The sound of knocking echoes through the room. I sharply inhale as I slowly turn to face the door. I'm standing in the centre of my bedroom, a few feet away from it. I prepare myself.
"Come in," I shout.
My dad steps through. He shuts the door behind him with a soft click, then just stands there for a second, taking me in from head to toe. I suddenly feel uneasy.
"What?" I ask, arms folding across my chest.
"How have you escaped death… twice?" His voice is low, but the weight of the question hits like a sledgehammer.
I freeze.
How am I supposed to explain this without dragging him into the supernatural horror show that is now my life? Truth is, there's no easy way. No answer I can give that won't sound completely unhinged.
"Why? What've you heard… what've you seen?" I ask cautiously.
"I was told there was another incident at work," he says slowly. "Something that resulted in you… dying." His eyes narrow. "But last time, you were announced dead, and then you woke up in the morgue."
I let out a shaky laugh as I sit on my bed to tie my laces. "They must've got the wrong person."
"Don't play games with me, Eden." His voice sharpens. "Where were you last night?"
"Mitch's house."
He exhales through his nose, frustrated. "When are you going to stop lying and sneaking around?"
"Why would I lie? So you can freak out and grab me again? Because that's exactly what you do every time something weird happens."
"Ever since the accident, you haven't been the same. You barely eat. You disappear. You're pale. You don't even flinch when you get hurt."
"I've nearly died—twice. I watched two people die right in front of me. I've felt death breathing down my neck. You think you'd come out of that normal?" I shout, standing.
His expression twists—like he wants to yell, but doesn't know what to say.
I brush past him and storm into Millie's room, slamming the door shut behind me. I lock it.
"Can you do the spell thing now?" I ask, pacing. "I need to go—like, now."
Millie nods, her face serious for once. She raises a hand toward me and shuts her eyes. My stomach churns. I brace myself.
"Laeh tnatsni," she says, with a small giggle.
I open one eye. Then both.
Slowly, I lift my jumper and look at my stomach—no decay, no bruising, no sign of death. Still pale, but no longer grey and lifeless in patches.
"I… I thought you said nothing could stop me looking like a zombie?" I stammer.
"I thought that too—until I found this spell last night. Did some digging, read through old grimoires. It's permanent. Or… as close to permanent as magic gets," she says with a proud smile.
I rush over and pull her into a tight hug.
"Thank you, little sis," I whisper.
She hugs me back just as tight. When I let go, I hurry to her mirror and stare at it. My reflection stares back—normal. Living. Whole.
"Wait… why can I see my reflection now?" I ask, turning to her.
"From what I've read, it depends on how you see yourself.
That line sinks into me like a stone dropped in deep water.
I pull out my phone and find Mitch's number. I press call.
"Hey, Eden," he answers.
"Can we meet up? Or maybe I come over?"
He hesitates. "Sure. I'll pick you up in five."
He hangs up, and I sigh, phone resting against my chest.
"You okay?" Millie asks.
"Promise not to tell Dad?" I say, already unlocking my phone again.
"Promise."
I scroll through my camera roll and show her the selfie—Mitch and I, shirtless, cuddled up. He's kissing my cheek.
Her eyes go wide. Then she grins. "I knew it! I'm so happy for you!"
"You knew?"
"You've never exactly been smooth with girls, Eden," she laughs.
"Fair," I mutter, smiling. "But don't tell Dad. Please."
She nods, still grinning.
I head downstairs, hoodie zipped and shoes on. As I reach the front door, I feel it—that crawling sensation up my neck. Like someone's watching me.
I turn.
Dad stands on the stairs, holding a plastic bag.
My heart drops.
Inside is my uniform—bloodied.
"I thought it wasn't you," he says quietly.
"Stop snooping and just leave me alone!" I snap, reaching for the door.
But before I can shut it, he's next to me. His foot wedges in the frame and he forces it open, grabbing me by the collar.
"Stop lying! Tell me what the hell is going on!" he yells, dragging me closer.
A car screeches to a halt. Mitch jumps out. Millie bolts down the stairs.
"Dad, let him go!" Millie screams.
"Mr. Farnworth," Mitch says, voice calm but firm. "I'm Eden's supervisor. Let me explain—just let him go."
Dad's grip falters. He drops me. I hit the floor.
Mitch helps me up, steadying me with an arm around my shoulders, and guides me into the living room.
Dad sits in his chair, arms folded, glaring. We take the couch.
"That uniform wasn't Eden's," Mitch says. "It was a mix-up at the scene. Wrong fleece. I think he panicked when he saw it.
"I thought it was mine," I add. "But it wasn't me who was involved in that incident. It was… someone else."
Dad frowns, but nods once.
I get up and step outside, sitting on the doorstep. My hands are trembling slightly.
What if something changed in me the first time I died? And again the second?
The door opens. Mitch steps out. Millie closes it behind him.
"Your dad doesn't know… does he?" Mitch asks quietly.
I shake my head. "No."
"Want to stay over tonight? I'll drop you at work in the morning."
"If you've got spare uniform, sure."
"Use mine. We'll pick up more tomorrow," he smiles.
We walk to the car. I still feel… off. Like something inside me is vibrating wrong, but I can't put my finger on it.
That night, we watch movies, curled up in bed. It helps. A little.
By morning, I'm half-dressed, tying my boots. Mitch watches from bed, worry etched into his face.
"You sure you'll be okay today?"
"Yeah. I know what to do now."
He gets up, pulling on a jumper and joggers. "I'm worried about you, Pup."
I pause at the door. "To be honest, something's starting to feel off."
He nods slowly, his gaze heavy with concern.
We head downstairs.
His mum's in the hallway. She stops cold when she sees me—eyes wide, pale as a sheet. Like she's seen a ghost.
"Mum?" Mitch says.
She doesn't answer. She darts into the kitchen without a word.
I look at him. He looks at me.
Shrugging, I head to the car.
Mitch drives in silence, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel. The tension sits between us like a third passenger.
I stare out the window, heart beating—or not beating, whatever.
Something's changed.
Something's coming.