For the next three days, life at the Hoss House settled into a peaceful rhythm. Lufe attended school while Jolof worked on the house.
After school, he returned home, and Jolof was waiting in the foyer, his lantern lit even during daylight to combat the gloom. Jolof had cleared away much of the debris downstairs, so the sitting room was now furnished with a battered couch and two wooden chairs. A small partition of crates served as a makeshift kitchen in one corner, where Jolof would heat water for tea and prepare simple meals—rice, steamed vegetables, and occasionally, the takeout buns he still favored.
"Your sister, Merry, called today," Jolof remarked one afternoon as Lufe kicked off his shoes and brushed dust from his trousers. "She sends her regards."
Lufe smiled wryly. "She always asks if I'm sleeping well. I told her about the draft seeping through the cracks. She wants me to seal the windows."
Jolof hefted his hammer. "I was about to work on that tonight. I can double-layer some boards, put foam insulation behind them." He paused, scanning Lufe's face. "How's school?"
"Good," Lufe said. He actually meant it: classes provided a welcome distraction.
"Great. Better than we thought," Jolof replied. He tapped a finger against his chin—the habit he had when thinking. "I'll work late tonight, finish boarding those windows."
"Thanks," Lufe said, as Jolof rose. The older man's silhouette traversed the hallway, and once he was gone, Lufe felt the hush settle in. He crossed to the stairs and, on impulse, climbed to the second floor to check on his own room. The broken window had been replaced with sturdy planks, and the closet was now cleared of debris. Jolof had even swept the dust from the floorboards, exposing their faded grain. Sunlight seeped in only through narrow slivers, but the warmth on Lufe's skin felt comforting. He sat on the edge of the cot, fingering the edge of the blanket.
For a moment, he allowed himself to believe Jolof's promise: that nothing here would harm them, that the rumors were just that—stories woven by frightened townsfolk. He reached for his phone and texted Hou-min: "House is looking better. I think we can last here."
Moments later, the reply arrived: "Glad to hear it. Don't let any ghosts bite you."
Lufe chuckled and set the phone aside. He retrieved a notebook from his satchel—a blank leather-bound journal he had bought for Dr. Watt's dream logs—and laid it atop his small makeshift desk. He flipped the cover open and stared at the empty page. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he would start recording any odd feelings, but for now, he just wanted to write something hopeful.
That night, Jolof paced in the grand hall, the kerosene lantern's glow swinging with his restless steps. He had finished patching the roof, but the persistent creaks and groans of the house kept him from sleep. Cobwebs clung to the corners of the carved archways; stray pieces of broken pew littered a side alcove. His lantern cast grotesque shadows across the walls, like the building itself whispered secrets at every turn.
He stopped mid-step when he heard a faint scratch—like something dragging a chain—coming from the far wing of the house. He gripped the lantern's handle tighter, his knuckles paling.
"Lufe?" he called, voice echoing faintly through the vaulted space. "Son? You up?"
No answer came. Jolof's throat tightened. He stepped toward the source of the sound—a shabby corridor lined with old pew fragments and broken hymnals strewn on the floor. Only the guttering flame of the lantern marked each wooden beam in overhead rafters.
As he moved forward, the scratching paused. Jolof's muscles coiled beneath his shirt. He swallowed, shining the lantern's beam across the floor. "This place gives me the creeps," he murmured to himself. "Come on, it's just an old house."
He advanced toward a side door that led to the basement—if there even was a basement beneath these collapsed floorboards. His lantern light fell on a flimsy trapdoor rimmed in rusty hinges. Jolof squared his shoulders and tugged at the handle. The door groaned open, revealing only inky blackness below. He peered in, squinting, but saw nothing except the faint outline of stone stairs descending into the darkness.
A gust of wind slammed the basement door shut behind him—though he had no recollection of releasing it. Jolof jumped, the lantern swinging wildly in his grasp. He stumbled backward, heart pounding, aware that the scratching noise had stopped entirely. The silence grew oppressive, as though the house inhaled deeply, waiting. Embers of fear curled in his chest. He wiped sweat from his brow, though the night air was cool.
He flicked his lantern higher, watching the flame leap. Across the corridor, a hollow echo drifted—perhaps faintest whisper of words, so soft he could not discern their meaning. Jolof's ears pricked.
"Who's there?" he rasped, tone low but urgent.
Only silence answered.
He blinked rapidly, forcing his pulse to slow. With a grunt, he slammed the basement door with his shoulder, locking it behind him. He set the lantern on a nearby pew and double-checked the latch.
"I'm not going down there tonight," he muttered. "No way."
He picked up the lantern and hurried down the corridor, each step reverberating against the stone walls until he burst into the grand hall. There, he exhaled, rubbing his hands across his face, as though trying to scrub away a residual terror.