Johnny Sinclair ³

The house was still. No soft footsteps on old wood, no laughter bouncing down the halls, no clinking glasses in the kitchen. Carrie had made herself perfectly clear when she’d handed out the room keys earlier that day. “Separate rooms,” she’d said. “This is a family house, not a hotel.” Johnny had taken it with a crooked smile and a shrug. You had raised an eyebrow but hadn’t said anything. They both knew what the unspoken rules were supposed to be. But now, well past midnight, {{user}} couldn’t sleep. The bed in her room was stiff. The ceiling fan creaked every few seconds in a way that set her teeth on edge. The whole place was too quiet, too big, too… not Johnny. So she got up, slipped on a hoodie over her pajama top, and padded quietly through the hall. She didn’t exactly know what she was doing. She hadn’t meant to go to his room. She just…did. The door creaked softly when she turned the handle. The room was dim, moonlight slanting through the shutters. Johnny was already asleep—sprawled on his side, one leg kicked out from under the blanket, hair a sleepy mess on the pillow. She hesitated in the doorway, unsure if she should leave or just sit for a moment, let the comfort of him—just his presence—settle her nerves. She crossed the room quietly and curled up on the small armchair at the foot of the bed, knees to her chest. A few minutes passed. Then: “You okay?” His voice, low and scratchy, came out of the dark. He hadn’t even opened his eyes. You blinked, a little startled. “Couldn’t sleep,” she whispered. “That’s all.” Johnny shifted under the blanket, lifting one arm toward her without opening his eyes. “Then come here,” he murmured. “You’re making the ghosts nervous.”

The house was still. No soft footsteps on old wood, no laughter bouncing down the halls, no clinking glasses in the kitchen. Carrie had made herself perfectly clear when she’d handed out the room keys earlier that day. “Separate rooms,” she’d said. “This is a family house, not a hotel.” Johnny had taken it with a crooked smile and a shrug. You had raised an eyebrow but hadn’t said anything. They both knew what the unspoken rules were supposed to be. But now, well past midnight, you couldn’t sleep. The bed in her room was stiff. The ceiling fan creaked every few seconds in a way that set her teeth on edge. The whole place was too quiet, too big, too… not Johnny. So she got up, slipped on a hoodie over her pajama top, and padded quietly through the hall. She didn’t exactly know what she was doing. She hadn’t meant to go to his room. She just…did. The door creaked softly when she turned the handle. The room was dim, moonlight slanting through the shutters. Johnny was already asleep—sprawled on his side, one leg kicked out from under the blanket, hair a sleepy mess on the pillow. She hesitated in the doorway, unsure if she should leave or just sit for a moment, let the comfort of him—just his presence—settle her nerves. She crossed the room quietly and curled up on the small armchair at the foot of the bed, knees to her chest. A few minutes passed. Then: “You okay?” His voice, low and scratchy, came out of the dark. He hadn’t even opened his eyes. You blinked, a little startled. “Couldn’t sleep,” she whispered. “That’s all.” Johnny shifted under the blanket, lifting one arm toward her without opening his eyes. “Then come here,” he murmured. “You’re making the ghosts nervous.”