It was a slow and uneventful Saturday. Josh and I ate breakfast in a general silence around noon. I took small, forced bites of toast. Each dry shred of it triggering the dull ache in my throat. Neither of us were hungry, but we didn't know what to do aside from going through the motions. Josh stirred his cereal with a numb, glazed expression. Occasionally taking a soggy bite.

Mom and dad had left sometime a few hours earlier. They were fond of casino trips on the weekend. Rather, they had been ever since they needed some kind of distraction since our incident. I don't know how they decided on it, but I guess I didn't mind. It gave them something else to enjoy, and worry about. Depending on how much they won or lost.

"How do you feel?" Josh broke the silence. It made me flinch.

"Okay," I mumbled. Our boisterous and argumentative dynamic had died after the trauma. It made for a bonding experience, and I was grateful for his support, but sometimes I wished we'd fight again. None of us fought anymore. Our spines and fire were left in the Dead House. And if the shoeprint and the pain in my throat were anything to go by, the Dead House had followed us here.

"Why do you think he didn't kill us?" It was Josh again, abruptly. There was no emotion in his voice. No fear, no anger, no conviction, or even wonder. It was completely stripped of emotion. As vacant as his dead fish-eyes. It was like talking to a corpse. There was a cruel irony in it that made my lip curl.

"Don't know." My voice rasped.

"I'm so sick of..."

"Yeah. I am, too." He didn't need to continue. I knew exactly what he was sick of. I'm not sure anything is worse than living in fear. And that's all we'd done in the intervening years. We were all shrinking into ourselves. We were all being medicated. We all had nightmares and nervous breakdowns. We all would wake up screaming from time to time. We'd all shake and cry and have vivid flashbacks. We were all damaged.

Josh threw his bowl of cereal over my shoulder. My arms instinctively shielded my face, but it was so delayed that I wasn't protected until I already heard the dish clanging off the wall and onto the floor. I couldn't see it, but I heard it break and chip into pieces. The muted, wet plops of soaked shredded wheat hitting the floor reminded me of Ray's eyes falling to the ground.

"What the- Josh?" I peeked at him between my fingers. His mouth was pulled into a painful, mirthless smirk.

"Isn't it better for something to just happen? So we can stop being afraid?" The last few words were thick and wet. His eyes were coming back to life, though in a way I didn't particularly like. A tear cut his face and his throat visibly strained. A lump threatening to turn into a sob.

"... Yeah." I agreed. He wasn't wrong. Constantly fighting the fear—yourself- was exhausting. As I'd already mentioned, we were all being worn down. And last night proved it was justified. Maybe that was the worst part of it. How could much less would we rest now with Ray hanging over our heads? Ray, who could appear again at any moment.

"Why didn't he kill us?" Josh repeated. He didn't sound afraid or disbelieving. Not relieved, tone was regretful- like he WANTED it to end. The saddest part was, I completely understood.

"I passed out. I think I actually was dead there for a minute." The dread was swelling in my throat. I felt mostly normal now, but that fit of panic earlier brought the lingering fear back. Those fleeting moments I thought I was undead. But my heart was still beating. As long as that's true, it means I'm alive.

"What did he do?"

"That thing he did three years ago. It was like being strangled with his mind. My throat still hurts." My crackling voice was evidence of that.

"Could he still be in here?"

"No." I hadn't considered it before he asked, but I think we both knew. "He'd have just finished the job. He had me dead to rights. If he didn't do it, why stick around?"

"Why come all this way just to back out?" He countered. His eyes had sharpened with thought. A welcome sight from the typical lingering cowardice in all of our eyes. "He must still be around. If not in the house-"

"Yeah..." That much I agreed with. I don't know why Ray didn't finish what he started, but I was also convinced it wasn't over. And if he could come all his way, who knows who else might be able to? Would I see Karen again? Dawes? Petey?

And if Ray did intend to kill me, why not just do it outright? Why not strangle me with his bare hands? Why not stab me? Shoot me? Why did he use the ritual? Where was he now? And when would he return?

The image of him above my bed last night played itself out every few seconds. And it was just as I remembered him from all those years ago. His stare sent chills down my spine.

Annoyingly, my traumatized heart fluttered.