Containment Protocols
“A mask?”
“Cobwebs,” Morgan said, shuddering. “And moral support in the event of mold. Also, if this is an EMF situation, wearing a mask will make me feel emotionally insulated, which has to count for something.” She thumb-typed a text with criminal speed. “I’ll tell my mom we’re studying for physics and may God forgive me.”
“Physics?” Harper said.
“Reality is misbehaving,” Morgan said. “Feels like physics to me.”
Mrs. Hale materialized in the doorway like she’d been summoned by the word test. “Girls,” she said, the way only moms could make a plural into a caution sign. “Where are we off to at—” she consulted the microwave’s unassailable tyranny “—7:43 a.m.?”
“Library,” Morgan said, without blinking. “Project.”
“What class?”
“Physics,” Morgan said, with the serene confidence of a sociopath.
Mrs. Hale softened at the word assignment. “Be home for dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Morgan nudged Harper with her elbow, and they slipped out the door like they hadn’t just lied to a woman who could smell gum from two rooms away.
They cut across the park because sidewalks were for people with time. The sky wore that washed blue that meant it would be a good day for everyone not experiencing metaphysical drift. Skateboards clacked. A dog galloped after a frisbee like its soul had been designed for that one action. A runner in neon shoes did perfect little metronome steps around the duck pond. Somewhere, a radio played a too-happy song about sunshine and handclaps.
For fifteen steps—Harper counted now without meaning to—the world held.
On step sixteen, the air twitched.
Not much. Not a full-body shiver. More like the idea of a wind brushing the back of her neck. Harper glanced sideways. The swinging bench by the pond rocked once, faintly, with no one on it.
“Morgan?”
“I felt it,” Morgan said, which was worse than if she’d said no. “Small. Like static.” She scribbled in the binder mid-walk, which was a dangerous sport. “Possible EMF bleed. Or ley line interference. Or…” She lowered her voice. “Interdimensional mold.”
Harper almost tripped. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Mold colonies that grow in thin spaces between realities,” Morgan said, absolutely serious. “I read a paper.”
“On Reddit.”
“Several papers,” Morgan amended. “Peer-reviewed by the comments.”
“You’re going to blame black mold for my basement being a portal?”
“I’m not ruling it out.” She clicked her pen twice. “Also on the table: localized Mandela effects, covert Wi-Fi frequency experiments, disgruntled house spirits, a lapsed protective blessing from the previous owners, or rogue AI trying to print messages through matter.”
“Rogue AI,” Harper repeated.
“It’s rude to assume intelligence, artificial or otherwise, won’t get bored.”
“Fantastic,” Harper muttered. “My house is less Amityville Horror and more Home Depot nightmare.”
Morgan ignored that and took a quick temperature reading on her phone. “Seventy-one out here,” she said. “Note for baseline.”
“You’re pale,” she added, without looking up. “You didn’t sleep.”
“Observation: correct.”
“Tonight you’re sleeping at my house,” Morgan declared, already planning the whiteboard entry. “If the house is acting up, you don’t stay there alone.”
Harper nodded, grateful and terrified in equal measure. Would the house pout if she stayed away? Grow quiet? Get louder until she had no choice but to return?
They reached Harper’s street. Her house sat at the end like a well-behaved child trying not to fidget. The paint looked exactly the way the paint should look. The maple flicked its leaves like jazz hands. The façade pretended so hard to be normal that Harper almost laughed.
Morgan halted on the sidewalk. “We do this slow. We document. We don’t touch anything we don’t have to. We set a safe word.”
“A safe word?” Harper said, incredulous.
“In case you panic. Or I panic. Or the house eats me and you need to tell the EMTs something that proves you knew me.”
Harper considered. “Casserole.”
“Excellent.” She wrote it in the margin like it was a lab variable.
They stepped onto the porch. Harper’s key slid into the lock like nothing in the world had ever been easier. The door swung open. Cool air leaned out to greet them; Morgan actually put a mask on, which would have been funny if it weren’t also wise.
The house looked the same as it had an hour ago. Beige where it should be lavender. Prints where the photo collage should be. The kitchen clock still leading a cult.
Morgan’s pen came out. “Baseline notes. Front hall: changed décor. Odor: faint dust. Ambient temperature: lower than exterior by… call it four degrees.” She pulled out a small tape measure from her bag like she had been waiting her whole life to say call it four degrees. “Picture frames are half an inch to the left of nail shadows,” she added, pleased and worried at once.
Harper had been staring down the hall toward the study door, which was closed and perfectly harmless and absolutely a liar. “Yup,” she said. “So good. So great. Let’s maybe start in the kitchen where I can pretend we’re just making toast.”
“Kitchen it is.” Morgan swept toward the back of the house like a general checking supply lines.
They cataloged the cereal boxes and the flour bag. Morgan took photos on her phone, wrote down brand names like she planned to cross-reference them with the FDA later. She ran her palm along the counter and frowned. “It feels… old. Like a stage set made to look like a kitchen.”
“That’s exactly it,” Harper said, grateful for a sentence that matched the itch under her skin. “Like it’s trying to be itself and missed.”
Morgan noted STAGE-SET TEXTURE and stared at the note like it had personally offended her.
“Basement?” she asked, muffled through her mask.
“We don’t have to,” Harper said, meaning it.
“We do,” Morgan said, meaning that too. “Data beats dread.”
They went to the door. Harper’s fingers hovered over the knob. The metal wasn’t cold this time; it was… expectant. She opened it. The stairs yawned down, neat and ordinary. A rectangle of dim waited at the bottom like a mouth.
They descended, Harper with the flashlight, Morgan counting under her breath because it calmed her and because counting had become a ritual.
