Chapter 20

— Aili’s POV

I don’t think I’d ever slammed a door so hard in my life.

The three of us just stood there in the hallway, gasping for air like we’d run a marathon instead of twelve steps up from the basement.

Brandon was the first to speak.

“Okay. Nobody panic—”

He glanced at me and Nick and winced. “—actually, yeah, panic a little. That was not just a draft.”

“Drafts don’t wail,” I shot back, still clutching the flashlight like a weapon.

Nick rested his arm on the stair rail, trying to look calm but his jaw was tight.

“Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. Aili, you should get some rest. We’ll stay down here and keep watch.”

“Excuse me?” I blinked at him. “You honestly think I’m going upstairs to sleep—by myself—while that thing is having a basement slumber party? Absolutely not.”

Brandon let out a small laugh. “Can’t blame her. I wouldn’t sleep either.”

Nick frowned, thinking, then nodded toward the living-room couch.

“Alright. Stay down here with us. Couch is all yours. We’ll keep watch.”

I hesitated, but the idea of having them both nearby was way less terrifying than being alone upstairs.

“Fine. But I’m not promising to actually sleep.”

Brandon smirked. “No pressure. We’ll just guard the scary basement door. Like your own personal… uh… paranormal security team.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help smiling. Two hot guys in my house, both offering to protect me. Dad would literally have an aneurysm.

Brandon went upstairs—after I refused to go alone—and came back with an armful of blankets. Nick dragged an armchair closer to the couch like he was setting up camp. I curled up under the blankets, still in my hoodie and socks, the flashlight sitting on my chest just in case.

We spent the next hour debating what the thing could be.

“Ghost?” I guessed.

“Too solid for a ghost,” Brandon said.

“Demon?” Nick offered.

“Too… sad for a demon,” Brandon countered.

“Basement mold hallucination,” I muttered, earning matching eye-rolls.

Somewhere in the middle of Nick teasing Brandon about being jumpier than he looked, my eyelids finally grew heavy. I didn’t even remember drifting off.

I woke up to a pale stripe of sunlight across my face. For a blissful second, I forgot why I was on the couch. Then I saw the basement door.

Right. Wailing mist monster. Awesome.

Nick was asleep in the armchair across from me, one leg hanging over the side, head tilted back. Somehow even unconscious he looked smug.

Brandon was still awake, standing by the window with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on the basement door like it might sprout legs.

“You didn’t sleep?” I asked, my voice scratchy.

He turned, startled, then shook his head.

“Couldn’t. That thing… it kept making these low, soft wails all night. Not loud enough to wake you, but… haunting.”

A chill crawled down my spine.

“You heard it the whole time?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed his neck. “Felt like it was calling to someone. Or waiting.”

Nick stirred and opened one eye. “Morning already? Tell me I dreamed the crack in the floor.”

“Afraid not,” I said, pushing the blanket aside. My body felt heavy, like I hadn’t slept at all.

We decided to skip school—none of us were in the mood for algebra after a night of babysitting a basement spirit. Instead, we called Sam and Lisa, begging them to come over once classes ended.

By late afternoon, the five of us sat in the living room, the coffee table buried under Lisa’s backpack and an old leather-bound grimoire she’d borrowed from her grandmother.

Lisa’s eyes were bright with excitement as she flipped through pages filled with cramped handwriting and symbols.

“So,” she said, tapping a passage, “I might know what we’re dealing with.”

“Please tell me it’s not a demon,” I said.

“Not a demon.” She turned the book so we could all see. A faded sketch of a thin, faceless figure wreathed in mist stared up at us.

“This… is called a Caoineadhán—that’s Irish Gaelic. It literally means ‘little keening one.’”

“Keening,” Brandon repeated. “Like crying?”

“Exactly.” Lisa nodded. “According to folklore, a Caoineadhán is the spirit of someone who died far from home—like lost travelers, soldiers, or children who never made it back to their families. They linger near the earth where they died, wailing softly. Not usually dangerous, but… they can’t cross over until someone helps them finish what was left undone.”

A strange shiver worked its way down my arms.

“Unfinished business… like what?”

Lisa skimmed further. “Most often it’s something simple. Delivering a message, finding a lost keepsake, or having their grave blessed. They get trapped when they feel unheard.”

Nick leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“So we just play therapist to a basement ghost and it goes away?”

“Basically,” Lisa said. “But if we ignore it too long, the lore says the wails grow stronger… sometimes it can crack walls or shatter glass. It’s like their grief leaks into the living world.”

Brandon shot me a look. “That explains the crack in the concrete.”

Sam, who had been quiet so far, frowned. “So we help it… how? Ask it what it wants?”

Lisa shrugged. “In old stories, someone with the sight—a seer or a banshee—could hear the words behind the wails.”

All eyes slowly shifted to me.

“Oh, no,” I said immediately. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m barely figuring out this banshee thing. I don’t have a manual.”

Nick’s expression softened. “You don’t have to go down there alone. We’ll figure it out together.”

For a second his voice was so warm it made my stomach flip. I quickly looked away and found Brandon watching me too, something unreadable in his gaze.

Great. Love-triangle tension while discussing a dead Irish traveler in my basement. Just what I needed.

I cleared my throat. “So first step… we find out who it is.”

Lisa nodded, pushing the book toward me. “If you can get close enough, maybe you’ll feel or hear something. Sometimes spirits project images or names.”

Brandon shifted closer to me on the couch—close enough that our shoulders brushed.

“If it gets too intense, we pull you out. Promise.”

I caught the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. The contact made my pulse skip. Nick noticed and arched an eyebrow but said nothing.

Sam broke the silence. “We’ll need candles and maybe some salt—if nothing else, for our nerves.”

“Can we not do the horror-movie starter pack yet?” I muttered, closing the grimoire. “One step at a time.”

As the sun dipped below the trees outside, the house grew quieter, heavy with the sense of waiting.

We still didn’t know the spirit’s story, only that it had been wailing for something—or someone—for a long time.

I glanced at the basement door. Behind it, the unseen crack in the floor seemed to pulse in my memory like an unhealed wound. I thought I heard, just faintly, that same sorrowful hum again… almost like a lullaby sung through tears.

Brandon followed my gaze. “We go down tomorrow. Daylight. No arguments.”

“Fine by me,” I said, though a part of me felt drawn to the wail already, like it was whispering in a language I should know.

Nick stretched and said, “We’ll need a plan. Whatever it wants, we find it. We help it cross over before it gets any ideas about breaking my car windows.”

I smiled faintly at his attempt at humor but my thoughts were on the voice—soft, sad, almost human.

Whoever the Caoineadhán had been, they were still trapped here, waiting for someone to listen.

And somehow, I had the sinking feeling that someone was me.