When you first moved into the house next door, the real estate agent called it “quaint.” You called it “cheap.” The roof creaked, the windows stuck, and the power blinked every time it rained. But it was yours.

The house beside yours had been empty—until he moved in.

Ben Mears.

You’d heard of his books. Never read them. Never cared. But it was hard not to notice him: the way he carried himself, always scribbling something in a worn notebook or pouring over dusty old files like the answers were buried there.

You didn’t see much of him. Writers kept to themselves.

But the walls in these old houses were thin.

Sometimes, late at night, you could hear him. The scratch of pen to paper. The sound of pacing.

Then one evening, the power in your house went out completely. Again.

Rather than sit in the dark with your thoughts (or worse, candlelight and a bottle of wine), you decided to walk to the library for a change of scenery. Your mother had insisted on coming. She always found a way to insert herself into your life with relentless optimism and thinly-veiled disappointment.

“Oh, you need to get out more. Fresh air, new people! I met someone the other day—tall, works in insurance. Handsome in a sad kind of way. I could give him your number—”

“Mmhmm,” you replied, eyes scanning the quiet library.

That’s when you saw him.

Ben. Sitting in the far corner, glasses on, face lit by the dull lamp overhead. A book open, three more stacked beside him. Scribbling furiously in that same old notebook, brows furrowed like whatever he was chasing was just out of reach.

Your mother kept talking, but the librarian at the front desk cut in.

“You see who’s in the corner there?” she whispered, leaning in like it was gossip. “That’s Ben Mears. The writer. Came back to town a couple weeks ago. Said he’s working on something about the Marsten House. Real spooky stuff.”

Your eyes landed on him again, this time lingering. He looked up briefly—caught your gaze—and then just as quickly looked back down.

You had no idea what possessed you then. Maybe it was the hum of the overhead lights. Maybe it was the way your mother said, “So, what are you two doing this weekend?” loud enough to turn heads.

You grabbed the book off the counter and mumbled, “Actually, I have plans.”

Then, without thinking twice, you walked straight toward him.

He didn’t look up until your shadow crossed his table. You caught the flicker of surprise in his eyes—the way he blinked like he hadn’t expected company, let alone you.

You didn’t give him a chance to protest.

“Hi,” you said, setting your book down beside his. “Mind if I sit?”

A pause. His pen stilled. Then, after a beat:

“…Sure.”

And just like that, you became part of the story he didn’t realize he was writing.