Arielle had been a fairly patient person when alive. She'd dealt with a lot, after all, and had learned how to process it, how to not let it weigh her down. She'd worked with therapists, watched meditation videos, did yoga, jogged, and danced. For the most part, she didn't let impatience rule her life.

But here, in this Void, encircled by gray walls, levitating over faded brown floors, surrounded by swallowing darkness, and forbidden to venture upstairs for a change of scenery, she was sick of waiting. Sick of wandering around staring at the same stains on the facade. Of staring at the same cobwebs crowding the corners, at the same flimsy curtains she still had no means to touch.

And she'd tried to touch them, several times since Penelope had left. She'd done all the steps—the concentration, the attempt to suck in all the surrounding energy, the closing of the eyes, the opening of the eyes. But nothing transpired. Her hand whooshed through the drapes, through the wall once or twice, too, and she never managed to grip the fabric.

At one point, she wondered if the curtains were the problem. They were too thin, too slippery, and even a living being might have had trouble holding on to them. So she switched to the sofa, focusing on grasping one of its plump cushions. But she failed there, too. She drew in heavy whiffs of stale air and gulped and concentrated, but her fingers fused into the fibers and she felt nothing. Nothing.

After a few hours—or a few minutes, she couldn't tell time well in this realm—she posed at the bottom of the stairs, stomach on edge as she considered her options. Yes, she'd promised Penelope that she wouldn't tackle anything so perilous, but fuck, she was bored. Bored with this bland building and its bland atmosphere and its bland scents. So what if she voyaged upwards and something more exciting awaited? Some color, some newer smells—or another ghost?

Her eyebrows shot up. "Wait—what if that damn bully is up there?" She rubbed her chin, gliding backwards to not emphasize her already pounding migraine. She'd almost gotten used to the nausea that resided in her throat, but didn't wish for it to worsen either, from the proximity to the steps.

With some distance, her back inches from the farthest wall, she was able to look up at the balcony without too much strain. The pain was there, but dulled down, somewhat tolerable.

The balcony railings shone in the faint moonlight pouring in from the overhead window. It was the first time since her death that Arielle had seen real light. Even when she'd gone on her stroll the night before, she hadn't perceived it. And when peeping out the window during the day, she'd barely glimpsed a spotlight of sunrays, and it hurt her eyes to admire it.

Everything on the upper floor had a gloomy glow to it; a sepia-toned sheen giving the wooden banister a polished appearance, and the walls a blank but clean surface. It all seemed so innocent, so simple—so why would she not be permitted to go there?

It had to be because of that monster ghost, the one she'd accused of killing her, and that Penelope had defended. Did Penelope know it was up there? That it guarded the upper-floors from Arielle, and that was why her perimeter wouldn't let her through, let her voyage up?

"It's protection," she whispered, squinting at the door to the middle bedroom. She recalled being in there, at some point—and then running, petrified, desperate to escape, but never able to. "Yeah, that bitch haunts upstairs, and so I'm safe if I stay here."

She wondered—did that bully have anything to do with that ominous realm Penelope had mentioned?

Terror... does my bully belong to it?

Could dimensions bleed into others? Perhaps Terror had. Terror took over the upstairs, and the cruel specter enforced its rule. Perhaps Arielle had already been there, without meaning to, when she'd been drawn upstairs by the whispering wind that had guided her from her car to there. That whispering wind was the bully, she knew.

And the bully would devour her should she choose to disobey now, as a ghost.

Can ghosts... dispose of other ghosts?

The bully's haunting of the upper floor might have explained the agony she felt every time she approached the steps, every time she envisioned floating upwards. It might have explained why Penelope warned her against it; because Penelope wasn't an evil spirit, merely an instructor, a ghost who preferred her almost alive state in the Void to a vegetative sleep in the Soul Realm.

Arielle gaped towards the area to the far left of the stairs. She'd never wandered over there, but recalled a doorway that likely led to a kitchen, and a door directly below the stairs, probably taking to a basement. If she wasn't allowed up, would she be allowed down? What if a secret entrance to the Soul Realm lurked there?

"Stella and Jade are in the Soul Realm, right?" She inched a few feet ahead, her gaze now fixed on the basement door. "So... can I sneak in and see them, even if I haven't resolved my business here?" She joined her hands behind her back and teetered forward, peeking left and right, unsure if anyone was observing her. Testing her. Taunting her. Intrigued as she was about the upstairs—and tempted to confront that damn bully and scream at her—she was more interested in locating her best friends. More inclined to apologize to Stella, and to confess to Jade that she—

Something screeched outside. Arielle spun around and glared at the door, unsure what object—or creature—would make such a sound. But as she couldn't see through the heavy substance—and she didn't want to barrel through, afraid of what she'd find—she shimmied into the living room and gazed out the window.

It was a car. The lights were blaring onto the house's front facade, and the vehicle came to an abrupt halt, repeating that same screeching sound Arielle had heard seconds earlier. "The fuck?"

The lights switched off, and for a few moments suspended in time nothing happened. The vehicle sat there, idle, as if stuck. She wasn't even sure anyone was inside, until the driver's door flew open. Arielle gasped and fluttered backwards, then shook her head remembering no one could see her.

The figure crawling out of the car was one she found familiar. Tall, well-built, manly, with short but wild hair and a rucksack filled with devices—

Benny?

He slammed the car door shut and trudged over to the house entrance, dragging his feet as if he carried thousands of pounds on his back. Before Arielle lost sight of him, she detected horror on his features—sullen cheeks, sparkling eyes, ruffled eyebrows, scruff on his chin. Something was wrong.

She hurried into the entryway and watched as he more or less kicked the door open and barged in with a growl.

"Where the fuck are you, you piece of shit?" His voice was tainted with rage, though it trembled with fear. It was harsher than she'd ever heard it, and tinged with determination.

"What happened?" Arielle approached him, staying far out of reach so that he wouldn't feel her, but close enough to analyze his elusive expression. "Whoa," she said, eyes widening as she sighted the splotches on his T-shirt. They were a maroon shade, penetrating, expanding—they were blood. "Oh... shit."

His wound was on his back, Arielle knew. So what would cause him to bleed from the front? What had he done? Who had harmed him?

"I'm fucking done with your games," said Benny, hiccupping as he dropped his sack onto the floor with a thud. He raised something to his mouth—a bottle of liquor, from what Arielle could tell. He gulped down a few swigs, then wiped his lips with his bare arm. "You wanna mess with my evidence, fine. You wanna send us a warning? Fine. But this? No, no, you fucking asshole. No."

He had no limp in his gait nor any wincing from pain, which led Arielle to believe he wasn't bleeding. The blood on his shirt wasn't his own. And that led Arielle to dreadful conclusions that sent her slithering backwards and clutching at her belly as if she'd been maimed. Her migraine thrummed to life and her throat clogged with acid. "What the hell is he talking about?"

Benny crouched and retrieved something from his bag—another bottle, this one smaller, like a flask. He hadn't closed the door behind him, so a subtle moonlight spilled in, splattering over the flask, revealing a cross indented in its silvery surface.

"Oh, shit." Arielle gagged as her nausea grew. She recognized the type of container Benny held, having visualized it in many supernatural TV shows. "Is that... holy water?"

A strong pang in her gut caused her to crane her neck to see that she'd accidentally stopped her trek away from Benny... at the first step. She was hovering over it. She gasped, seeking to saunter off and stop her agony, but she couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't even think. As if the barrier breeze she'd noticed hours ago had returned and now held her hostage, refusing to let her skid into the safety of the living room, or flurry through her perimeter and hide upstairs.

"Shit, shit."

Benny stumbled farther inside, brandishing the silver flask up. "You know what this is, you demon?" He hiccuped again, lifting the alcohol bottle to his lips and guzzling down a few sips. "It's holy water, yeah. If I throw this shit on you, it'll hurt. It'll burn. You're going to pay for what you did, I swear it. You're going to pay."

Stuck, mind overflowing with questions and abdomen charging with more discomfort, Arielle's jaw dropped. Her heart broke as she witnessed Benny's meltdown, having no inkling what he was talking about, no clue what infuriated him so. But clearly, someone had been wounded, and he sought revenge for them. And from the amount of blood on his clothes and the despair in his voice and the alcohol fuming from his breath, he hadn't recovered from the loss.

And whoever had wronged someone he cared about wouldn't escape his wrath.

Fuck.