Chapter 20: DANIELA'S WARNING
The Morrison house sat at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac in New Haven, the kind of neighborhood where kids rode bikes in the street and neighbors borrowed sugar without asking first.
Or it had been, until three weeks ago.
Now the house radiated wrongness. I could feel it from the end of the driveway—a cold spot that had nothing to do with December's chill, a pressure against my senses that made my teeth ache. The system was already generating warnings before I stepped out of my car.
[ENTITY DETECTED: MULTIPLE — LOW TIER]
[ENVIRONMENTAL CORRUPTION: MODERATE]
[SOURCE: PSYCHIC DISTURBANCE — HUMAN ORIGIN]
Not a haunting, then. Something else.
Mrs. Morrison met me at the door. Mid-forties, graying early, dark circles under her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights. Her handshake was desperate—the grip of someone drowning who'd finally seen a rope.
"Thank you for coming. The Warrens recommended you specifically."
"They mentioned the case." I stepped inside, already scanning with Spirit Sight. "Your husband passed three weeks ago?"
Her face crumpled. "Car accident. Drunk driver ran a red light. Marcus didn't have a chance."
"I'm sorry."
"Everyone says that." She led me toward the living room. "But sorry doesn't explain why my dishes fly out of cabinets, or why I see shadows in every mirror, or why my daughter won't speak to anyone."
The living room was cold. Not winter cold—grave cold. I could see my breath in the air despite the heating vents working overtime.
And there, curled in an armchair that faced an empty spot on the couch, was Daniela Morrison.
Fourteen years old. Dark hair, unwashed. Eyes that stared at nothing. She'd wrapped herself in a blanket that looked like it hadn't moved in days, surrounded by tissues and untouched food.
"Daniela?" Mrs. Morrison's voice was gentle but exhausted. "This is Mr. Franco. He's here to help."
No response. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.
I crossed the room slowly, giving her time to notice my approach. When I got close enough, I activated Spirit Sight fully.
What I saw made my stomach clench.
The grief wasn't metaphorical. It was real, visible, a vortex of psychic energy that swirled around Daniela like a maelstrom. Her pain had become power—unfocused, uncontrolled, tearing tiny holes in the fabric of reality. Through those holes, things were slipping through.
I counted three minor entities circling the house like sharks around a wounded swimmer. They weren't strong enough to manifest fully, but they were feeding on Daniela's misery, growing stronger by the hour. If this continued much longer, something bigger would notice. Something that wouldn't settle for feeding on scraps.
"Mrs. Morrison, could you give us a few minutes?"
"Of course. I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything."
She left. I settled into the chair across from Daniela, close but not too close, and waited.
Minutes passed. The cold deepened. Outside, I could hear the circling entities scratching at the windows, testing the wards I'd placed on the threshold when I arrived.
"I know you're not deaf," I said finally. "And I know you're not crazy. What's happening in this house—you know it's connected to you."
A flicker in her eyes. The first sign of life.
"I also know it's not your fault." I leaned forward slightly. "Your father died. Your world ended. That kind of pain... it changes things. Changes you. And sometimes, when someone with gifts like yours experiences that much loss, the pain becomes something physical. Something real."
"You can see them." Her voice was hoarse from disuse. "The things outside."
"Yes."
"They started coming a week after the funeral." She pulled the blanket tighter. "At first I thought I was imagining it. But then Mom started seeing shadows too. And the dishes..."
"The dishes break because your grief is breaking things. Not deliberately—you'd never hurt your mother on purpose. But the energy has to go somewhere, and right now it's going everywhere."
Daniela's eyes finally met mine. There was something old in them. Something that had aged a decade in three weeks.
"Can you make it stop?"
"Not me." I shook my head. "Only you can do that. But I can help you learn how."
We talked for hours.
I taught her breathing exercises—the same ones I'd learned from Lorraine, the same ones I'd taught Emily McCormick a year ago. Focus techniques. Meditation. Ways to acknowledge the grief without being consumed by it.
It wasn't easy. Grief isn't a switch you can flip off. Grief is a process, a journey, a wound that heals only with time and patience and the courage to keep living despite the pain.
But Daniela was stronger than she knew. Beneath the devastation, I could sense steel—the same steel that had made her a psychic in the first place. Her gifts weren't a curse. They were a responsibility she hadn't asked for but could learn to bear.
"He wouldn't want this," I said eventually. "Your father. Whatever happens after death—wherever he is now—he wouldn't want you to destroy yourself reaching for him."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've seen ghosts who stayed too long. Who refused to move on because they couldn't bear to leave their families." I thought of Mrs. Crenshaw, of her hungry hands reaching through darkness. "The ones who truly love us? They want us to live. Even when it hurts."
Daniela was crying now. Real tears—not the silent emptiness of someone who'd run out of emotions, but the messy, ugly grief of someone finally letting themselves feel.
"I miss him so much."
"I know. And it's okay to miss him. It's okay to hurt." I handed her a tissue from the box beside her chair. "But hurting doesn't mean you have to let the pain eat you alive. You can carry it with you and still keep walking."
The temperature in the room began to rise. Not dramatically—but noticeably. The pressure against my senses eased.
Outside, I felt one of the circling entities scatter. Then another. The third lingered longer, hungrier than the rest, but eventually it too faded into nothing.
Mrs. Morrison appeared in the doorway, her face a mixture of hope and caution.
"Is it... over?"
"The immediate danger is past." I stood, stretched muscles that had gone stiff from sitting too long. "But Daniela needs support. Professional help—a therapist who understands grief. And someone to check in regularly, make sure the gifts don't overwhelm her again."
"I can refer you to people who specialize in this," I added. "The Warrens have a network."
Mrs. Morrison nodded, tears streaming down her face. "Thank you. Thank you."
I gathered my things, prepared to leave. At the door, Daniela's voice stopped me.
"Mr. Franco?"
I turned.
"Can the dead hear us? When we talk to them?"
The question hung in the air. I thought about it carefully.
"Sometimes," I said. "But they want us to live, not join them. The best way to honor them is to keep going."
She nodded slowly. I left before I could see whether she'd accepted the answer.
[CASE CLOSED: MORRISON PSYCHIC CRISIS — B-RANK]
[RESOLUTION: EMOTIONAL STABILIZATION]
[+350 EXP, +300 FP, +100 EP]
1969 ended quietly after that.
Christmas with the Warrens again—turkey and tinsel and Judy showing off the bike she'd gotten from Santa. New Year's Eve with champagne and resolutions and a countdown that felt more ominous than celebratory.
The system tracker updated as midnight struck, ticking over to a new year with a new set of warnings.
[CANONICAL EVENT TRACKER: 1970]
[PERRON HAUNTING: ~12 MONTHS]
[ENTITY MONITORING: VALAK — STATUS: WATCHING]
I could feel time accelerating. The training wheels were coming off. The real tests were approaching.
1970 would be different. I could sense it in my bones.
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