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𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐒𝐖𝐀𝐍

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"Sunshine Harmon."

Her name sliced ​​through the murmurs of the crowded hall and Sunshine's head jerked upward. From her place among the sea of ​​faces, she felt dozens of eyes shift toward her. They were indistinct, blurring together like smudges of paint on a canvas. She couldn't make out a single expression—just the weight of their collective gaze. 

Her limbs felt heavy as she rose from her seat, the auditorium's oppressive silence closing in around her. Each step down the aisle seemed endless, her senses heightened. She could feel the scrutiny of watchful, faceless figures as she passed.

When she reached the stage, Sunshine ascended the steps with trembling legs, the distance between her and the grand piano shrinking yet somehow feeling insurmountable. She reached the piano, the smooth surface cool beneath her fingertips as she lifted the fallboard. 

"Whenever you're ready," a voice called from the admissions panel, cutting through the suffocating quiet. 

Taking a slow breath, she stretched out her fingers, letting them hover just above the keys. As her fingers descended, the first delicate notes of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake poured from the piano. 

With each note, the world around her began to dissolve. The music wrapped around her, pulling her deeper into the melody. Her fingers danced effortlessly across the keys, as if she were no longer in control but simply a vessel for the music. A strange sense of euphoria washed over her, leaving her weightless.

But then, without warning, something felt wrong. A strange pressure bloomed in her abdomen. It started as a subtle sensation, almost like an itch, but quickly grew into something more alarming. Her fingers hesitated, faltering over the keys, yet the music continued, as if the piano were playing itself. 

The pain intensified, sharp and undeniable now. Instinctively, Sunshine glanced down at her stomach, eyes widening in horror. Her abdomen had swelled grotesquely, the fabric of her shirt stretched tight across what now resembled the bulging belly of a woman eight months pregnant. 

Frantically, she lifted her shirt, revealing her bloated stomach. It wasn't just the size—beneath her skin, something moved. The unmistakable outline of hooves pressed against the inside of her belly, pushing, clawing as though whatever was inside her was trying to escape.

The music grew louder, deafening, drowning out her cries. The audience remained still, their blank faces frozen in sickening smiles. And then, they began to laugh. A hollow, mocking chorus that echoed in her ears. She screamed, her voice cracking with terror.

Her eyes shot open, breathless. Her bedroom surrounded her, bathed in the sunlight filtering through the window. It had been a dream—a twisted, surreal nightmare. 

Sunshine let out a shuddered breath, frantically tossing her sheets aside. Her hand instinctively flew to her stomach, half-expecting to feel a kick, but there was nothing. Just the familiar softness of her skin. A wave of relief washed over her, and she exhaled deeply, her head dropping forward as she dangled her feet off the edge of the bed, grounding herself back into reality.

But the calm couldn't hold back the flood of memories from last night. The revelation about Tate—it rattled her. Tate... Constance's son? It spun through her mind like a broken record, questions mounting. Why had Tate never mentioned it? Why had none of them said anything? 

Sunshine's bottom lip quivered, her chest tightening as the image of Addy resurfaced. 

Addy was dead. 

Her throat tightened as guilt twisted inside her. Rationally, she knew it wasn't her fault, but the memory of Addy dressed up, yearning to be a "pretty girl" before meeting her end—it gnawed at her. Sunshine couldn't help but dwell on the role she played, no matter how small.

Then her mind snapped to another dark corner—the teens from the beach. Her body stiffened, and her gaze drifted toward her laptop sitting innocently on the desk. 

Their words. Their anger. It had seemed so much more than teenage cruelty. Their fury had felt visceral, raw. She wanted to trust Tate, wanted to believe his version of things, but... those kids weren't just acting out. They were... grieving.

Her fingers twitched, uncertain. She couldn't ignore it anymore. Sunshine hesitated, then, almost involuntarily, grabbed her laptop and fell back onto the bed. Her fingers hovered over the keys, debating whether she really wanted to know the truth. 

She began to type and a click brought her to the school's website. A memorial page loaded slowly. And then—faces. Rows of young faces stared back at her, their smiles frozen in time. She swallowed hard, recognizing a handful of them. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she quickly clicked out of the page, trying to push the rising nausea back down.

She clicked on an article and there, staring back at her, was a school photo of Tate. She scrolled down with shaking hands, her breath hitting in her throat as she read:

'In a tragic and shocking incident, Tate Langdon, a 17-year-old student at Westfield High School, opened fire inside the school on the morning of October 10, 1994, killing 15 students and injuring several others before being shot and killed by law enforcement at his home residence.'

Her eyes stung with unshed tears as her vision blurred. She could barely process it, her body trembling with disbelief. Panic surged through her, and she bolted up from the bed, her movements frantic.

She couldn't just sit here and read about it. She needed to know for sure, to see it with her own eyes. Her hands fumbled as she pulled on her clothes.

Sunshine quickly slipped on her shoes, grabbing her bag as she swiped at the tears that kept falling. She rushed down the stairs, her mind in a fog, barely noticing anything around her. All she could think of was getting out of the house. To school, she needed to get to school. 

She rounded the corner into the kitchen, ready to tell her mom she was leaving when she froze.

"She's not here." Constance's voice broke the silence as she took a slow drag from her cigarette, her back facing Sunshine.

Sunshine blinked, the words sinking in slowly. "Where is she?" she asked, glancing around the kitchen like her mother might suddenly appear from behind a corner. 

Constance exhaled smoke, the curl of it rising lazily toward the ceiling. "She's probably at the grocery store," she said coolly, her voice devoid of any real concern. "Buying some frozen fare to reheat for your supper tonight." She flicked the ash from her cigarette. She didn't need to turn around to see the turmoil etched across Sunshine's face. "You found out about Tate, didn't you?"

Sunshine's lips parted—another confirmation of the truth she desperately wanted to deny. Her head spun, and she fought back the bile building in her throat. 

"I knew you would," Constance continued, her tone flat.

Sunshine shook her head violently, stepping up beside the older woman. "I don't know what kind of sick joke this is, but I'm fucking tired of it," 

Constance finally turned her gaze toward her, her icy eyes meeting Sunshine's with a hint of pity. "I questioned my sanity when I first found out. But this house..." Her eyes flickered, an unsettling calm in them. "This house will make you a believer."

Sunshine stood frozen, her mind screaming at the absurdity of it all. How could this possibly make sense? But deep down, through all the chaos and confusion, Constance's words began to gnaw at the edges of her reality. 

Ever since she and her family had moved into this house, everything had been wrong—twisted in ways that logic couldn't explain. 

"You see, Sunshine," Constance continued. "we were living here when Tate lost his way." She gestured around her with a delicate hand, the cigarette still smoldering between her fingers. "And I believe that the house drove him to it ."

Sunshine's legs threatened to buckle beneath her. Her mind was at war with itself—desperate for this to be some cruel joke, but unable to fully shake the doubt that crept in. Had Tate really killed all those people? Her heart screamed no, but the evidence... the faces of the kids... Tate's name in the articles... it was all too real.

"I don't believe this." Sunshine breathed.

Constance's gaze sharpened. "You're a smart girl. How can you be so arrogant to think there's only one reality you're able to see?" She flicked the cigarette into the ashtray.

Constance stood, smoothing her skirt before meeting Sunshine's gaze once again. "I want you to meet someone," 

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"Sunshine Harmon, meet Billie Dean Howard," Constance announced as she guided Sunshine into her kitchen. 

Billie, seated calmly at the table, flashed a warm, reassuring smile as Sunshine waved awkwardly in return.

"Billie is a gifted medium," Constance continued, setting the kettle on the stove. "She can help."

"You're confused. Overwhelmed. Why wouldn't you be?" Billie observed with a gentle nod, her eyes studying Sunshine.

Sunshine shifted uncomfortably, her bag still slung over her shoulder as she glanced down at her wrinkled sweatpants. "That obvious, huh?" 

Sunshine hesitated before accepting the seat Billie offered, slumping down beside her and dropping her bag on the floor. 

Billie's gaze lingered, almost like she could see through Sunshine, picking up on something that unsettled her.

Constance busied herself, placing teacups in front of her guests. "Billie has been helping me for years. I first found her on Craigslist, believe it or not. I've been through all the phonies, but she is 100% authentic."

"I've just come from a meeting at Lifetime; they're interested in making a pilot with me." Billie glanced back at Constance, a proud glint in her eye.

Constance poured tea in Sunshine's cup, then pushed it toward her. "Have some chamomile. It'll calm the nerves."

"I feel like I'm in a never-ending nightmare," Sunshine admitted.

"I used to be like you. Confused. Lost. Until I was 25. Then, out of the blue, my cleaning lady shows up while I'm brushing my teeth." Billie leaned forward slightly, her eyes taking on a faraway look as she recalled a memory. "Except she's not holding a toilet brush or wearing rubber gloves—she's naked and bloody. Her husband murdered her with an ice pick."

"It's hard to keep good help." Constance, unfazed, added.

Billie's hand went to her pearls, clutching them. "Do you think I wanted a bloody Mexican ghost in my bathroom?" 

Sunshine shook her head before Billie continued. "All I wanted was to improve my tennis game and unseat Charlotte Whitney as president of my book club. But I was chosen. And when you're chosen, you either get with the program or you go crazy. Understanding the truth is your only choice."

"What even is the truth?" Sunshine whispered.

Billie's gaze turned serious as she grabbed a cigarette, leaning toward Constance for a light. After a slow, deliberate drag, she exhaled a plume of smoke and leaned back in her chair. 

"There are some spirits—those who were murdered in violent, tragic ways—who cannot move on. They refuse to leave until they've exacted their pound of flesh." Her voice was calm as she explained. "Then there are a few, like Tate, who don't even realize they're dead. They wander in a childlike confusion, stuck between worlds."

Constance stirred her tea slowly. "That's why I wanted your father to see him. I hoped he might help Tate achieve some clarity about himself... so that maybe, just maybe, Tate could see the truth on his own."

Billie leaned forward, her tone soft but urgent. "We must help him cross over, Sunshine."

Sunshine shot up from her seat before Billie could touch her, her chest tightening as a tear slipped down her cheek. "I can't do this." Her voice broke, and the room seemed to close in around her, the pressure unbearable.

Constance and Billie exchanged a knowing look before Billie spoke up again, her voice calm and steady. "Who is Mary?"

Sunshine's heart sank. Mary. Memories of her late grandmother flooding back—  You'll never be good enough. The words echoed in her mind, the painful sting of an unresolved wound.

Billie's voice was gentle, but her question cut deep. "Does that mean anything to you? You'll never be good enough?"

Sunshine backed away, her breath quickening as she fought to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to overtake her. It was too much.

Without another word, Sunshine spun on her heel, her feet carrying her out of the kitchen. The door slammed shut behind her.

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