. And the rules were getting clearer. He turned the notebook over in his hands and let it fall open on his lap. His eyes landed on an entry he hadn't paid as much attention to before, one he'd initially skipped because it had seemed more symbolic than instructional. December 3, 1912. The quiet room was no longer separate from the rest of the Institute.

It has become its heart. The hum runs through every beam now, every pipe, every wire. They walk through it without knowing. They sleep inside it. Some of them are ready. Most are not. I will not force those who cling to their shells. But when I see the light in one, when I see the second shape already half-formed around their bodies, I know. The Institute knows. It calls them, and it will not let them be taken from me. Ned read that last sentence twice.

It will not let them be taken from me. His lips tilted into a small, fierce smile. Of course, she was protective of him and of her previous experimental patients. Anyone doing revolutionary reality bending work had to be. They tried to lock her up, too, to take her away from her patients. They called her insane when she was simply ahead of her time. A few hundred years earlier, they would have come for her with pitchforks and torches and burned her alive.

Instead, they chased her into hiding and then shoved her into their little diagnostic boxes, and when she'd refused to stop, they'd wiped her name from most records, buried her memory in her work, but they hadn't silenced her. He'd found her. Or perhaps she'd found him. Either way, her work would continue. Ned closed the notebook and pressed his hand flat on the cover. I won't let them put me in a box, he said softly but with stern conviction. I will push on.

The liminal lodge will be so much more than some occult resort for the rich and curious. It will rip apart the entirety of humanity's understanding of death, of both life and the afterlife. It will be the single most important place. home of the greatest single discovery in human history, a mecca unlike any other before it. And alongside Dr. Blackwell's name shall be my own, the daring doctor who defeated death.

decades, perhaps almost a century after she had shed her mortal coil and the man who loved another enough to complete her work. If Dr. Blackwell is some sort of God, I will be her Jesus.

The hum responded with a powerful throbbing swell of approval. The next day, Mary the DCR called Ellen back. She answered on the first ring and stepped out of a patient room at the hospital and into one of the echoing stairwells, holding her phone tight enough to make her knuckles ache so she could hear her. The conversation was measured, professional and calm. They went through the criteria again.

The steps? The thresholds? He's not actively suicidal, Ellen admitted. But he is doing things that could, likely will kill him. And soon. He's starving himself. He's ignoring physical warning signs. He's refusing to see this as... dangerous. He thinks leaving behind his physical body or something like it is his goal. Well, I'd say that definitely falls under the category of grave disability, if it's severe enough, Mary said.

If his ability to meet basic needs is compromised by his mental state and he doesn't recognize the danger. He definitely does not. Not even close, Ellen said flatly. Then we can evaluate, Merritt replied. I'll need to see him. We can come out to the property, but it's usually better if he's in a neutral setting, a clinic or an ER. Is there any way to get him to agree to an evaluation? Ellen swallowed. I think maybe.

She said slowly, he still trusts me. He thinks I'm overreacting, but he loves me. If I tell him I'm scared and I need him to do this for me, there's a chance he'll come in, but he might not. If you can get him to agree voluntarily, that's the least traumatic option for everyone, Mary said. If he refuses and you still believe he's an immediate risk, call us and we'll initiate an involuntary evaluation. But know that that's harder.

It's much more adversarial, and in my experience, far more likely to damage relationships. Relationships, Ellen thought. The word sometimes now felt like such a luxury. Okay, Ellen said. Okay, I'll call him tonight. I'll do my best to get him into an ER this weekend, and I'll keep documenting. Good, said Mary. You're doing the right thing. Ellen hung up and leaned her head against the cool stairwell wall.

She didn't feel defeated, that wasn't right, but she didn't quite feel hopeful either. Definitely not as much as she had hoped she would be. She'd envisioned the DCR immediately not only being on board with an involuntary evaluation, but pushing for it. For a moment.

She wished her father was still alive. Not because she believed he could help, by all accounts, he had been sick in a way that had left him unreachable, but because she wanted to scream at him. You left mom alone with this, with all of this, with both of us. Why couldn't you have fought harder? she knew that wasn't how mental illness worked but she felt the anger the abandonment all the same she did her best to push aside her deep worries and fears and went back to work

resentful of helping patient after patient while being virtually powerless to help the one she cared about the most. That night, when Ellen called Ned, her brother didn't pick up and went straight to voicemail. Hey, it's Ned. You know what to do. She hung up without leaving a message, then tried again an hour later. Voicemail. Again, no more than 10 minutes after that. Still voicemail. A cold, hollow feeling opened up in her gut and she texted Cal. Have you seen him today?

She was washed over by a feeling of relief when the typing bubble appeared almost immediately. Yeah, he was here earlier. Haven't seen him since late afternoon. Thought he was napping. Why? Can you check on him? She wrote, please. A minute later. on it she stared at her phone pacing her small living room like a caged thing five minutes that felt like an hour passed with no word then 10 her heart thudded in her ears finally another text came through

And when she read it, another small wave of relief was quickly washed over by a bigger wave of worry. Found him in clinic wing. He's weird. More than usual. Call me. Her finger shook as she hit his number. Cal answered on the first ring. Hey, he said quietly. I didn't want to put this in writing. Oh, God, Ellen thought as her throat went dry. What's wrong? She hesitantly asked.

Cal's initial response was a telling silence. Then, I don't know how to describe it without sounding nuts, and I already feel half nuts in this place most days, lately. He was in the surgical room again, at the wall. Of course he was, she muttered.

Yeah, Cal said, but this time, this time was different. Different. That was certainly one way to put it. Ned hadn't meant to lose that much time. In his mind, he'd gone into the surgical room that afternoon to try again, to push just a bit further than he had the day before.

He'd meant to be careful. He'd meant to set limits. He'd meant to treat this like an experiment, not an obsession with the mystery he was growing increasingly impatient with unraveling. But when he had pressed his palm to the wall, he'd hit the hum so perfectly. It was like finally dialing the correct set of three numbers after weeks of misfires and finally opening a combination lock. One, two, three, click.

The static behind his eyelids didn't slowly coalesce like it had before. No, it sharply snapped into focus. And he wasn't in two places at once anymore. He was fully in the other one.

For several long, breathtaking heartbeats, Ned Watkins stood inside the quiet room. He didn't open his physical eyes. He couldn't have if he tried. But his awareness, his sense of self, stepped cleanly out of his body and into a space that felt both entirely foreign and intimately familiar. It wasn't a big room. It didn't need to be. Size felt different here, less important.

He perceived four walls, a ceiling, and a floor. The walls were the same tiled surface as the surgical room, but they were impossibly clean, no cracks, no discoloration, no signs of age whatsoever. The air felt warm and syrupy thick. and it pulsed in time with a hum that was no longer outside of him, but through him. In the center of the room was a narrow bed, and on the bed lay a body. His first wild thought was, that's me. Except it wasn't.

The body was too small, too thin, and female. The woman wore a long white gown and her hands were folded neatly over her stomach. Her hair was pinned up in a severe bun. Her face was... well, he wasn't sure. He couldn't quite see it. Every time he tried to make out her features, something in his mind slid away like a magnet that refused to let two identical poles touch. But he felt her attention, not from the bed, but from behind him, and he turned without moving to see her.

A second presence had filled the room. It wasn't a shape exactly, not yet, more like a contour in the air, a slight warping of reality. Then very slowly, the presence condensed, and a woman stood in front of him. She was taller than he'd expected, not physically imposing. She was thin, very thin, almost gaunt. But her posture was straight. Her hands clasped lightly in front of her. She wore the same style of gown as the body on the bed. Her hair was pinned.

And her face was wrong. Not grotesque or monstrous. He wasn't sure if a perfect word to describe it existed. Just wrong. Too sharp at the edges. The lines of her cheekbones and jaw didn't quite match the way his brain expected a face to map. Her eyes were a little too large for their sockets, their irises, a blackish brown so dark they completely swallowed the weak light in the room. And her smile when it came was small and almost gentle. Hello, Edmund, she said.

Her voice wasn't the hum, but it was very, very close to it, not quite enmeshed with it. It seemed to ride just on top of it and had the same layered quality, as if more than one tone were speaking in near-perfect unison. He laughed at choked sound that wobbled on the way out. That's not my name, he managed. It's Ned, or Edward technically, but nobody. Her smile deepened diffraction. Names change, she said. Light does not.

I saw you long before you were born. The lodge saw you. It remembers. It called you. And you answered. He felt his awareness wobble. It was the strangest sensation. like his sense of self was a candle flame in billowing air. This is... real, he said stupidly, the sense existing somewhere between declaration and question. She tilted her head. You already knew that.

She chided lightly, faintly smiling. Or you would not have starved your shell so diligently. He looked down at himself. He didn't have a body here, not exactly, not in the strictest sense. He was more like an outline, a heat shimmer in the shape of a man.

but he could feel where his limbs would be, the boundaries of his form. He could also feel the connection to his physical body in the surgical room beyond the wall, a thin, taut cord of sensation tethered in back. How long do I have? he asked, like this. She considered him. As long as you like, she said. You are not dead, Edmund. Not yet. You are visited, as I did once. In the beginning, he swallowed.

Can I... The question came from the deepest part of him. Can I see her? Courtney? A tiny shadow crossed her strange eyes. Not yet, Dr. Blackwell said. You are not strong enough. You could not find your way back to your shell if I let you go too far from the door. And they are already trying to take you away from me. He flinched. How do you know that? He asked.

She smiled knowingly. This place was built not just to cross over, but to listen, she said. It hears every word spoken inside its bones. It remembers. The lodge hums here. The hum hums there. There is no difference. I heard your mother at her table. I heard your sister in her little room. I heard the woman on the line telling her how to lock you away.

Rage and panic flickered in his chest. They're scared, he said. They don't understand. She stepped closer. The hum surged around her, through her, and through him as well. Of course they are frightened, she said. You are leaving them, and they will not, cannot follow. The blind grow angry with those who can see. But I don't want to leave them, he said quickly. I just want both. I want to be able to come here and go back. I want...

You want to cheat the border, she finished. To live in the threshold. To be liminal. She glanced upward, as if amused by the name he had chosen for the lodge. Ambitious. dangerous, and admirable. She reached out and placed her hand on what would have been his chest. He didn't feel fingers. He felt something more like alignment. His own humming core latched onto hers like a tuning fork slapped into resonance.

You have done well, she said quietly. You have come quite far in a short time, but you are not quite finished. Your shell still clings too tightly. It must be further... Loosen. A sliver of instinctive fear slid through him, but he wouldn't allow it to stop his journey. You mean more fasting, he said. More deprivation. She inclined her head.

Pain is the path, she said. You have read it. You have felt it. To step out without dying, you must bring the shell to the edge without letting it crumble. We will do this together. but we must act quickly. Because of them, he said. Because of them, she agreed. They will try to cage you. They will tell themselves it is kindness.

They will tell themselves they are saving you. But really, they are afraid you will leave them behind. The truth is, they are afraid that they will be the ones trapped in the cage. Ellen's words. That's what you do when somebody you love can't see they're marching off a cliff. Flickered through his mind and he pushed them away. What do I do? He asked. Her smile sharpened. You continued.

She said. You don't give up. You don't let their doubt rob you of fully experiencing what you now merely taste. His awareness tugged following that explanation. It felt like the cord connecting him to his physical body had just been plucked and he suddenly felt his heart beating in the other room. Slowly. Weakly. He pushed farther this time than he had realized in his spirit, his essence, his soul.

swayed in the quiet room. Dr. Blackwell's ethereal hand stayed fixed over his chest. Soon, she said. Very soon. You will be ready to step across fully. To let the quiet room become another home. To let this lodge become another body. But first we must prevent them from dragging you backward. He licked his lips he didn't have in this place. How? he whispered.

Her eyes gleamed. You will not go to them, she said. You will not answer their calls. You will tell them what they want to hear until it is too late for them to act. And if they come here... The hum in the walls swelled like distant thunder. If they come here, the lodge will show them the truth, but they will not be prepared, and the truth will break them.

A flash of Adeline's voice, frail, small, and terrified. She will not let me go. Her promises are lies. Skittered across Ned's awareness like a spider, he flinched. But his attention refocused on Dr. Blackwell when her fingers tightened. Do not listen to failed subjects. She said in that same tone that while soft still made it clear no dissent would be welcomed. They clung to fear. They refused to accept what they were offered. They scream now out of habit, not because they are harmed.

The hum now deepened and behind her, in the corners of the quiet room, Ned thought he could see shapes, thin, pale figures pressed faintly into the tiled walls, not fully formed, their mouths moved soundlessly, their eyes were empty sockets filled with shadow. Ned felt the echo of an uneasy stomach. Your William doesn't scream, he said hoarsely. William learned, she said. William stepped out enough to see. He walks the halls now as a teacher.

As you will. He thought of some of William's words on the Ouija board. Part. Stay. Safe. He couldn't tell if they comforted him or made him want to flee, give up his quest, and never return. Can I... Can I go back now? He asked. I think my shell is slipping. Her smile softened a fraction. Yes, she said. Of course. For now, you must keep it alive. Return.

Eat if you must. Drink. Rest just enough. But do not let them put their hands on you. Do not let them drag you into their little rooms. If they caged you... I would have to break the bars and that would hurt. He didn't ask who that would hurt, him, them, or both. He simply took a step backward. The hum thickened around him, then thinned, and then the quiet room faded and the static returned. And then, a millisecond later, he felt that same snap of focus as before only reversed.

and accompanied by something akin to a slam as he gasped as his awareness crashed back into his body like someone forced into a too-tight jacket. He choked on air, his lungs burned, and his limbs felt like wet sandbags. His knees gave out and hit tile.

He dimly registered the weight of his own arms, dragging against gravity, the cold of the wall against his forehead, the sick, swooping sensation of nearly blacking out, and then... Ned? A sharp voice. Close. Hands on his elbow. He lurched sideways and would have hit the floor hard if Cal hadn't caught him. So, yeah, Cal said into the phone, voice low and tight. When I say weird, I mean he was really out of it, more than usual.

I've seen people nod off on ladders, sure. Seen guys get lightheaded and have to sit down. This wasn't that. It was like he'd been somewhere else and just dropped back in without any warning. Ellen's heart jackhammered against her ribs. Did he say what happened? She asked. He said he got dizzy, Kyle said. But when I pressed, he said he was working the wall again. Said he felt the room behind it. And then he started talking about committing and not letting you cage him.

I figured that was my cue to call you. The words hurt Ellen like a knife, not letting you cage him. It sounded exactly like the doctor, like the board. She squeezed her eyes shut. Thank you, she said. I'm going to call him again. If he answers, I'll try to get him to agree to come to the city this weekend. If he doesn't, I think we're done waiting. If you want me there when whatever happens happens, Cal said, I'll be there.

I don't want to see him dragged off in cuffs, but I also don't want to find him dead against the wall in three weeks. Neither do I. Thank you, Cal, she whispered. Of course, I'd want my sister to do the same for me if I was in his shoes. They hung up. She called Ned. She wasn't surprised when she was sent to voicemail. A few minutes later, she called again. Again, she was sent to voicemail. On the third try, right as she expected to be denied again, he picked up. Hey!

He said, sounding out of breath. Relief crashed over her so hard she had to sit down. Jesus, Ned. I've been trying to reach you, she said. I was in the shower. He lied poorly. Lost track of time. Sorry. Are you okay? No. She said bluntly. No, I'm not. I'm extremely worried about you. He sighed. Helen, Ellen, we've been over this.

No, we haven't, she cut it. Not like this. Listen, I talked to someone from the county, a crisis responder. I told her what's been going on. You're fasting, the voices, the wall. She strongly feels like you need to be evaluated before you hurt yourself or worse. Silence.

She could almost hear that creepy hum on his end of the line. And what do you think? He asked finally. I think if we keep going like this, you're going to end up either dead or in a psych ward, she said, her voice shaking. He chuckled weakly. Nice.

He said, way to sugarcoat it, sis. I'm not sugarcoating shit anymore, she snapped. I love you. I don't want to lose you. I'm asking you, as your sister, as the person who has loved you and truly been there for you longer than anyone else alive, please, please come into Seattle this weekend. Let a doctor talk to you. Just talk. If they say you're fine and I'm overreacting, I'll back off. I'll try to accept this. But if they say that you're not, we'll deal with it. Together. She waited.

For a moment, she thought he'd hung up. When he spoke again, his voice was very quiet. You'd really lock me up, he said, wouldn't you? If that's what it takes to keep you breathing, yes, she whispered. I would. And you can hate me for the rest of your life. I'll take it. At least you'll have a rest of a life to use to hate me. Something shifted on the other end. She heard a faint low sound under his breathing. He inhaled. Exhaled.

And then, to her surprise, he said, Okay. She blinked. Okay? She repeated. Seriously? Yeah, he said. Okay. I'll come in. Saturday. Tomorrow's busy here. but I can take the ferry in on Saturday morning. We can go to an urgent care or whatever. Do it your way once so you know I'm not just blowing smoke. Tears pricked her eyes. Thank you, she whispered.

Thank you, big brother. I promise I'll be with you the whole time. We'll get brunch after. We'll make a day of it. It doesn't have to be. Yeah, yeah, he said. And she could hear the old teasing edge in his voice for the first time in weeks. Don't get too excited. I said I'll come talk.

I didn't say I'm going to let some orderlies strap me down and feed me jello in a padded room. She laughed through the tears. I'll protect you from the jello, she said. Deal, he replied. I'll text you my ferry time. Shortly after that, they hung up. She sat there for a long moment with the phone in her hand. Relief washed through her in waves. He'd agreed. He'd actually agreed. They could do this voluntarily. Meanwhile. Meanwhile.

Across the water, Ned sat on his bed in the dark, the phone still in his hand. He stared at it for a few seconds. Then he turned his head toward the nearest wall and the hum pressed closer. You heard, he acknowledged softly. The lodge didn't answer in words it didn't have to. He felt a disapproval like a drop in barometric pressure. You told her what she needed to hear. A layered voice set inside his skull, Dr. Blackwell's voice riding on the vibration.

You bought time. We will not go with it. You are so nearly ready. We cannot risk them pulling you away at the threshold. He exhaled. I know, he said. I'm not going. I just had to say it for her. A faint cold caress crossed his spine. She will hate you more for the lie than for the cage, the doctor said. But her hatred does not matter. Only the work.

Our work matters. Only the crossing matters. He swallowed. I don't want her to hate me, he said. A soft, humorless chuckle vibrated through the wall. Everyone hates their surgeon. she said, until the operation succeeds. He looked down at his hands. They shook. Not from fear or hunger, but from exhaustion, from the ever-present hum singing to his bones. Okay.

He whispered, Okay, then we do it here. Soon. Very soon. The hum swelled in acknowledgement and approval. At that same moment, Ellen started drafting a text. Fairy? 10-20 Saturday? I'll pick you up at the dock. We can get coffee first. She paused before hitting send. For the first time in weeks, hope bloomed in her chest like something fragile and green pushing through scorched earth. She didn't know, of course. She couldn't know.

that across the sound, the lodge had already decided it would not let its newest subject be taken. And somewhere deep behind the tiles of the surgical room, in a space that was not really a space at all, the quiet room expanded just a fraction. Just enough to make room for one more visitor. One more shell to be not just loosened, as Ned expected, but shed. One more light to claim to be continued.

And that is it for Nightmare Fuel this week. I hope you are enjoying the continuation of the Liminal Lodge and look forward to two more installments. Getting all your questions answered, I think. Today's tale was written, will be, was written by me, Dan Cummins, and scored by Logan Keith. If you enjoyed this story, check out the rest of the Bad Magic Productions catalog. Time suck every Monday at noon Pacific time.

with little short sucks on some Fridays, and these Nightmare Fuel episodes on two Fridays a month as well. And new episode to the now long-running paranormal podcast, Scared to Death, every Tuesday at midnight. Please go to badmagicproductions.com for all your bad magic needs, including show-related merch, and stay scared. Bad Magic Productions.

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