Episode 1: Dead Relative Energy

🌕 Episode 1: Dead Relative Energy

The first time Rowan Vale saw the house, it exhaled.

A long, cold breath from the cracked brick chimney—like a creature waiting.

She stood at the wrought-iron gate, suitcase in hand, coat too thin for the autumn wind, already questioning all her life choices. Especially the one that had her driving five hours into the misty countryside to visit a house left to her by a woman she barely knew.

Her grandmother, Vera Vale.

Screen legend.

Rumored recluse.

Certified dead for the past thirty years.

“Well,” Rowan muttered to no one, “she left me a haunted house and a cryptic legal clause. Classic Vera.”

The key in her coat pocket was old, ornate, and unnecessarily dramatic. Like Vera. When she unlocked the rusted gate, it let out a groan that could’ve been a scream. She half-laughed.

“Same, honestly.”

The manor loomed. Three stories of withered elegance—ivy strangling its façade, windows like watching eyes, paint peeling in soft curls. Somewhere in the attic, a curtain flapped despite the closed window.

Rowan narrowed her eyes. “Nope. That’s not ominous at all.”

The front door creaked open before she touched it.

She stopped. Looked around. Wind? Gravity?

A very polite ghost?

Inside, the house smelled like old wood, lavender, and secrets. The kind of place where you didn’t just walk—you were watched. Judged. Welcomed, maybe. But with conditions.

Dust shimmered in golden shafts of light slicing through stained-glass panels. On the mantel, a faded photo of Vera stood proudly—chin high, lips curled, eyes sharp beneath marcel waves. Next to her, the nameplate: Vera Vale. She Always Played Herself.

Rowan snorted. “Fitting. She’d probably haunt me just to fix my posture.”

She dropped her bag and wandered through the foyer, running fingers along banisters and walls. The wallpaper was floral and cracked in places, like the house had been mid-laugh when it died. The staircase curved up in an elegant spine. Above, a chandelier tinkled despite no wind.

The silence felt… thick. Like the house was holding its breath again.

Rowan looked up. “You don’t need to impress me. I already hate it here.”

A floorboard creaked—behind her.

She spun.

No one.

Then, in the distance, a piano chord. Faint. Off-key. From a room deeper inside.

“Of course,” she said. “Why not.”

Three Hours and One Emotional Breakdown Later

The kitchen had no fridge, the water ran brown for five minutes, and the bedroom smelled like old perfume and ghost resentment. Still, Rowan unpacked. Because that’s what you do when you inherit a death-trap mansion in the middle of nowhere: pretend everything is fine.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror—messy auburn hair, freckles that hadn’t faded with age, eyes like burnt gold and exhaustion.

“I am a strong, capable woman,” she said.

Behind her, the mirror fogged up. A single word etched itself into the mist.

“RUN.”

Rowan blinked. Then raised her eyebrows.

“Wow. Subtle.”

She wiped the mirror clean. “You know, Vera, if this is your idea of hospitality, it’s crap.”

The word didn’t reappear. Instead, the light above her flickered twice—almost apologetically.

She sighed. “Fine. Apology accepted. Barely.”

Day Two

Rowan woke to knocking. Not on the front door. Inside the walls.

She opened one eye. “Absolutely not.”

It stopped.

She closed her eyes.

It started again.

After ten minutes, she gave in and googled:

“How to evict a polite but persistent ghost.”

Results: 0 helpful answers, 3 Reddit threads, and one article on toxic exes.

Enter: Bastian Hart

The knock on the actual front door was at 9:06 a.m.

Rowan opened it mid-sip of coffee and immediately choked.

There stood a man who looked like he walked out of an Architect Digest cover shoot—tall, wool coat, dark eyes, and hair that probably styled itself out of sheer obedience.

“Rowan Vale?” he asked, holding out a hand. “Bastian Hart. Restoration Architect. We spoke briefly over email?”

Rowan coughed. “Right. Mr. Sweater Weather.”

He smiled, confused. “Uh. Yes?”

She stepped aside. “Come in. If you dare.”

He hesitated. “Should I be worried?”

“The house is probably haunted, I insulted a ghost yesterday, and the piano plays itself. So… yes.”

Bastian blinked. Then walked in. “Great. I love a challenge.”

Initial Assessment

They did a tour. Rowan pointed out every ominous quirk: self-opening doors, flickering lights, the scent of phantom lavender. Bastian nodded like he’d seen worse. Probably had.

“I’ll need to check the foundation,” he said, crouching to examine floor tiles.

“I’ll need to check your sanity,” Rowan replied.

He smiled again. “You really don’t believe in this kind of thing, huh?”

“I believe in asbestos. Not ghosts.”

Something groaned upstairs.

They both paused.

Bastian tilted his head. “…That wasn’t the pipes.”

Rowan: “Nope.”

That Night

Rowan poured herself wine. She sat by the old fireplace, laptop open, writing a text she wouldn’t send.

Hey. You’ll never guess where I am. It’s very me—full of ghosts and emotional trauma. You’d love it.

She deleted it.

Then, somewhere deep in the manor, the piano started playing again. A single slow melody. Bittersweet.

Rowan stood, heart pounding. Not from fear.

From familiarity.

She didn’t know the song. But her body remembered it. Like a lullaby she once cried to.

She followed it.

The music led her to the old sitting room—dusty, untouched. The piano sat under a white sheet.

But no one was there.

Only the music.

And a photograph on the piano stand she hadn’t noticed before: Vera Vale, young, laughing, with her hand entwined with another woman’s. Faces turned, intimacy obvious, smiles soft.

The back read:

“To V, for every life we’re not allowed. – J.”

Rowan’s hands trembled.

Then the piano stopped.

Final Scene

Later that night, Rowan lay in bed, eyes wide.

The house creaked. The mirror stayed clear. The piano remained silent.

But something had shifted.

She wasn’t alone anymore.

And maybe… she never had been.

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