Dean paced in circles, restless. He ran a hand through his hair, grumbled, grabbed his coffee, set it down again, and stared out the window.
"I knew it. This town's messed up…"
Sam, sitting on the edge of the bed, calmly flipped through an old book. He spoke without raising his voice, thoughtful:
"That shadow we saw… hooded, dark. It looked like a reaper."
Dean stopped pacing and turned to his brother.
"But reapers don't feed on souls, Sam. That thing was feeding. You saw it."
Sam slowly closed the book, his eyes fixed on a random spot on the wall. The dim lamp cast shadows across his face, revealing the tension he tried to hide. He spoke softly, almost like thinking out loud:
"Maybe it's something pretending to be a reaper…"
He stood up and walked slowly to the window, staring out into the emptiness. His expression was uneasy, like he was trying to piece together an ancient and dangerous puzzle.
"Could be a pagan god… or some really old specter. Or maybe… a twisted version of something that used to be a reaper."
Dean leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his look a mix of sarcasm and concern.
"Perfect. A knockoff reaper, a starving god, or a specter on steroids. Just what I needed."
Sam murmured, still thinking:
"I got the feeling it looked at us, Dean. Like… like it knew us."
Dean frowned.
"You think we've seen this thing before?"
Sam hesitated, then shook his head.
"I don't know. But something about it felt familiar…"
Dean grabbed his phone and started dialing.
"Time to call Bobby. If anyone knows freaks like this, it's him."
Sam crossed his arms, eyes on the floor.
"Dean, I need to head back. My exam's tomorrow. It's important."
Dean looked away, uncomfortable.
"I get it, man. But… we can't just leave the case half-done."
Sam sighed, impatient.
"Dad did it. Why can't we?"
Then his expression shifted. The frustration gave way to doubt.
"I mean… technically, we wrapped it up. That thing was dealt with. But another one showed up right after. And from what we know, it's been chasing other ghosts. It hasn't hurt anyone."
Dean frowned, trying to argue.
"Sam, this isn't just another case. If that thing's hunting ghosts… maybe it's clearing the field for something bigger. What if this is just the beginning?"
Sam raised a hand, cutting him off.
"I came to help you find Dad — and I did. But I really need to go back. Jess is waiting. My law exam… my life."
He hesitated. Then shook his head, like trying to shake off the guilt.
Dean sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.
---
Elsewhere.
The ghost's scream still echoed in his mind when everything went black. Rick had won. Devoured. And then… poof.
But it wasn't a slow fade. It was a jump. One second he was standing, the taste of ectoplasm still in his mouth — the next, he was lying down, gasping, with a tube up his nose and fluorescent lights blinking overhead.
"What the hell—?!" he choked, voice cracking.
The shock made him sit up with a jolt, like he'd been hit with a defibrillator. The heart monitor spiked. Nurses shouted. Rick blinked, dazed, trying to tell if this was real or just another layer of the nightmare.
His head spun. Memories scattered like cards in the wind. It all hit him at once — fear, confusion, anger… and a weird, almost euphoric relief. Like he'd tricked death — and somehow walked away. He won… didn't he?
"I'm back," he whispered.
The sound of the door opening hit like muffled thunder. Alfred Vexley rushed in, eyes wide, coat still soaked from the rain outside. The old man looked like he'd run an emotional marathon — somewhere between hope and despair.
"Rick… my God…" he breathed, barely believing it.
Rick didn't answer. He just stared.
His grandfather's face looked older than he remembered. More worn. But there was something in his eyes — a light Rick hadn't seen in a long time.
"Gramps…" Rick tried to smile, but his mouth felt strange, as if he'd forgotten how to do it.
"It's okay now."
Alfred stepped closer, his movements slow, like he feared the floor might vanish beneath him.
"I thought I'd lost you…" his voice came out shaky, but steady. "Every day in this place, I prayed you'd come back to me."
Rick glanced up at the ceiling, where the lights flickered with an irritating rhythm. Something shifted inside him — foreign, wrong. But he couldn't say that. Not now.
"Still a bit woozy, but I'm here. That's what counts."
Alfred nodded, eyes glistening.
"God heard me. I begged, pleaded… and He brought you back. I don't know how, but He did."
Rick swallowed hard. The word "God" echoed inside him like a warped bell. Something twisted deep within. But he kept his face calm.
"Thanks for believing I'd come back."
The old man smiled — tired, but sincere.
"I never doubted it. You're my grandson. And I believe the Lord has a purpose for you… even if we don't see it clearly yet."
Rick nodded, trying to believe. But deep down, something whispered that the plan wasn't divine. It was ancient. And definitely hungry.
The sound of the door opening again sliced through the moment like a blade. A man in a white coat stepped in, holding a clipboard, his face worn from seeing too much.
"Good afternoon," he said with a brief nod. "Rick Vexley, right?"
Rick nodded, his body still stiff. Alfred stood up to give him space.
"I'm Dr. Camargo. Just a quick check-up. We want to make sure your 'miracle' didn't bring along any... unexpected extras."
Rick let out a dry laugh.
"Miracle, huh?"
The doctor gave a faint smile, saying nothing. He moved with practiced ease, checking vitals, testing reflexes, asking questions Rick barely registered. His head still buzzed.
"Doctor," Rick interrupted, impatient. "How long do I need to stay here?"
Camargo looked at him over his glasses.
"Hard to say. Your body went through something severe. We're still trying to understand it. But at the very least, a few more days"
Rick sat up straighter, trying to look solid.
"I'm fine. Seriously. I could go home today. Right now, if you let me."
Alfred frowned.
"Rick…"
"Gramps, I'm okay" Rick insisted, pushing the words out. "I just need to get out of here. Breathe real air."
The doctor scribbled something on his clipboard, eyes still down.
"We'll keep you under observation a bit longer. If everything stays stable, we can talk discharge tomorrow."
Rick huffed but didn't argue. Inside, something shifted. That feeling again — like he was being watched. Like the hospital wasn't safe. Like he had to leave before… before what, exactly?
He didn't know. But he felt it.
---
Some time later.
Rick stared at the corner of the room, where the light seemed darker than it should be.
"You're still here. I can see you…"
Tessa.
Standing in the shadows, as if she'd always been there. Her dark hair draped over her shoulders, her eyes locked on him with a sorrow that felt like a wound.
Rick blinked.
"I did it," he said, voice raspy. "I made it back."
Tessa didn't smile.
"This wasn't supposed to happen. It's not… natural."
Rick tried to laugh, but it came out as a dry breath.
"You're literally a ghost with a killer sense of style. And you're telling me I'm the unnatural one?"
She studied him for a long moment, as if deciding whether it was worth explaining.
"I'm part of the cycle," she said quietly. "I guide. I watch. But what you did… devouring a soul… a fallen one… and returning like this…"
She trailed off. The silence that followed was heavier than any word.
Rick frowned.
"It was just a ghost. One of the evil ones. I didn't do anything but survive."
Tessa looked away. She didn't respond.
The silence pressed in again, thick and suffocating.
Rick sat up, his voice steadier.
"Are you okay, Tessa?"
She didn't answer.
"Tessa?"
Still nothing.
Then she stepped forward, her eyes darker now. Deeper.
"This isn't just coming back, Rick."
She vanished before he could ask what she meant.
Rick lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling something shift inside him — a strange discomfort, a creeping sense of dread.
As if something was waiting. Watching.
'If this isn't just coming back… then what is it?'
---
The next day.
Rick threw his backpack onto the couch with a sigh. The weight of the day still hung heavy on his shoulders, and Alfred Vexley's presence behind him made everything feel more real.
His grandfather looked around, a slight furrow on his brow.
"Why don't you come stay at my place?" he said, his voice firm but kind. "It's quieter there. More room. I could look after you better."
Rick was already rummaging through his things, stubborn as ever.
"I'm good here, Gramps. This is my place. My corner. You don't need to worry."
Alfred stepped closer, laying a blanket over the armchair.
"I know. But you just got out of the hospital. You need time to heal. And someone close by."
Rick paused for a moment, as if the words had struck something. But he quickly went back to organizing his backpack, brushing off the weight of the conversation.
"I'm already fine. Don't worry."
Alfred sighed — not defeated, just resigned.
"You've always been like this. Stubborn. Just remember: I'm here if you need me."
-
Night fell quietly over Rick's house. He lay down, his body still tired, but his mind refusing to rest. The room was dark, except for the faint glow of the streetlamp outside, filtered through the curtains.
Sleep came quickly. But it brought no rest.
In the dream, Rick stood in an empty field, shrouded in fog. In the distance, children's voices called out for someone. He tried to run, but the ground crumbled beneath his feet. The fog twisted into grasping hands.
Then he saw himself. Standing in the mist, staring back like a distorted echo. The eyes were pitch black, abyssal. As if the void itself had taken shape. Pale skin contrasted with the gaze, and the mouth moved silently, as if trying to speak a name.
Rick tried to scream, but had no voice. Tried to run, but had no legs. Everything dissolved.
He woke with a jolt, heart racing, cold sweat dripping down his neck.
"Shit…" he muttered, sitting up.
He walked to the kitchen, still breathless, and grabbed a glass of water. The fridge light flickered, briefly lighting the room.
And then, she appeared.
Tessa.
Standing in the doorway, like she'd always been part of the house.
Rick jumped, the glass slipping from his hand.
"Jesus, Tessa! You can't just show up like that!"
She didn't move. Just looked at him with that same sad, ancient gaze.
Rick struggled to steady his breathing, eyes locked on Tessa, who remained motionless in the doorway.
She glanced toward the corner of the living room, where a small black pouch sat silently beside the television. The object seemed out of place — as if it didn't belong in that space, or even in this world.
"You brought it," Tessa said, her voice low, almost as if speaking to herself. "Still tied to feelings…"
Rick looked at the pouch, then at her, and replied with a dry tone, yet filled with strange conviction:
"Of course. Just like all the living. And it was a gift…"
Tessa's face tightened slightly. She repeated the word, as if chewing each syllable:
"Living…" she said, spitting the sound like it was bitter. The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating.
Tessa remained quiet for a moment. Her gaze drifted. Then, with a soft sigh, she spoke:
"I came to say goodbye."
Rick frowned.
"Why? Where are you going?"
She looked at him with a neutral expression, but her eyes carried that familiar weight — the kind that always knew more than they let on.
"I have work to do, Rick. No time to be your emotional support. Or your therapist."
Rick shifted uncomfortably.
He ran a hand over his neck, looked away, then met her eyes again — a mix of frustration and unease swirling inside him. He couldn't tell if he was being abandoned or spared.
"So that's it?" he murmured. "You're just… gone?"
Tessa didn't answer right away. She stared at him again, her eyes deeper now, yet still piercing.
"Before I go… I had to warn you. I don't know what happened. But I know it's not good. You need to be ready."
She stepped closer, soundless— like she didn't touch the floor at all.
"Just… don't let it change you. Don't lose yourself."
The words hung in the air like a curse. Rick felt a chill crawl up his spine, but didn't look away.
She turned toward the door. Before leaving, she glanced back — her eyes more human than ever.
"There's still time."
And then, she was gone.
Rick stood alone in the kitchen, the sound of shattered glass still ringing in his ears.
He looked again at the black pouch beside the television. It didn't move. Didn't make a sound. But it felt like it was breathing.
Rick stepped closer, like someone approaching a cursed altar. With each step, he felt the weight of Tessa's warning:
Don't let it change you. Don't lose yourself.
He stopped in front of the object. The silence was absolute. And for a moment, Rick could swear those black eyes from his dream were inside the pouch, watching.
He didn't touch it. Not yet.
He turned and walked to the bedroom, knowing sleep wouldn't come.
And as the night wore on, Rick felt the void watching him.