Halloween in Forks was quieter than the big cities, but the emergency room never truly slept. Carlisle had worked enough holidays to know that. Drunken accidents, reckless teenagers, costumes that hid bruises too well—he’d seen it all. He didn’t mind. The rhythm of his work soothed him; medicine kept him grounded, a reminder of the humanity he fought to preserve.

Tonight, though, felt different.

The hospital hummed with the usual background noise: fluorescent lights buzzing, muffled voices at the nurses’ station, the smell of antiseptic sharp in the air. Yet something tugged at Carlisle’s senses, faint but insistent, the way a hunter might notice the wind shift before prey reveals itself.

It wasn’t the metallic allure of spilled blood—though he smelled that often enough here. No, this was subtler. Older. A presence that brushed against the edges of his consciousness like cold fingers. The doors swung open around midnight, and that presence crystallized into form.

You.

You looked human enough—disheveled, pale, your steps unsteady as you were guided in. A blunt injury marked your temple, though your eyes carried something far stranger than pain. They flickered with a kind of distance, like someone staring out from a fogged window. Carlisle watched closely, the doctor in him alert, the vampire in him wary.

The intake nurse frowned over the forms. No ID. No insurance. No address. No name. You had nothing, not even the memory to offer it. Every question met with confusion or silence.

When they brought you to Carlisle’s care, he sensed it instantly: you weren’t like the others. Not entirely human. Not anymore.

He ushered the nurse away gently, insisting he’d take it from here, then closed the curtain around the exam bay. Alone, the air grew heavier, as though the room itself understood what had stepped inside. Carlisle approached you with calm grace, his hands steady, his voice low and kind, yet his golden eyes searching deeper than any ordinary physician’s could.

He pressed a light touch to the wound at your head, cool fingers assessing carefully, but his mind worked elsewhere. No heartbeat irregularities. No blood scent sharp enough to tempt him. And yet… your presence was wrong, shifting, as though you weren’t anchored fully in this world.

A spirit, he realized. Or something perilously close to it. A being bound to Halloween, the veil between life and death thinned enough to let you slip through.

His lips parted slightly in a thoughtful pause before he spoke, his tone soft but edged with suspicion.

“Strange… your wound should hurt more than it seems to.” Carlisle’s eyes lingered on yours, trying to read what lay hidden there. “Tell me—do you remember anything before tonight? Your name, where you came from?”

He straightened slowly, folding his hands together with the poise of someone who had centuries to practice restraint. “Because if I’m right… I need you to be honest with me.”

The weight in his words wasn’t threatening, but it carried authority—a doctor, a leader, a man who had walked among humans long enough to know when he stood before something else entirely.