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The cottage was a dark outline against the moonlit pines when Amy finally made her way home. The path shimmered faintly with the salt damp of light fog that tried to creep in. The sea somewhere beyond whispered against the rocks at low tide. Every sound seemed magnified after the chaos of the mansion, the hush of wind through pine needles, the muted crunch of her shoes on gravel.

When she opened the door, Ollie bounded up from his bed with a soft huff, tail wagging in half-asleep circles. His nails clicked against the hardwood as he stretched, yawning so wide she could see the pink of his tongue.

“Hey, buddy,” she murmured. She bent to scratch behind his ears, and he leaned into her hand, eyes heavy with that honest, absolute trust only dogs seemed to carry. “Rough day,” she added quietly. “And it’s not even your fault this time.”

She locked the door, threw the deadbolt just in case, and stood for a moment in the familiar comfort of the small cottage. The air here smelled of lavender and clean linen, not fresh paint or dank brine.

Her diffuser still blinked faintly on the counter, the oil inside burned nearly dry. She refilled it automatically, just to hear the quiet drip and hum of the machine.

The normalcy steadied her for all of three heartbeats. Then her thoughts caught up.

Goldmine. Astounding. Active site.

What if Mason was right? What if Blackwell Mansion became exactly what she feared—a haunted house attraction instead of the sanctuary she’d promised it would be? The show’s success would mean her failure writ large across television screens everywhere.

She rubbed her temples, trying to drive the thought away. “You just need sleep,” she told herself. “Tomorrow will look better in daylight.”

Ollie tilted his head as if debating whether to believe her.

She sank onto the couch, pulling the throw blanket from the back and tucking her legs under her. “Unless,” she said into the quiet, “you could somehow turn hauntings into healing.” Her laugh was small, brittle. “Ghost therapy. Spirit aligned yoga. Cleansing through possession.”

Ollie gave a quiet snort and laid his head on her knee.

“You’re right,” she sighed, stroking his fur. “That’s ridiculous.”

Still, the practical part of her—the one that had kept the project afloat with budget spreadsheets and sleepless nights—spun through possibilities. Maybe the energy could be reframed, marketed as history instead of horror. Maybe she could blend myth and mindfulness, wrap it in the language of heritage and healing. People loved stories. It was all about marketing.

If she could control the story, maybe she could still win.

She reached over and switched off the lamp. The darkness fell soft and heavy. Ollie sighed as he settled into his bed, the rhythmic sound of his breathing a fragile comfort.

But as Amy lay back against the pillow, eyes open to the faint wash of moonlight on the ceiling, the dread returned as a slow, silent pull just beneath her ribs.

Like the sea’s undertow, patient and certain.

Waiting.

She turned on her side, clutching the blanket tighter, listening to the creak of the cottage settling.

“Just the house,” she whispered to herself. “Old wood, old dreams.”

Ollie made a soft questioning noise but didn’t move. Amy smiled into the dark, comforted with his presence.

Finally, exhaustion won over fear. Her eyelids grew heavy, her body lax. The dread didn’t fade; it only dulled, sinking deeper, quieter, curling somewhere at the edge of her dreams, where the scent of saltwater met the memory of wood and stone.

Before sleep claimed her, she thought she heard a faint sound through her cracked window.

A whisper.

A single word lost to the wind.

Her name.

Chapter 17

The carriage barn smelled of sawdust, a scent that always settled Sully’s thoughts.The chaos of the mansion—the hum of the ghost hunters, Mason’s grandstanding, the echo of Amy’s lips when the lights went out—felt a lifetime away out here.

In the solitude, the scrape of his plane across oak replaced the noise of people. Simple. Clean. Solid.