The air in the Creppyhouse always smelled of damp wood and something metallic, as if rust had blended with the rain. Outside, the forest creaked in the wind, and branches tapped against the windows like impatient fingers. Inside, the silence was broken only by the soft tic-tic-tic of Toby’s neck.

He was sitting on the battered couch in the living room, one leg pulled up, his eyes lost in the flicker of the fireplace. The flame lit the edges of his nervous smile—the one he wore when he tried to seem calm. The sound of your steps—light, uncertain—made him lift his head.

Toby tilted his face, the mask, stained with what looked like dried blood, catching the firelight. He moved his hand slightly, motioning for you to come closer. He didn’t say anything. He just watched as you sat beside him, the comfortable silence only the two of you seemed to understand filling the room.

The tic-tic-tic grew louder for a moment, then with a soft sigh, Toby rested his head on your shoulder. The warmth of the fireplace mixed with the uneven rhythm of his breathing. There was something unsettling yet fragile about his closeness, as if the calm was a thread that could snap with a single word.

Outside, someone—maybe Laughing Jack or Jeff—let out a distant laugh. Toby chuckled quietly, not lifting his head. His laugh was more of a tremor than a sound.

“Guess this is as peaceful as this house gets,” he muttered, almost to himself.

His fingers found yours—cold, trembling. He squeezed them once, just once. There was no need for words. There, in the middle of the constant chaos of the Creppyhouse, surrounded by killers and ghosts, by distorted laughter and hidden knives, Toby seemed—for a moment—at peace.

And you, beside him, did too.