A breeze lifted a swarm of fallen leaves. They swirled in wispy loops along the grassland. Dorian Matthews eyed his leather wristwatch, then stuffed his hands into the pockets of his beige, canvas hooded-jacket. It had been years since he last donned such casual attire. The faded jeans around his hips felt heavy and foreign. As he paced the desolate park, he wondered why he had agreed to meet Officer Emma Scott in the first place.

After all, the policewoman sounded somewhat hysterical over the phone: "Rayne's in trouble," she had said, "and your brother knows why."

Dorian rubbed the back of his neck. "This is insane," he muttered to himself, trying to make sense of it. His brother? It was nonsense.

Gazing over the grassy hills, Dorian walked along the trail and ambled deeper into the woodland. Up ahead, a blue park bench sat littered with dead, crisp leaves. He dusted them aside and took a seat. She's late, he noted.

But not for long.

Within seconds of sitting down, the cold barrel of a pistol touched the back of his neck. Dorian swiftly surrendered his hands to the air.

"Don't move," came the low, tense voice behind him.

Dorian obliged, recognizing it immediately.

Officer Emma Scott stepped carefully around the bench, her Glock trained on him with steady hands. Last time Dorian saw her, the policewoman had twisted her hair into an orderly French braid for the Legacy Gathering. But now, her auburn hair fell in textured waves around her narrow face, somewhat knotted and wild. She was wearing the same clothes, however—paint-sullied jeans and a fitted red flannel. "You came all the way out here for Rayne," Emma said slowly. "Why?"

The park was desolate. They were alone. No one could see them. The tall pines around them served as a natural shield from prying eyes. If she shot him now, no one would ever know. What had he been thinking, answering the hysteric phone call of some random woman he'd only met once?

Emma jutted the gun forward. "I asked you a question."

"I'm unarmed," Dorian declared, keeping his hands raised. "Having a badge doesn't give you the right to shoot an unarmed civilian."

"Not on duty, kid. This is personal." Anger propelled Dorian to his feet, and the action startled Emma. She took several steps backward and trained her arms in a steady shooting-stance. "I mean it. You better start talking."

"Lady, you're the one who lured me here. If anyone should 'start talking', maybe it should be you."

Emma smirked, but she also tightened her grip on the firearm. "Pretty bold for a school teacher."

He was in no mood for games. "What do you know about my brother?"

"Why? Got something to hide?"

"You're the one who brought him up."

"Because he's at the center of everything."

As cryptic as she was being, Dorian couldn't help but feel as though the woman was testing him, almost like she was purposefully withholding information. Not professionally, as one would during an official police interrogation, but more like the behavior of his young students, trying to gauge his trust before letting him in.

Emma Scott, however, was not a troubled adolescent. She was a grown woman. During their first meeting, Dorian had presumed the woman didn't like him based on her demeanor alone, but she had never appeared unstable.

Then again, neither did his brother.

Would she really shoot him?

"You said Rayne was in trouble. What kind of trouble?" he finally asked.

"You tell me," Emma said, stepping closer. "You two seem pretty close. Wanna explain that one to me? Why do you care so much?"

"I . . . I don't know," he confessed. As frightened as he was to have a gun fixed on him, Dorian still could not explain this. He also couldn't help but see his concern for Rayne reflected in the officer's eyes. Yet, she was not the girl's mother either. He returned the question: "Why do you?"

Emma blinked. The weapon lowered, just a little. "Because . . . I think Rayne is innocent . . . and so was your brother."

He scoffed. "Hate to break it to you, lady, but I was there that night. My brother—"

"Doesn't remember doing it," Emma interrupted, lowering the gun completely. "Well, neither does Rayne."

The barrel may not have been pointed towards him, but he was still on edge. "How do you know that? Did Rayne tell you?"

Emma looked down. "He's trying to tell me something. I know he is."

"What? Who?"

"Daniel."

"My brother is dead," Dorian snapped, stepping toward her. Instead of raising the weapon as he expected, Emma simply holstered her Glock. The action confused him. Dorian faltered mid-step, and the sudden sincerity shining in her hazel eyes was as enigmatic as she was. "What do you want from me?" Dorian asked, but he didn't wait for a reply. "Look, this was clearly a mistake. Do not ever contact me again."

"Dorian," Emma began as he turned around and stepped away, "Tell me . . . What color were Daniel's eyes on the night of the murder?"

He froze. "What did you just say?"

"What color?" she pressed, stepping closer. "Were they green?"

Dorian whirled around. He had never told anyone about that before. Quite honestly, he had presumed that maybe he even made it up. He shook his head. "How . . . How could you possibly know—?"

"Because I was there the night that Rayne did it," Emma confessed breathlessly, "and her eyes were green, too. Dorian . . . something is happening here, and I need someone I can trust . . . Please. Can I trust you?"

◢✥◣

Little Lainey Bradford sat coloring at the head of the dining table in their new California home when her father walked into the room. It was early morning on the Pacific Coast, and the autumn sun was shining through the window, hotter than she'd ever known during the fall. Outside, the leaves were still green—not crumbling and decaying like they were in Pennsylvania—which was strange, to say the least.

There was just so much life on this side of the United States.

Which is why it was that much more disenchanting when her father sat down beside her.

His shadow fell over the corner of the table, growing larger, closer, and veiling her blue drawing as he leaned forward. Lainey saw the cheeks of his shadow pull, morphing the straight edges of his jaw into obscure triangles—a grin.

Lainey looked up.

The man looked like her daddy. He had the same silver-threaded charcoal hair, the same freshly trimmed stubble around that signature Bradford jawline—long and narrow, just like Lainey's and her big brother, Cole's. This man also wore a black dress shirt tucked into a belted pair of boot-cut jeans, the same pair her daddy was wearing just an hour ago.

Goodness, this man even sounded like her daddy, too . . .

But it wasn't him.

This man was a faker. She knew him. He was just pretending to be her daddy and wearing his skin like it was a jacket he could borrow for a few hours. The moment the faker took over, her daddy's brown eyes had transformed. They were glowing . . . ghostly green and teeming with lustrous swirls of light, a flickering army of electric emerald eels.

"Oh, child," the faker said, reaching his hand toward hers, "you . . . are so . . . strong."

Lainey eyed his fingers for a moment, edged backwards, and returned her gaze to her artwork. "Does my daddy know you're in there?" she asked, still coloring.

The faker leaned back in his chair, tapping her daddy's temple. "He's out like a light, sweetheart. Your daddy can't hear a thing."

She nodded her head, and the fake-daddy laughed.

The sound hurt her heart.

It wasn't her daddy's laugh . . . It was the faker's laugh. She had seen movies like this, where aliens took over people's bodies. But this was different. This was real. The faker had tried to take her once too, but she wouldn't let him. She didn't know why her daddy let him, but she had a feeling this would happen. She had told her big brother, Cole, it would happen. Cole just didn't understand her. No one ever did.

"How'd you find me?" she asked, still drawing.

"Why, my sweet," the faker began, playing with the ends of her hair. When Lainey's silky brown locks fell through his fingertips, the faker whispered, "I could smell you, of course."

"My Cole won't let you hurt me." Lainey swirled her blue crayon in wispy half-circles on the paper. 

"Your Cole won't be able to stop me." The faker turned and exhaled dramatically. "But alas, I would never dream of hurting you, little one. You're too important."

Lainey never really knew what she was drawing until the piece was finished; it was almost like someone else was holding her hand, moving the pencils for her. Not like the faker that took her daddy's body, but more like an angel, sweetly holding her hand. Ever since she was a baby, Lainey's granny always told her that angels were watching over her—so maybe that was what her drawings were. She always hoped it was her guardian angel, holding her hand and compelling her to create these images.

When Lainey pulled back this time, she discovered her arm-angel had drawn the ocean, a huge wave rolling and crashing into itself. She never knew what the drawings meant, until suddenly the answer was there, just sitting in her brain like the angel had whispered it so softly, only her brain could hear.

As she stared at this piece now, Lainey looked up, suddenly knowing what it meant. "Do you miss it?" she asked the faker.

She pushed the drawing toward him, and her fake-daddy looked down. If the image had surprised him in any way, his features did not betray the emotion. Slowly, a smile curled her daddy's lips, and Lainey hated that it wasn't her daddy's smile. "Hmm," the faker whispered. He met her little blue eyes. "How powerful you are, little one . . ."

◢✥◣

The Falcon Tavern buzzed with a clatter, commotion, and cacophony of conversation. Seated at a tall, round Lancaster table in the corner, Emma Scott tapped her fingers against the sixteen-ounce Shaker glass. The froth of her beer still bubbled at the brink of the pint. "So," she began, looking down, "both of them had green eyes that night."

Across from her, Dorian Matthews ran his fingers through his dense, dark hair. His canvas jacket was draped over the back of his chair, and the rolled-up sleeves of his khaki Henley shirt revealed forearms marked by veins, hinting at the strength beneath his calm exterior. "Seems like it," he finally muttered, and the sound of his voice reminded her she wasn't alone. Emma met those snowy blue eyes—eyes that seemed to pierce through the veil of her thoughts as they narrowed at her expression. Dorian tilted his head. "What is it? What are you thinking?" he asked.

Next to him, the ghost of his twin brother smiled.

It was like the teacher sat next to some strange, demented mirror.

Daniel was much younger than Dorian was, but their features were eerily similar. Dorian sported a few more wrinkles than the ghost-boy did, namely a few small ones just around the eyes, but they both had the same chin and square cheekbones. There were a few differences though: Daniel had a small dimple on his left cheek where Dorian had none. Daniel also had short black hair with long bangs fanning across his forehead, whereas Dorian's hair was medium-length all around and tousled backward. Surprisingly, the spirit's gaze was also softer than his brother's was, lacking the same aura of quiet dominance that the teacher exuded.

Unbeknownst to Dorian, his brother nodded to the officer, and Emma shook her head. "I'm thinking that . . . maybe Rayne . . . wasn't herself that night."

" 'Wasn't herself' . . ." Dorian seemed to ponder this a moment. Then, he chugged the rest of his IPA and slammed the cup down. "And you think that makes them innocent?" he asked gruffly. "How, exactly?"

"Hypothetically," Emma returned, tapping the pint glass once more before finally taking a sip. "Let's just say, it wasn't her . . . and it wasn't Daniel . . . I mean, what if . . . neither of them actually did it?"

"I'm sorry, but I just don't get it," Dorian said. "They did it. You and I both saw that. I mean, what are we even talking about here?"

Emma looked at the spirit behind him, then she met Dorian's oblivious gaze. "Dorian, do you . . . do you believe in possession?"

"Possession?" He almost laughed. "What, like demons and monsters?" Emma shrugged, then slammed half of her beer in one go. The gesture proved her sincerity, and the English teacher sobered up. "Oh," he whispered. "You're serious."

"If . . . and I mean a big 'if' . . . that sort of thing was even real, then . . ." she trailed off.

Dorian rubbed his forehead. She wondered if his temples throbbed with confusion as painfully as hers did. He rested his chin in the palm of his hand and looked out the window. "You know, my brother was into some weird stuff towards the end there . . ."

"Like what?"

"Uh, lucid dreaming mostly. It was just something he would go on and on about, that he had this ability to control his dreams—go places, do things. But toward the end, he started . . ." Dorian cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair.

"Hey," Emma whispered, hitting ignore the moment her phone began buzzing with an incoming call. "It's okay if you don't wanna talk about it."

"No, it's fine, I just . . . haven't talked about this stuff in a while." He met her eyes. "I don't know if you've ever lost someone like that, but it's hard, you know? Remembering when he was alive."

The only person she'd ever lost was her mother, but Emma was very young when the woman had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. In all honesty, Emma didn't really know what it was like to lose someone like that. "I'm sorry," she said softly.

He cleared his throat. "Toward the end, he was talking about 'astral projection'. Like, he believed he could literally project his soul to different places." He raised his shoulders. "I always thought that perhaps it was a red flag we'd missed. Like, maybe it was the start of his mental decline, and we just shrugged it off as a 'quirk' or something."

"Maybe . . . but maybe not."

"He also . . . I don't know how to say this, but he knew things."

Emma sat up. "Knew things? Like what?"

"Like, things he shouldn't have known. There was this one night when he supposedly 'astral projected' and witnessed a robbery. We all thought he was just begging for attention, but it turned out to be real. A real-life robbery that actually happened in town. He told the sheriff, and his lead led them straight to the perpetrator."

"Dorian," Emma said, leaning forward. "Rayne 'knows' things, too."

"What do you mean?" he asked, but there was a sparkle of understanding in his eye, and Emma figured that on some spiritual level, he must've known what she meant. Must've experienced it, first-hand.

"Ever since she was little," Emma began, "Rayne's just had this uncanny ability to just know stuff. With nothing more than a single touch."

"A touch." Dorian took a deep, contemplative breath. "There's a whole lot that suddenly makes sense now." He waved the waitress over for another beer. "But this is just too crazy."

"Do you really think it's all a coincidence?" Emma asked.

"I don't know what to think."

Emma opened her mouth to speak and gasped instead, resting her lips on her clasped hands.

"What is it?" Dorian asked.

"Just a thought," Emma replied. She looked up, then down, then finally met his eyes. "Was— . . . On the night that your brother— . . . . . Dorian, was the moon red that night?"

Dorian's eyes widened. Now he looked down as the waitress set another pint before him. The way that his pupils dilated ever so slightly, Emma wondered if he was now submerged in a memory.

"Dorian, these murders happened years apart," she said gravely. "Something is happening here. These similarities . . . the green eyes, dissociative amnesia, 10:39, the blood moon—all of it . . . they're just—"

"Rayne's been asking a lot of questions about my brother," Dorian interjected. "She must know something."

"I don't think so," Emma said, noting the spirit's expression as he stood patiently beside his brother. "No, if Rayne's still asking questions, then she doesn't know everything."

"Okay, then I'll talk to her."

"No," Emma declared, and the intensity of her demand startled them both. "I . . . I don't think it's safe for her to know this right now."

"Safe? What do you mean?"

"I don't know, but . . ."

"But what, Emma?"

Emma met Daniel's eyes, then the English teacher's—so similar, yet so different. Daniel's gleamed like two shining halos, while Dorian's were just a magnificent shade of Alice blue she'd never really seen in person before. Finally, she admitted, "Your brother says it's not safe."

"My brother? You keep talking about him like he's here." Emma frowned, and Dorian finally understood what that frown meant. He slumped backward in his seat, suddenly misty-eyed—his lips frozen in a silent gasp. "Is he . . . Emma, is he . . . here?"

With a solemn nod, she whispered, "Yes."