Page 16 of Bear Naked Truth
And then came the dreams.
They started the night after she pushed away.
At first, it felt like memory—his memory. A faint echo of firelight on stone, footsteps on old floorboards, a woman’s voice humming from another room. But then it twisted.
He saw flashes of hands, his hands, but not, coated in blood, fingers trembling. A ritual circle. Latin carved into the floorboards with something bone-white and brittle. The scent of iron and grief so thick he woke choking on it.
It wasn’t his past.
It couldn’t be.
But the house was showing him something.Sharingsomething.
And somehow, he knew it had to do with Autumn.
So he got to work.
It started with clearing out the sunroom. The room that faced east, tucked just behind the kitchen, lined with windows and soft light that soaked into the worn floor like warmth into skin. It had been a catch-all space of boxes of things that weren’t his, furniture he hadn’t found a place for, an antique coat rack that liked to shift an inch to the left when no one was looking.
He cleared it anyway. Swept. Scrubbed. Took down the old floral curtains and replaced them with gauzy ones in cream. Found a battered wooden desk at the thrift shop outside town and hauled it back himself. Refinished it with oil and elbow grease until it gleamed.
He didn’t tell Autumn. She’d only ask why.
He didn’t have a good answer. Not one he could say out loud.
The first time she noticed, she was coming in from the back garden—her hair wind-tousled, cheeks flushed, a bundle of dried rosemary in her hands.
She paused in the kitchen doorway, blinking at the open French doors to the sunroom.
“You moved the junk?”
He shrugged, sanding the edge of a low bench he’d built that morning. “Felt like it was time. Room wasn’t being used. Why? Does that mess up what you are doing?”
“No.” Her gaze scanned the space. “Looks like you’re making it into something.”
He didn’t look up. “Just a quiet space. Thought maybe you could use one.”
Silence stretched between them. And when he finally glanced up, her eyes were soft in that way that made him feel like he’d won something.
She didn’t thank him, but quickly went back to what she was doing. But later, she left a mug of chamomile tea on the bench beside his tool belt.
He called it even.
That night, the dreams came again.
Clearer.
The woman now had a name—Evelyn—and she was weeping. Not from fear. But from betrayal. He heard her scream echo through the inn, not aloud, but in the marrow of his bones.
And then he saw Autumn.
Not as she was now, butfamiliar. Like she’d been here before. In another life. In another form.
The spirit was watching her, hovering behind her shoulder as she walked the halls. Not malevolent—but protective. Possessive, almost.
He sat bolt upright in bed, sweating, fists clenched.
It wasn’t a haunting anymore. It was a tether.
