When In Doubt, Blame The Supernatural

Richard stood near the hallway, arms crossed, foot tapping impatiently against the wooden floor. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the closed bathroom door.

Inside, the sound of running water filled the air, accompanied by something far worse—Max's off-key humming.

Richard groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You don't even know what hygiene means, dumbfuck!" he shouted at the door.

Max, of course, didn't reply. Instead, he kept humming—louder this time, like he was performing in front of a damn audience.

Richard clenched his fists. I swear to God, if he starts singing—

And then it happened.

Max's voice, muffled by the water, came through the door in a terrible, dramatic falsetto.

"Ooooooh, I'm feelin' fresh, feelin' clean! Ain't no ghost gonna mess with meee—"

Richard groaned so loudly that George, who had been sitting at the table, turned his head slightly.

"Can't you just drag him out of there?" Richard grumbled, throwing a glare at his grandfather.

George snorted. "Kid's got a death grip on that shower. Might as well let him be."

Richard rolled his eyes, leaning against the wall. "I wanted to go first."

"Well, you should've run faster, dumbass." Max's voice carried through the door, smug even with the water running.

Richard kicked the door. "I hope the shower head falls on your damn skull."

Max just laughed, continuing his ridiculous humming.

George shook his head, muttering under his breath. "You two are idiots."

The amusement faded from his face quickly, though. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples before glancing toward the bathroom door.

"Max," George called out.

"What?" Max responded, the sound of water still running.

"You need to lay low today," George said, his tone firm. "You're the only suspect they have right now. You hear me?"

A pause. Then, Max spoke up, his voice casual but direct. "That's a bad plan."

Richard raised an eyebrow. "How the hell is not getting arrested a bad plan?"

"Because it'll make me look more suspicious," Max replied from behind the door. The sound of the water shut off, and a few moments later, he continued, "If I suddenly vanish, the cops are gonna assume I really did something. I need to act normal."

George narrowed his eyes. "And what do you want to do, then?"

Max didn't answer immediately. There was some rustling, the sound of a towel being thrown over something, then—

"I'm going to the police station."

Richard almost choked. "What?!"

"Ain't no way I'm abandoning my sweet ride," Max continued casually. "I'm getting my car back."

George pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're a goddamn moron."

Richard scoffed. "No, no, hold on—you think walking into a police station, where they already suspect you, is a good idea?"

"Yup."

George exhaled. "Fine. But if you get arrested, don't come crying to me."

Max chuckled. "I'll be fine."

Richard shook his head in disbelief, but before he could argue more, he turned toward another room where Amelia had been resting. He hesitated, then knocked lightly on the doorframe.

"Hey," he said. "You doing okay?"

Amelia was sitting on the bed, her legs tucked under her, running a hand through her damp hair. She looked up at him, her face still pale, but her eyes were steady.

"I'll manage," she murmured.

Richard stepped inside. "You sure? You went through a lot back there."

She exhaled through her nose. "I've been through worse."

Richard didn't know if that was true or if she was just saying it to shut him up. Either way, she didn't look like she wanted to talk about it.

Amelia then glanced at him. "I want to talk to Nat."

Richard nodded. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea."

Before he could say anything else, his grandmother walked by, overhearing the conversation. "You need to make a call?"

Amelia hesitated, then nodded.

His grandmother gave her a small, reassuring smile and handed her the phone. "Here, dear. Take your time."

Amelia took the phone, her fingers hovering over the buttons before she finally dialed the number.

Richard stood by, waiting as the phone rang.

Then—

Click.

Amelia gripped the phone a little tighter as Nat's familiar voice came through the line.

"Amelia?" Nat's voice was steady, but there was a quiet edge of concern beneath it.

Amelia exhaled, closing her eyes briefly. "Yeah… it's me."

A brief pause. Then, Nat's tone softened. "I was wondering when you'd call."

Amelia let out a dry chuckle. "You knew I would?"

"I know you," Nat replied simply. "And I felt it—something bad happened, didn't it?"

Amelia swallowed, her fingers curling into the bedsheets. "Yeah." Her voice came out quieter than she intended. "It was bad."

Nat stayed silent for a moment, letting Amelia speak at her own pace.

"There was a ghost," Amelia continued. "Not just a normal one. It was summoned—cursed onto someone."

Nat's tone darkened. "A curse? And you got caught up in it?"

Amelia nodded, even though Nat couldn't see her. "It was… horrible, Nat. It was violent. It killed Oliver in that warehouse." She hesitated before adding, "If Richard hadn't been there, I—I don't think I'd be talking to you right now."

Nat's breath hitched slightly, but she kept her voice calm. "But you are talking to me. You made it out, Amelia. That matters."

Amelia clenched her jaw. "Barely."

Another silence. Then Nat spoke, her voice firm. "I don't need to ask if you're hurt. I already know you are."

Amelia blinked. "I—"

"Not physically," Nat cut in. "But you've seen things you weren't ready for."

Amelia stayed quiet, not sure how to respond.

Then Nat's voice softened again. "You don't have to deal with it alone, you know."

Amelia let out a shaky breath. "I know."

"Do you?" Nat's voice was gentle but pointed.

Amelia closed her eyes. "I'll be fine."

Nat sighed, but she didn't push further. "You're as stubborn as ever."

Amelia allowed herself the smallest smile. "Learned from the best."

There was a faint chuckle on the other end. "Damn right."

Amelia hesitated, then said, "I'll call again when I can."

"I'll be waiting," Nat replied. "And Amelia?"

"Yeah?"

"…Don't let this break you."

Amelia gripped the phone tighter. "I won't."

Click.

She lowered the phone, staring at the floor for a moment before exhaling.

Richard, who had been standing quietly nearby, finally spoke. "Everything okay?"

Amelia nodded. "Yeah." She set the phone down on the table. "I just… needed to hear her voice."

Richard nodded in understanding. "We'll figure this out."

Amelia gave him a small, tired smile. "I know."

---

At the Police Department – Chaos & Calloway's Frustration

Meanwhile, across the city, the police department was in absolute chaos.

Reporters crowded outside the entrance, camera flashes going off like fireworks, microphones shoved toward every officer who walked by. The Red Floor Incident had shaken the city, and the press wanted answers.

Inside the department, Officer Henry Calloway paced back and forth, jaw clenched, arms crossed. He had been fuming ever since they left George's house.

Darren sat at his desk, watching him with a calm but attentive expression. He knew better than to interrupt when Calloway was like this.

"That old bastard," Calloway muttered, shaking his head. "The audacity—the absolute balls—to talk to us like that."

Darren, always careful with his words around his superior, kept his tone measured. "He's a difficult man, sir."

Calloway scoffed. "That's putting it lightly." He rubbed his temples, clearly battling a headache. "We're trying to do our damn jobs, and instead of cooperating, he practically tells us to piss off."

Darren nodded, understanding his frustration. "He's protective of his grandson. It makes things complicated."

Calloway let out a sharp breath. "Yeah, well, it doesn't make our job any easier. And with the shitstorm outside, we don't have time for complicated."

Before Darren could respond, another officer rushed into the room. "Press is swarming again," he said breathlessly. "They saw you two come in, and they're waiting outside."

Calloway groaned. "Of course they are."

Darren adjusted his collar. "I suppose we should get this over with."

As they stepped outside, the chaos was immediate.

A wall of reporters surged forward, cameras flashing, voices overlapping.

"Detective Calloway! Is it true that there were no bodies found at the scene?!"

"Officer Darren, do you have any suspects in custody?!"

"Is this related to gang violence?!"

"Can you confirm the rumors that an exorcist was present at the crime scene?!"

Calloway's patience was already razor-thin. His fists clenched, and Darren, noticing this, took the lead.

"No comment," Darren said firmly, stepping forward and making a path for Calloway.

Calloway, though still visibly irritated, followed his partner's lead and pushed through the crowd without another word.

As soon as they stepped inside the station, Calloway exhaled sharply. "I hate reporters."

Darren sat down at his desk, his mind already shifting back to the case.

Calloway sighed, rubbing his forehead. "We need a damn break."

Darren sat at his desk, fingers tapping lightly against the wooden surface. His mind was moving fast, piecing things together, but the more he thought about it, the less sense this case made.

He leaned back in his chair, inhaling deeply. Alright… what do we actually know?

Maxwell Carter.

His car was found at the crime scene. That was an undeniable fact. But Max wasn't a criminal—not even close. His record was mostly clean, aside from a few reckless driving charges. No gang affiliations, no history of violence, nothing that would explain why his vehicle was parked near a massacre.

Then there was the crime scene itself—The Red Floor Incident.

No bodies.

Not one.

Blood? Everywhere. A disturbing amount of it. But no signs of actual corpses. Gang wars didn't end like that. If this were a hit, they would've found something. Bullet casings. Weapons. Dead bodies. Some kind of evidence that people had been killed.

Instead, it was like they had… vanished.

And then there was the final piece—the exorcist.

Darren had seen the name on the initial reports. An exorcist had been present at the scene. That was the strangest part of all.

Gangs didn't hire exorcists.

And exorcists didn't show up to random bloodbaths unless something else was involved.

Darren exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

Calloway, who had been silent for a few minutes, finally spoke. "You look like you just cracked some secret government conspiracy."

Darren straightened slightly. "Sir… I don't think this was a gang war."

Calloway arched a brow. "No?"

Darren shook his head. "It doesn't add up. No bodies. No gang connections to Max. An exorcist involved? If this was some underground turf war, why the hell would an exorcist be anywhere near it?"

Calloway leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "So what are you saying?"

Darren hesitated for only a moment before speaking. "What if this was an exorcism gone wrong?"

Calloway stared at him.

Then, after a beat of silence—

"…You don't actually believe in that supernatural crap, do you?"

Darren shook his head. "No, sir. I don't. But belief isn't the issue here—evidence is. And the evidence says that something very unnatural happened at that warehouse."

Calloway rubbed his temples. "You know how crazy that sounds, right?"

"Yes," Darren admitted. "But it's the only thing that explains everything."

Calloway let out a slow breath, considering. "…You think Carter knows something?"

"I do," Darren said. "And we need to find him before this case spirals out of control."

Calloway sighed, tapping his fingers against the desk. "Alright. Then let's find him."

Darren nodded, but there was something unsettling in the back of his mind.

He wasn't a believer.

But for the first time in his life… he was starting to feel like he should be.