The Ghost of Briarwood

(Toby POV)

Carefully, I dip the mop into the bucket, squeezing out the excess water until it’s just wet enough to catch the dirt Miller left behind.

The locker room is empty now, the loud quiet of the arena closing in on me from every side. It’s better this way.

I like the silence.

It doesn't ask questions. It doesn't call me names.

But tonight, the silence is different. It’s stuffy with the scent of the guy who just left. Sweat, expensive soap, and something that smells like a storm over the ocean.

Alan Voss.

I look at the spot where he stood—naked, powerful, and utterly terrifying. My face still feels like it’s on fire.

I shouldn’t have looked.

I should have kept my eyes on the floor like a good little ghost. But the tattoos on his arms… They were really detailed. Like armor made of ink.

“You’re safe with me,” he had said.

I sigh and push the mop across the rubber matting. People like Alan Voss don’t protect people like me.

Not unless they want something.

No one is ever nice for free.

Especially not to the son of a man who looks at me like I’m a stain on the family rug.

Sadly, as a janitor, being invisible is a big part of my job. Even if I hate it. I have to stay small to keep the peace, because from a very objective point of view—my existence has never led to anything important.

Not in my father’s eyes, anyway.

I can still hear my dad's voice, cold and cutting like a knife.

“You have the Pike name, Toby, but you have none of the steel. You’re a waste of good blood.”

He thinks I’m slow.

He thinks I’m a coward. He doesn’t know that while I’m scrubbing these floors, I'm solving multivariable calculus in my head to avoid me from screaming.

He doesn’t know that I’m only here, working for minimum wage and hiding in the shadows, because it’s the only place Calvin can’t reach me.

Or so I tell myself.

By the time I finish the east wing, my back is aching and my hands are raw. At the end of the shift, my sneakers echo through the empty, gothic halls of Briarwood as I go to leave.

The campus is beautiful under the moonlight, the fresh snow sparkling like crushed diamonds, but I don’t stop to look.

I keep my head down, my hood pulled low.

When I reach my dorm, I already know what to expect.

I flinch when I hear the faint thumping of bass coming from my floor. My roommate, Jax, is probably hosting another pre-game party. I just want to disappear into my bunk and pretend I don't exist.

I open the door and... nothing.

The room is empty, but it’s a disaster zone. Red solo cups are scattered across the floor, the smell of musty beer and cheap weed hanging deep in the air.

Jax is out. Probably at some frat house, looking for girls and more trouble.

I’m alone.

I don’t turn on the lights. I don't need to.

I know the way to my side of the room by heart. I strip off the janitor’s jumpsuit, feeling the bite of the winter air on my skin.

I’m too thin. Every rib shows. I look like a person made of glass, always one tap away from breaking.

I crawl into my bed, pulling the thin, scratchy sheets up to my chin. I’m exhausted, but my mind won't shut up. It keeps replaying the way Alan Voss looked at me.

Not with disgust. With something… different.

I close my eyes, hoping for a dreamless sleep.

I’m not that lucky.

The mood changes. It’s not the chilly, beer-smelling air of my dorm anymore. It’s the scent of fancy leather and that strong, sweet cologne.

Calvin.

I’m twelve again. Then fourteen. Then seventeen. The years bleed together in the dark.

I’m trapped in the Pike mansion, the doors locked from the outside. I can hear the floorboards creaking. Creak. Creak. Creak.

"Where are you, little brother?"

His voice is like a silk noose. I’m hiding in the back of the closet, my knees pressed to my chest, trying not to breathe. But the door swings open, and there he is.

The Golden Boy. The one everyone loves.

His hand reaches out, catching my chin, forcing me to look at him just like Alan did tonight. But Calvin’s touch doesn't feel like safety.

It feels like a death sentence.

"You look so pretty when you're scared, Toby," he whispers.

I see the red light of his phone. He’s recording. He’s always recording.

"Don't... please," I sob.

But he doesn't stop. He never stops. He pins me down, his weight crushing the air out of my lungs, his hands cold and cruel as they tear at my clothes.

The recording light stays on, a tiny red eye watching my soul break.

I bolt upright, a choked scream dying in my throat.

I’m shaking—proper, bone-deep shaking.

My heart is pounding in my chest like a bird trying to escape a cage. I'm sweating cold, and the sheets are twisted around my legs like chains.

I’m in my dorm. I’m safe.

But it doesn't feel like it. It never feels like it.

I grab the edge of the bed, my knuckles white, and then I pull the duvet tight around my shoulders. I fold myself into a ball, hugging the pillow to my chest and burying my face in the fabric.

The room is silent, save for the hum of the heater and the sound of my own rough breathing. Jax is still out. I’m all alone in the dark.

I close my eyes and try to think of something—anything—other than the red light of that camera.

Suddenly, a memory flashes in my mind.

Not of Calvin.

I think of the locker room. I think of the way Alan Voss looked standing in front of me—huge, immovable, and blocking the exit.

For a split second, I remember the heat of his thumb on my chin. It was the only time in my life a hand didn't feel like a weapon.

“You’re safe with me.”

I grip my sheets harder, my eyes burning with tears I refuse to let fall.

"Liar," I whisper into the empty room.

I stay like that for hours, folding into myself, sweating and trembling, waiting for the sun to rise so the ghosts can finally go back into the walls.

What. Is. Happening. To. Me?