Welcome to Penny’s Diary, a contemporary urban-fantasy serial. Read new diary entries every Thursday. Supporting readers can also access a weekly Writer’s Commentary, along with immersive audio and eBook editions, after each entry.
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Saturday, May 16, 2026
Held-Together Mode
I went to Cascades this morning because I needed something normal.
Last night was hospital lights, ambulance noise, and Teddy trying way too hard to be fine. By the time I woke up at the Meridian, my nerves felt fried.
So yeah. Cupcake for breakfast.
Some people have prayer. I have sugar and bad decisions.
I walked in already planning hot chocolate plus emergency frosting—and stopped.
Ellie was there.
Message already received the second I walked in. Booth upstairs. Drinks waiting.
Of course.
I dropped into the seat. “You always get snacks,” she said, like she’d cracked a case.
“That is not a flaw. That is a strength.”
“It’s a pattern.”
“Wow. Attacked before cocoa. Bold.”
That got a small smile.
And that helped more than it should’ve.
For a minute, it was just normal—morning light, café noise, Ellie across from me like nothing had shifted.
I didn’t realize how much I needed that until it was already happening.
A cupcake appeared without me ordering.
I stared at it.
“They know you,” Ellie said.
“This is respect,” I told her. “A community supporting a woman in crisis.”
“This is emotional-support frosting.”
I took a bite. “Still support.”
That got an actual laugh out of her.
Quick. Real. Gone too fast—but real.
And something in my chest loosened—just a little.
Because nothing was fixed.
Teddy was still at the hospital. His dad still there. Kelly still going to need distracting from things she wasn’t supposed to understand—but would anyway.
None of that changed.
But also, the mysteries weren’t going anywhere.
They could wait.
People couldn’t.
I wrapped my hands around the mug and stared out at Main Street, trying not to think about how fast everything can go wrong.
But Ellie was there.
The cupcake was there.
And right then, that was enough.
Stable Isn’t Safe
By the time we got back to the Chens’ place, everything felt… paused.
Not messy. Not dramatic. Just mid-breath.
Kelly’s shoes by the door—a mug in the sink. One of Teddy’s hoodies slung over a chair.
Normal stuff.
Except none of it felt normal anymore.
Because last night, his dad got taken away in an ambulance.
And apparently, that changes a room.
Teddy came in about ten minutes later, looking like sleep had been optional and he’d chosen wrong.
He said his dad was stable.
Which should’ve helped.
It did—a little.
But “stable” is one of those words adults use when they want you to calm down without actually promising anything.
Not better.
Just not worse.
He said there were more tests. More waiting. His mom was staying at the hospital. He’d come back to grab a few things before heading straight back.
He kept pushing a hand through his hair while he talked.
That was the tell.
Kelly stayed close to him the whole time, like if she didn’t let go, nothing else would either.
That hit harder than anything else.
Because she didn’t ask questions.
She just stayed.
Ellie handled the practical stuff—food, clothes, whether he was going back tonight as well.
He said yes.
Then he looked at us—me first, then Ellie, then Kelly—and said he’d brought Squirt back so she didn’t have to stay at the hospital all day.
And asked if we could take her until tomorrow afternoon.
Not a big speech.
Just… practical.
Which somehow made it worse.
Obviously we said yes.
There was never another answer.
But hearing it, seeing him hand that off, that was the moment it shifted.
This wasn’t just last night anymore.
I looked around the apartment again, at all the half-finished normal, and knew—
This week wasn’t about to settle down.
Quiet Reset
When we got back to the Meridian, the day felt like it had gone on for about six years.
We didn’t stay in all afternoon. Seemed like a bad idea.
So we took Squirt out—bus to Rapid Lanes on the east side, rented shoes that definitely hadn’t been cleaned since 2004, and let her absolutely destroy us at bowling.
Which, to be clear, she did.
No mercy. No hesitation. Just full competitive chaos.
It helped.
Not in a fix-everything way. Just enough to keep the day from collapsing in on itself.
By the time we got back, Ellie had already decided she was staying over. Not officially. Just… didn’t leave.
I wasn’t arguing.
Gramps took one look at us, asked zero questions, and said he’d order pizza.
Emotional first aid. Classic.
Squirt picked the movie.
Which meant subtitles, obviously.
She sat cross-legged between us, fully locked in, following every line like it mattered. Every so often she’d nudge one of us if we missed something.
Like she’d decided she was in charge of keeping things normal.
I think we let her.
The whole setup should’ve felt cozy.
Parts of it did.
But every time I stopped paying attention, my head went straight back to Teddy.
That version of him in the apartment. Holding it together because he didn’t have another option.
And Squirt curled into him like that could stop anything worse from happening.
Yeah. That image wasn’t leaving anytime soon.
Ellie stayed quiet in a good way.
Not awkward. Just careful.
Like she knew this wasn’t a night to push things into something bigger.
We kept the movie going, traded small comments here and there—nothing important, just enough to keep the silence from getting too loud.
At some point Squirt ended up curled between us, half under a blanket, still trying to follow the subtitles like she was in charge of the whole thing.
She didn’t last.
By the time the movie was halfway through, she was asleep, head tipped against my arm, one hand still gripping the blanket.
Ellie shifted closer without really thinking about it, settling into the pillows beside me.
Not dramatic.
Just… there.
And for some reason, that hit harder than the big stuff.
Because lately, that’s the thing with Ellie.
The big moments are big. Sure.
But this quiet, no-effort, stealing-the-last-slice kind of closeness—
That’s the part sneaking up on me.
Gramps checked in once, hovered just long enough to make sure Squirt was okay, then disappeared again.
Which was his version of saying everything without actually saying it.
By the end, the movie was still playing, Squirt asleep, Ellie half-slumped beside me.
And underneath it all, I could still feel it.
Hospital rooms.
Waiting.
Tomorrow.
No matter how quiet the night got, that didn’t go away.
Sunday, May 17, 2026
Prayer Mode, Apparently
Squirt said she wanted to go to church this morning.
To pray for her dad.
And just like that, the day shifted.
Not dramatically. Just… heavier.
I don’t usually go into church with Ellie. I walk there, wait outside, and make occasional comments about organized religion and uncomfortable shoes.
But there was no version of me staying outside while a ten-year-old went in to ask God not to let her dad die.
So in I went.
Classic.
Church always feels like its own planet. Too quiet. Too polished. Too much standing, sitting, kneeling like everyone else got handed instructions I missed.
I mostly followed Ellie and tried not to look lost.
Squirt stayed close the whole time. Not clingy. Just focused. Watching faces. Following lips. Hands folded tight like she was trying to get it exactly right.
That was the part that got me.
Because yesterday she still felt like Squirt. Bus rides. Bowling. Normal distractions.
Today she felt like a kid who’d realized normal doesn’t always come back.
I kept glancing at Ellie too. She looked calm, which with her means absolutely nothing. But every so often she’d look at Squirt, and I could see it there.
The worry.
The quiet please-let-this-help.
And sitting there, I didn’t feel like the outsider I usually do.
Not because I suddenly believed anything new.
Just because this morning wasn’t really about church.
It was about Squirt needing somewhere to put her fear.
That made sense.
I don’t really do prayer. My usual method is panic, snacks, detective board, emotional damage.
But when something is this big, you want to do something.
Even if that something is just hoping on purpose.
By the time we stepped back out into the daylight, everything felt quieter than yesterday.
Less chaos.
More real.
And honestly, that was worse.
Borrowed Normal
After church, everything felt too bright.
Not good bright. Just normal Sunday daylight doing its thing like nothing had changed.
Which felt rude.
Ellie hung back for a minute outside with her dad and sister, talking quietly. I didn’t hear any of it.
Didn’t need to.
When she came back, nothing looked different.
Which usually means everything is.
We ended up at Cascades for lunch because feeding Squirt felt like the next obvious step, and nobody had the energy for harder decisions.
She was a little more herself in there. Not fully, but enough.
That helped.
After lunch, we walked through the park because sitting still felt like a bad idea.
Squirt bounced ahead, doubled back, got distracted by ducks, flowers, the playground—basically everything.
Still a kid.
That part held.
But the whole afternoon felt thin.
Like we were balancing on something and pretending not to notice.
I kept checking my phone without meaning to.
Nothing from Teddy.
Just that low, constant dread sitting underneath everything.
Borrowed.
That’s what it felt like.
The lunch. The walk. The moments where Squirt forgot to look worried.
Not fake.
Just temporary.
At one point Ellie asked what she wanted to do next.
Squirt didn’t hesitate.
Swimming.
Of course.
Because apparently emotional crisis does not cancel out the urge to launch yourself into water.
My first thought was Fallside Pool.
Immediately followed by no.
Too loud. Too many people. Too many ways for the day to tip sideways again.
Ellie just said we could go to hers.
To the pool.
Like that was a normal sentence.
Which, to be fair, for her it probably is.
Squirt lit up instantly, which made the decision for all of us.
And honestly, I didn’t hate it.
Not because swimming was suddenly my dream plan.
But because it was something.
Something simple.
Something that didn’t involve standing still and thinking too much.
So we went.
And for a little while, walking beside Ellie with Squirt bouncing ahead—
It almost felt okay.
Temporary Escape
Ellie’s house—aka the Mayor’s mini-mansion—still feels a little unreal to me.
Not in a creepy Clearwater way. Just in a normal people do not casually have this much house way.
Big windows. Too much light. Everything looking like it belongs in a magazine I cannot afford to emotionally relate to.
Ellie handed me a swimsuit like this was a completely normal situation. A pink two-piece, which is not something I ever thought I’d be wearing.
She also found something for Squirt that actually fit, which solved that problem fast.
The pool did the rest.
For a while, the afternoon almost worked.
Squirt splashing everywhere. Ellie moving around like this was just another day. Me sitting on the edge with my feet in the water, trying not to think too hard.
It had that same borrowed-normal feeling as earlier.
Just shinier.
Like if we kept moving, maybe the bad part wouldn’t catch up.
Classic denial. Ten out of ten.
Squirt really laughed at one point.
A real laugh.
Not the careful version, just full kid mode—loud, messy, gone too fast.
And yeah.
That almost broke me.
Ellie noticed too.
Didn’t say anything. Just watched her for a second longer, like she was making sure it was real.
She’d been doing that all day.
Quietly keeping things steady without making it obvious.
Giving Squirt space to just be little.
It worked.
For that stretch of time, everything felt further away.
The hospital.
Teddy.
All of it.
Reality Returns
By the time Teddy showed upat Ellie’s,the light had shifted
Late afternoon. Softer. Quieter.
The kind of calm that doesn’t mean anything.
He looked… wrong.
Not dramatic. Not falling apart.
Just empty.
Like whatever was holding him up this morning had finally run out.
Squirt saw him first.
She was out of the pool in seconds, towel half-dragging behind her as she ran over. He caught her automatically, holding on a second longer than usual.
That told me everything.
Ellie grabbed another towel and handed it over, calm as ever.
I didn’t move.
Because part of me already knew.
Teddy looked at me over Squirt’s shoulder.
Just for a second.
Then away again.
Yeah.
Not good.
We didn’t make a big thing of it in front of her.
Ellie said something light. I nodded along like I understood what normal people say in moments like that.
Squirt stayed close to him, watching his face the whole time.
Reading it.
Trying to figure out what had changed.
Eventually Ellie guided her inside to dry off.
Giving us space without making it obvious.
That left me and Teddy alone by the pool.
For a second, neither of us said anything.
Then he told me.
His dad had had cancer before.
He said it fast, like once it was out, there was no point pretending otherwise.
And now it was back
Worse.
They were moving his dad to Halifax Memorial Hospital.
That was it.
Everything else filled itself in around those words.
I think I said something.
Don’t remember what.
Something supportive. Something normal.
Or at least my best attempt at it.
He nodded like it helped.
It didn’t.
You could see that.
He kept looking toward the house, like he could still see Squirt through the walls.
Like he was already bracing for having to tell her.
That was the worst part.
Not the words.
That.
Ellie came back out a minute later, Squirt with her, changed and quieter now.
Teddy straightened a little.
Pulled it back together.
Because of course he did.
We didn’t talk about it again.
Not there. Not with her right there between us.
But the whole air had shifted.
The pool was still blue. The sun was still out.
And none of it mattered.
Monday, May 18, 2026
Blue Light Again
I woke up because my room felt wrong.
Not what time is it wrong. Not bad dream wrong.
Just… off.
There was light cutting through the blind.
Not streetlight. Not headlights.
Blue.
That same thin, too-bright blue.
I stared at it, waiting for my brain to offer something reasonable.
It did not.
Classic.
So before common sense could file a complaint, I was out of bed, pulling on a hoodie and heading downstairs like chasing weird light at stupid o’clock was a valid life choice.
At this point, maybe it is.
The Meridian was dead quiet.
That heavy kind of quiet where everything sounds louder than it should.
I slipped out onto Main Street, and there it was again, farther down, drifting just ahead like it knew exactly how to stay visible without being caught.
Rude.
At first it was just light.
Then it stretched.
Taller.
Almost human.
Not solid. More like the idea of a person sketched in blue static.
I stopped.
Because apparently my survival instincts are still optional.
It moved.
Not walking. Gliding.
Pulling away the second I thought I had it clear.
And just like that, everything from that night snapped back into place.
The light.
The figure.
That same wrong feeling underneath it all.
Like the town runs two versions of itself.
Daytime.
And this.
I followed it.
Of course I did.
Not running. Just fast enough to keep it in sight as it blurred every time I focused.
My heart was going way too hard for that time of night.
Still didn’t stop.
Because I already know what happens when you let this place’s weirdness slip away.
It comes back worse.
That’s when I saw him.
Off to the side, half in shadow near one of the closed storefronts.
Still. Watching.
Dark enough to disappear if I blinked wrong.
And something covering his face.
Not clear.
But it caught the light.
Just for a second.
A faint glint that didn’t belong.
Same instant drop in my stomach.
He wasn’t looking at me.
Not at first.
He was watching the light.
Then his head turned, just slightly.
And I knew he’d seen me.
That was the worst part.
How familiar it felt.
Like this wasn’t new.
Just the next step.
For a second, everything held.
Me on the sidewalk.
The blue light shifting ahead.
Him in the shadows.
Then the light jerked forward again.
And he moved with it.
Fast.
By the time I caught up, they were already slipping down the street—blue first, shadow after.
Pulling the night tighter around them.
And just like that, I wasn’t the only one following it anymore.
Holiday Confession
Victoria Day should’ve felt like a free pass.
No school. No cafeteria chaos. No bells. Just a holiday Monday pretending everyone had room to breathe.
Instead, by midday, I felt like I’d already lived three separate days.
One where Teddy’s dad had cancer again.
One where I went chasing blue light before sunrise like my common sense had officially resigned.
And one where I was somehow supposed to act normal while all of that just… sat there.
Teddy wasn’t around.
That part hit harder than I expected.
Not just because I wanted to tell him what happened, but because I kept reaching for that instinct automatically.
Then remembering where he actually was.
Halifax.
Hospital corridors.
Waiting rooms.
Things that matter more than ghost updates.
Ellie met me in the park.
We ended up walking the long way around the lake because sitting still felt impossible.
The whole town had that Victoria Day look to it. Bright. Relaxed. People out with coffees and dogs and picnic blankets like the world hadn’t tilted sideways at all.
Which felt rude.
Ellie clocked it straight away.
Not meltdown-level off.
Just enough.
She asked if I’d slept.
I gave her a look.
Then I told her.
Not all at once. Just pieces.
The blue light.
The way it changed this time.
More shape. More there.
And him.
Something covering his face. Couldn’t make it out properly.
But it caught the light.
Ellie didn’t interrupt.
She just listened.
Still. Focused. Letting me get it out without trying to fix it.
The weirdest part wasn’t telling Ellie.
It was realizing I told Ellie first.
That felt bigger than it should have.
Teddy is usually the first person I go to when reality starts glitching. He’s the one who takes my “something weird happened” and makes it make sense without making me feel insane.
But Teddy wasn’t here.
Ellie was.
I thought about texting him anyway.
Just to even it out.
But every time I pictured him in Halifax, sitting in some waiting room pretending not to fall apart, the idea died instantly.
Ghost updates could wait.
Cancer could not.
Ellie must’ve seen that, because she said quietly that Teddy had enough on his plate right now.
Not dismissive.
Just steady.
Like permission.
And yeah.
She was right.
I looked at her for a second, really looked.
And for today, she was the one holding the weirdness with me.
Not Telling Teddy Yet
By the time I got home, everything felt too normal again.
Lights on. Kitchen clean. Mom back from Halifax like she hadn’t just been gone for days.
She asked how my day was.
I said it was fine.
Which, technically, is a word.
Then I went upstairs and called Teddy.
He answered on the second ring.
Which told me he’d been waiting.
And nothing had changed.
His voice sounded worn down in that scraped-thin way it’s had since Friday night. Not dramatic. Just tired in a way that doesn’t fix itself.
He said his dad was unchanged.
And I’m really starting to hate those in-between words.
Stable. Unchanged. Waiting.
All of them mean not good enough to relax, not bad enough to stop hoping.
Worst category.
I asked about his mom.
He did that half-laugh that means bad, but we’re not saying it out loud.
Said she was managing.
Which probably means caffeine and stubbornness.
Then he told me he wouldn’t be in school all week.
That landed harder than I expected.
Not just because having him gone already felt wrong, but because of why.
He said he had to help at the print shop.
Orders couldn’t stop.
They needed the money.
He didn’t say the rest.
Didn’t need to.
Halifax. Treatment. Everything getting bigger while their life tried not to split.
And the whole time, the blue light just sat there in my chest.
Waiting.
I could’ve told him.
“Hey, while your life is actively imploding, I chased a ghost-light before sunrise and saw someone else following it.”
Excellent timing. Gold-star friendship.
So I didn’t.
That choice felt sharp.
Not because he wouldn’t care.
He would.
Teddy always cares.
He’d already be halfway through building a pattern before I finished explaining.
But that’s exactly why I didn’t say it.
Because he’s already carrying too much.
Because his dad is in Halifax and nothing is settled.
So I kept it simple.
I asked if he needed anything from school once things started back, and told him Ellie and I had Kelly covered if needed.
He thanked me in that quiet way he does when he means it too much to make a big deal of it.
Then he said they just had to get through the week.
Which sounds manageable until you hear how much fear is packed inside it.
After we hung up, I just stood there for a minute, phone still in my hand.
I hate not telling him.
It feels wrong in that half-truth way.
But I think there’s a difference between keeping something from someone…
And waiting until they can carry it.
At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
Either way, the blue light can wait.
Teddy can’t.
Tuesday, May 19, 2026
Print Shop Quiet
Back at school, everything felt weirdly normal again. Teddy was out all week—because his dad was in Halifax and because the print shop wasn’t going to run itself—and after school I went straight to Chen Print with that guilty feeling you get when life keeps pretending to be fine even though it really isn’t.
The shop looked the same.
Same display. Same bell. Machines still running.
Same apartment upstairs.
But it felt… thinner.
Teddy was in the back, half-buried in orders.
And exhausted.
Not just tired—run down in a way that doesn’t switch off.
Ellie was meant to come, but Candy apparently decided the whole group had to be somewhere, which translated to not optional.
So it was just me and Teddy.
Squirt was staying with a friend for the week.
That felt right.
Not better. Just… easier for her.
The kind of quiet where you don’t have to prove you’re okay every five seconds.
I dropped my backpack and asked what needed doing.
He handed me the packing station without thinking.
Same rhythm as always.
That got me.
We worked for a while without talking.
Folding. Labeling. Stacking.
The silence wasn’t awkward.
Just tired.
I asked about his dad.
He said the same as yesterday.
Tests. Waiting. No plan yet.
Limbo.
Then he shifted sideways, like he always does.
Memories.
How his dad can’t sit still. Even back in Manchester, always doing something—teaching, training, fixing things that didn’t need fixing.
I said that tracked.
That got a small smile.
Then more pieces.
Competitions. Travel. Austria.
The first time he got sick.
And then the move to Meridia Falls, because after all that, smaller made sense.
Safer.
Somewhere to reset.
That was the part that landed.
Not just his dad is sick.
A whole life that already bent once around this.
We kept working while he talked.
Little things about his dad.
The way he taught him to tie his karate belt properly.
Being ridiculously competitive.
Pretending he wasn’t sentimental and then keeping every medal Kelly ever got.
That one nearly broke me.
Because it was so normal.
And that’s the part this kind of thing wrecks first.
Not just bodies.
Everything else.
By the time we finished, the light outside had gone soft and the shop felt even quieter.
And somewhere in the middle of all that paper and tape and tired conversation—
Jin Chen stopped feeling like a situation.
He started feeling like someone I might lose too.
Wednesday, May 20, 2026
Orders and Origin Stories
Somehow, Chen Print had become where we kept ending up after school.
Not in a dramatic way. Just… somewhere we kept ending up.
Ellie came with me after school this time, which helped. The printers were already running, boxes stacked, Teddy halfway through labeling like the envelopes had personally offended him.
He looked up and smiled.
Small, but real.
That felt like a win.
With Kelly still staying at a friend’s, and the apartment upstairs unusually empty, the shop felt quieter too.
So it was just us.
Packing slips. Tape guns. Boxes. Glamorous.
And weirdly, the rhythm worked. There’s something about practical stuff that makes talking easier without making it a conversation.
At some point Ellie asked how me and Teddy actually became friends.
Light question.
Not actually light.
Teddy made me tell it first.
Rude.
So I gave her the short version. Junior high. Rich “The Dick” Cavanagh being a problem. Teddy dodging him like it was nothing. Me getting involved because I’m nosy and because he was wearing a Nintendo shirt exactly like one my dad used to have.
That part still hits.
Teddy filled in the rest, which mostly involved pointing out that I decided we were friends before he’d officially agreed.
Not inaccurate.
Ellie laughed at that.
Then the easy part of the story ran out, and it was back to his family.
Ellie didn’t push. She just stayed there with us, folding boxes, passing tape, asking the occasional question at exactly the right moment.
It didn’t feel like explaining anything.
It felt like letting her in.
By the time we finished, the shop still felt tired.
Still strained.
But steadier.
And for the first time all week, it actually felt like the three of us.
Thursday, May 21, 2026
Cascades Debrief
After school, this had pretty much become our routine.
Straight to Chen Print. Help with orders. Try not to hover over Teddy like he might fall apart if we blinked too long.
He hadn’t.
Which, at this point, felt worse.
He was running on that dangerous kind of functioning where someone looks fine until you realize they’ve been holding it together for days without stopping.
Still moving. Still working. Still not letting anything drop.
So when we finished the last stack, I told him we were going to Cascades for dinner.
Not asked. Told.
He gave me the look.
The tired, not-even-going-to-argue version.
Ellie backed me up, calm as ever, which made it official.
So we went.
Cascades was busy but not loud, and we got our usual upstairs booth near the back.
Same soft lights. Same sugar-and-coffee smell.
Same illusion that if you sit down long enough, things might feel manageable again.
That was the goal.
Not fun. Not distraction.
Just… a break.
Teddy actually leaned back when he sat down.
That alone told me how bad it had gotten.
The conversation stayed small at first.
School stuff. Printer disasters. Me complaining about History like it was a personal attack.
Safe topics.
Even then, you could feel it.
That gap between what we were saying and what was actually sitting there with us.
But the booth helped.
The food helped.
Ellie being steady helped most.
For a while, nobody needed anything from him.
No orders. No fixing. No decisions.
Just sitting.
He even smiled once.
Small. Tired. Real.
I almost made it a historical event.
The thing about trying to give someone a normal moment is that it doesn’t become normal.
It becomes something else.
A pause.
A place to breathe.
By the time the food arrived, we’d settled into one of those quiets that didn’t feel awkward anymore.
Ellie tracing her glass. Teddy staring out toward Main Street. Me watching both of them and trying not to think too far ahead.
Because sitting there across from him, watching him try to rest without knowing how—I had one very clear thought:
This might be the last almost-normal moment we get for a while.
Only We Can See It
We were halfway through dinner when I saw it again.
The blue light.
From the upstairs booth, I caught it moving along Main Street below, slightly out of sync with everything else.
I froze.
Ellie didn’t need telling. She went still beside me, eyes locked on the same spot.
Teddy didn’t react.
He noticed us noticing, frowned, and looked out the window like we’d both just lost it.
“What?”
And just like that, he couldn’t see it.
The light flickered along Main Street, obvious to us. Teddy squinted straight through it.
Nothing.
I pointed. He looked.
Still nothing.
Ellie said quietly it was there, just enough to confirm I wasn’t hallucinating mid-fries. Teddy looked between us like he was trying to decide if this was terrible timing or a shared breakdown.
So I grabbed his hand in frustration.
Didn’t think. Just did it.
He jerked.
Then—“wait.”
His eyes snapped back to the window, tracking it properly this time.
Like it had just switched on.
We both knew.
Test it.
I let go.
He blinked. “It’s gone.”
I grabbed his hand again.
His breath caught. “No—there. I see it.”
We didn’t even say it out loud after that.
Just—
On. Off. On.
Every time I touched him, he could see it. Every time I let go, it vanished like it had never been there.
No fade. No blur.
Just gone.
Ellie tried it too, grabbing Teddy’s hand, but it didn’t work. She could see it. She just couldn’t pass it on.
By the third round, we’d stopped pretending this could be normal.
Ellie had that look—already thinking ahead.
Teddy kept glancing between the window and my hand like the answer might appear if he checked enough times.
And me?
Trying not to completely lose it in a café.
Because this wasn’t random.
Ellie could see it.
Teddy couldn’t—unless I touched him.
Which meant whatever this is…
Whatever I am in this…
It passes.
Not fully.
Not permanently.
But enough.
Enough to share.
Ghost Chase Panic
Staying in the booth stopped being an option.
Which should’ve been the moment we sat back down and made better life choices.
We did not.
The light was already slipping down Main Street, flickering in that broken, not-quite-right way.
We were out of the booth fast. Down the stairs. Outside into the warm evening air.
Teddy lost it the second I let go.
“Gone.”
I grabbed his hand again.
“There—there it is.”
It wasn’t just a blue light anymore. It was a figure. Definitely a ghost.
That was enough.
We ran.
Not gracefully. Not sensibly. Just three people chasing something we barely understood while I kept hold of Teddy like a very weird tether system.
The ghost didn’t move right.
It jerked forward in glitches, like a bad signal skipping frames—one second broader, heavier, the next thinner, shifting in ways that made my stomach crawl.
No one else reacted.
Cars passed. Someone laughed. People walked by with coffee like nothing was happening.
Private nightmare.
Classic.
By the time it reached the end of Main Street, it was obvious where it was going.
The Meridian.
Of course.
It slipped around the side and vanished into the alley.
Every instinct I had said don’t follow.
But we followed.
The alley was washed in that same dead blue, everything flattened and wrong. The figure stuttered ahead, edges breaking, reforming—
Then it turned.
Not fully. Just enough.
Everything tightened.
Teddy’s grip went iron-hard.
And then the ghost surged straight through him.
He dropped.
One second running, the next folded in on himself, gasping like the air had been ripped out of his lungs.
I let go of his hand.
His breathing snapped back almost instantly.
Which was somehow worse.
Then it went for Ellie.
And that didn’t work.
It hit her and glitched.
Not through. Not clean.
Like it had slammed into something solid.
Ellie flinched, but she didn’t move. Just stood there, steady, while the ghost recoiled in a burst of blue distortion.
For a second, the whole alley held its breath.
The figure flickered harder after that. Shapes slipping too fast to track—man, woman, older, younger, almost familiar—
Then it changed again.
And this time it held.
Long enough.
Jemma.
Blue-lit. Flickering. Terrified.
Jemma Landry.
Everything in me just… stopped.
Because this wasn’t random.
It was her.
Behind the Meridian
I don’t know what category this falls under.
Finding out that part of the ghost is an erased missing girl you knew, then immediately hiding behind a wall like an idiot?
Probably not one they teach in Health.
The second I realized Jemma was part of it, everything in me lurched.
Not just because it was her.
Because of her face.
She wasn’t angry. Not dramatic. Not horror-movie scary.
She looked terrified.
Like the panic got stuck and left there to flicker forever.
Then she looked at me.
Not through me.
At me.
Her mouth moved.
Like she was trying to say something.
No sound.
Like someone had muted her.
Help me.
Everything stopped.
Teddy was still dragging air back into his lungs. Ellie had gone completely still beside me.
And I stepped forward.
“Jemma?”
My voice sounded wrong. Too small for what this was.
But she reacted.
Really reacted.
For a second, something like recognition broke through the fear, like she might actually come toward me—
And then something pulled her back.
Not hands. Not anything visible.
Just the light tightening around her and dragging her toward the far end of the alley.
That was when we heard voices.
Low. Close.
We moved without thinking, all three of us dropping behind a stack of crates. Teddy caught the wall like staying upright depended on it. Ellie pulled in beside me, solid and steady, while the blue light spilled across the alley.
Then I saw them.
Gramps.
And him.
The man I’d followed the other night. Properly him this time. Dark suit. Weird goggles pushed up. Sparkly scarf covering half his face—
Henry Church.
And Gramps was with him.
That hit harder than the ghost.
They stood a few feet away like this was normal. Like a late-night job they’d done before.
Church looked pleased.
Gramps looked tired.
Too tired. Not surprised enough.
The ghost above them kept flickering between Jemma and the other forms we’d seen earlier, unstable, breaking and reforming, like none of them could hold for long.
“I told you it was still here,” Church said.
Still here.
Like she was a problem.
Gramps muttered something low and rough. Not agreement. Not quite refusal either.
Then Church told him to get it ready.
Gramps retrieved a wooden box from the workshop. Plain wood. Nothing special.
Which somehow made it worse.
The second he opened it, Jemma’s light snapped tighter, like she felt it before I understood it.
Church burned a piece of paper with this elaborate lighter. The ash didn’t fall. It lifted. Hung there between them, glowing like the air itself had turned ritual.
Then the ghost broke apart.
Not fading.
Fighting.
Its light dragged toward the box, pulling and resisting at the same time. It looked like something trying to scream without sound.
Then it became steady again.
This time Jemma held.
And she saw us.
I know she did.
Her eyes locked right where we were hiding.
Church’s head turned slightly.
Gramps did too.
Not fully.
Just enough that his gaze passed over where we were crouched.
And for one second, I was absolutely sure—
He knew.
We dropped lower anyway, all three of us, breath held like that might somehow erase us.
Then the alley snapped.
Dumpster rattling. Crates wobbling. Paper lifting. Wind out of nowhere.
Teddy made a sharp sound beside me, lungs hitching again, and I grabbed his hand on instinct. The blue light surged, thickened, then… gone.
Not fading.
Gone.
One second Jemma was there, breaking apart in blue light.
The next—
Nothing.
Just spinning paper.
And that box in Gramps’s hands.
No one moved.
Then Church said, quiet and sharp, “Remember our arrangement.”
Gramps answered.
I couldn’t see his face properly, but his voice—
That made it worse.
Not cruel.
Not calm.
Trapped.
That should’ve helped.
It didn’t.
Because all I could think, crouched there with Ellie and Teddy shaking beside me, was this:
Gramps just stood in an alley with Henry Church and a box built to catch ghosts.
And I think, he knew we were there.
Friday, May 22, 2026
Running on Empty
Friday at school felt like one long buffering screen.
Everything was happening. Bells, voices, chairs scraping—but none of it landed. It just slid past like my brain had hit capacity and stopped accepting new input.
Fair.
I was running on no sleep, ghost residue, and the deeply unpleasant knowledge that Gramps had been standing in an alley with Henry Church like that was a normal Thursday.
Ellie looked wrecked too. Not messy wrecked—she doesn’t do that. Just sharper around the edges, like she didn’t have the energy to smooth anything out.
We got through the day on habit. Not thinking too hard about last night under fluorescent lighting.
Teddy wasn’t there.
That kept hitting in small, stupid ways. Looking for him before remembering. Reaching for my phone between classes. Wondering where he was—shop, hospital, or somewhere in between trying not to fall apart.
I texted him at lunch. Nothing big. Just checking in, complaining about school.
He replied later. At the shop. Heading to Halifax after.
No update.
Just enough to say he was still there.
Which shouldn’t have helped.
But it did.
Ellie and I ate mostly in silence, circling what happened behind the Meridian without actually saying it. Ghost. Jemma. Church. Gramps. Box.
Every word felt too loud for a cafeteria.
Then Ellie said I could stay at hers this weekend.
Just like that.
Not a big thing. Just… an option. Quiet. No Meridian. No Gramps. No pretending everything was fine while my brain screamed since when are you working with ghost collectors?
For a second, I wanted to say yes.
Which was the problem.
Because it would’ve been easier. Softer. Safer.
And I knew immediately I wasn’t going to take it.
Not because I didn’t want to.
Because I couldn’t.
I had to go back. Had to see him. Had to figure out how to stand in the same room with Gramps and not let it show.
Had to know if last night changed anything, or if he was just going to keep being Gramps like none of it mattered.
I couldn’t hide from that.
Much as I wanted to.
So I told Ellie maybe another time.
She didn’t argue. Just gave me that look—the one that says she gets it, even if she doesn’t like it—and let it go.
By the time the final bell rang, I was still exhausted. Still scared. Still nowhere near ready.
But underneath all of it, something had settled.
Not calm.
Decision.
And apparently that was going to have to be enough.
Decision Under Pressure
I got home feeling like my brain had been put through a blender and I was still supposed to act normal.
Which—rude.
Mom was in one of her productive moods, moving around the kitchen like if she stayed busy enough, she wouldn’t have to deal with anything else.
I gave her the standard “school was school,” dropped my backpack, and tried very hard to act like I wasn’t carrying around the knowledge that Gramps had been in a blue-lit alley with Henry Church and a ghost box.
Normal granddaughter behavior.
Then my phone buzzed.
It was Gramps.
One message. Simple. Asking if I could come meet him in the workshop later.
And somehow that made it worse.
Because it wasn’t weird. Or cryptic. Or guilty.
It was normal.
Like last night hadn’t happened. Like I hadn’t seen him behind the Meridian while Jemma’s ghost flickered over that box like something being collected.
Classic.
I stood there staring at the screen longer than necessary, like the words might rearrange themselves into something less terrifying.
They did not.
Mom noticed my face. Not the details—just the something’s off part. She asked if everything was okay.
I nodded. Not convincingly.
She told me to get ready if I wanted a lift to the Meridian.
I said no to the lift too fast.
So then I had to pretend it was about skating while the weather was decent, which was technically real. But mostly I just needed air. Space. Movement. Something that wasn’t standing still with this in my head.
She let it go.
Thank the universe.
I went upstairs, sat on the edge of my bed, phone still in my hand, and let the dread settle properly.
Because it wasn’t clean fear anymore.
It was worse.
Part of me wanted him to explain everything.
Part of me didn’t want to hear a single word.
Because whatever explanation exists is probably not going to make my life better.
That’s the fun thing about answers, apparently.
You spend weeks chasing them, then suddenly you don’t want them anywhere near you.
The Teddy-can’t-see-it-unless-I-touch-him thing kept looping too.
Very Clearwater.
Not dealing with that right now.
I kept seeing it anyway.
Jemma’s face.
The blue light.
The box.
Gramps standing there like he belonged.
None of it fit the version of him I actually know. And the more I tried to force it to, the worse it got.
Not ideal.
I texted Ellie to say he’d messaged me and I was heading over.
She replied almost instantly—something very Ellie that translated to be careful without making it a whole thing.
That landed.
By the time I grabbed my board, the decision had already settled.
Not confidence.
Not readiness.
Just… forward.
I was going to the Meridian.
I was going to look Gramps in the face.
And whatever happens next, this is the part where wondering stops being enough.
Last Chance Truth
By the time I reached the Meridian, my nerves were shot.
The workshop lights were on.
That should’ve been normal.
It wasn’t.
Gramps was waiting in the alley.
Not inside.
That hit first.
We stood there for a second, just looking at each other. Same face. Same Gramps.
Except—
Not.
Then he said, quietly, “I know you saw.”
Well.
There went that.
I didn’t ease into it. Just asked what the hell was going on. Jemma. Church. The box. Him. All of it.
He let me say it.
Didn’t argue. Didn’t deny it.
Just looked… tired.
Like I’d finally caught up to something he’d been holding back.
He said there were things coming. Bad things. That he’d been trying to keep them away from me.
Not stop them.
Just hold them back.
That landed worse than anything else.
Because it meant he knew this wasn’t over.
I asked what he was actually doing out here with Church.
He said, carefully, that some lines can’t be crossed without making things worse.
That he was… managing what he could.
That was the word he chose.
Managing.
Like this was damage control, not choice.
I asked if he was working with Church.
He didn’t say yes.
Didn’t say no.
Just met my eyes and said, “I’m keeping you out of it as long as I can.”
That was the most direct he’d been.
Then he added, quieter, “And when I can’t… you need to be ready.”
That was not what I wanted to hear.
I told him to stop talking around it and just tell me what’s happening.
All of it.
He shook his head.
Said he couldn’t. Not safely. That people were listening for the wrong words.
That if he said too much—
He didn’t finish that.
He didn’t have to.
Then I saw the blood.
Dark. Fresh. Running from under his sleeve.
He tried to hide it.
Too late.
I asked what happened.
He said, “The cost of speaking plainly is getting steeper.”
My whole body went cold.
Because that wasn’t metaphor.
That was rules.
Limits.
Consequences.
I asked about Jemma.
He said what I saw wasn’t what he wanted for her.
Or any of “those poor lost ones.”
That word—lost—stuck.
Because he didn’t say dead.
He didn’t say gone.
He said lost.
Like they were still somewhere.
And that’s when it clicked.
Gramps isn’t outside this.
He’s stuck inside it.
Trying to hold a door closed with one hand.
While something keeps pushing back.
Then he said there was one thing I needed to know.
Because this might be the last time he could say it freely.
And everything in me went still.
He said I’d been helped before.
Not just by the diaries.
By his daughter.
Holly.
I actually gasped.
Because that’s not possible.
Gramps doesn’t have a daughter.
If he did, I would know.
I would have pictures.
Stories.
Something.
But the look on his face—
Holly was real.
Had been real.
And somehow she had been erased so completely from my life…
That I never even knew she existed.
I just stood there.
Because that’s not losing someone.
That’s worse.
Then, quieter, like it cost him—
“We can’t have this conversation again.”
That landed just as hard.
Not a warning.
A rule.
He looked at me properly then. Not careful. Not guarded.
Just… him.
“But I’ll do what I can,” he said. “Where I can.”
Then, quieter: “You won’t be alone in this. Even when it feels like it.”
Not comfort.
Not certainty.
Just enough to matter.
And suddenly everything twisted into something bigger.
Jemma.
The blue light.
The box.
The missing people.
The erased.
Not random.
Connected.
And if this can erase a person… a relative like that—
What else has it already taken?
CONTINUED IN:
Penny’s Diary - Week 21: Too Much to Lose, Triangle Marks, and Clearwater Coming - Arriving in your inbox on May 28, 2026
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