Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Some things don't just haunt houses.
They haunt bloodlines.

Charlotte Warren had known that all her life.

Long before she could walk, she could feel them — the things other people couldn't see. A pressure in the air, a whisper in an empty room, a hand brushing hers in the dark when no one was there. Her mother, Lorraine, told her it was a gift. Her father, Ed, told her it was a calling.

Charlie wasn’t sure what it was.
Only that it was hers , and it wasn’t going away.

By the time she was thirteen, she had sat in rooms colder than the dead, stood in houses where the walls breathed , and listened to the way a spirit’s anger hummed under the floorboards like a trapped storm.
By fourteen, she had seen things no teenager should ever have to see.

But this house —
this family —
this case —

This would be different.

The Perrons didn’t just have a ghost.
They had something older, darker, and more desperate.
Something that didn’t just want to haunt. It wanted to own .

Charlie didn’t know it yet, standing on the edge of the Perron’s crumbling porch with a cross around her neck and her parents at her side —
—but the fight they were about to start would test every shred of strength she had.

It would test whether she could survive the things she saw.
Or whether she'd become one of them.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 1

The apartment was suffocatingly still, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. It was clean, ordinary even—books on the shelf, a pot of cold coffee on the table—but none of it felt safe.

Charlotte “Charlie” Warren sat quietly in the corner of the room, her back straight, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She didn’t speak. She didn’t fidget. She simply stared across the room at the doll.

Annabelle.

The name hung in the air like smoke.

Charlie’s eyes never left it. The doll sat neatly in a floral armchair, legs hanging loosely, red hair in neat braids, that painted face perfectly still—and yet watching , somehow. Charlie had felt its energy the moment they stepped inside. Not sadness. Not grief. Something else. Something dark. Hungry.

She listened as the girls, Debbie and Camilla, tried to put words to their fear.

“It scares us just thinking about it,” Debbie said shakily. “When you hear it, you're gonna think we're insane.”

Ed, sitting beside Lorraine, leaned forward with practiced calm. “Try us. Please. From the start.”

Charlie glanced at her father. His tone was steady, like always, but she could feel the tightness in him—the way his hand brushed against his thigh as if resisting the urge to reach for a crucifix.

Debbie swallowed and spoke. “It started out small. The hand or leg would be in a different position. Then the head was tilted up when it was looking down. Then one day… it was in a completely different room.”

Her voice cracked slightly. “It’s moving around by itself.”

Charlie’s stomach tightened.

Ed furrowed his brow. “Ever think that maybe somebody had a key to your apartment? Maybe someone was playing a trick on you?”

“That’s exactly what we thought. But there was never any sign of intrusion.”

Lorraine’s voice came, soft and knowing. “And all of that led you to believe the doll was possessed?”

“Yes,” Debbie said. “Camilla got in touch with a medium. We learned from her that a 7-year-old girl named Annabelle Higgins had died in this apartment..  She was lonely and took a liking to my doll. All she wanted was to be friends.”

Charlie’s eyes narrowed.

Friends didn’t move around at night.

“When we heard this, we felt really sorry for her,” Camilla added. “We’re nurses. We help people. So... we gave her permission to move in to the doll.”

Ed sat up straighter. “Wait. You did what?”

“She wanted to live with us by inhabiting the doll,” Camilla said. “We said yes.”

Charlie’s heart beat faster. Her mother had always warned her—never invite. Never give something a name. Never say yes .

“But then things got worse,” Debbie said. “We’d find her in rooms we didn’t leave her in. Then the notes started.”

Flashback.

Charlie saw it in her mind even before they described it—a slip of paper on the floor, the jagged letters scrawled in red crayon.
"Miss me?"

The girls had found the doll in the hallway, sitting upright like she’d been waiting.

“Debbie!” Camilla screamed. “Debbie, wait!”

Charlie could almost hear their panic echoing through the walls. She shivered.

Back in the apartment, Debbie’s voice broke. “We were beyond terrified. We don't know what's going on or what to do.”

“Can you help us?” she asked, eyes pleading.

Ed nodded slowly. “Yes. But first… you need to understand something. There is no such thing as Annabelle. And there never was.”

Charlie looked to her mom. Lorraine’s face was calm, but her energy was sharp. Focused.

“Ghosts don’t possess such power,” Lorraine said. “ I think what we have here is something extremely manipulative. It's something inhuman.”

Ed’s voice was firm. “It was a big mistake acknowledging this doll. And through that the inhuman spirit tricked you. You gave it permission to infest your life.”

“What is an inhuman spirit?” Camilla asked, barely whispering.

“It’s something that’s never walked the earth in human form,” Ed said. “ It's something demonic.”

Charlie stared at the doll. The air around it seemed to pulse.

“So the doll was never possessed?” Debbie asked.

“No,” Lorraine said. “It was used as a conduit. It moves around to give the impression of possession. Demonic spirits don't possess things. They possess people. It wanted to get inside of you..”

Charlie's grip on her bracelet tightened, her thumb brushing over the small “W” charm.

She looked at the doll again.

And she knew— it was looking back .

“Alright that's good, Drew. You can shut it down now. Hit the lights.”

The projector gave one last whirring sigh before Drew switched it off, casting the fading photo of the haunted apartment into darkness. He hit the lights, flooding the university lecture hall in pale fluorescence. Dozens of students blinked and straightened in their seats, the eerie stillness of the Warrens’ case finally giving way to the buzz of post-lecture energy.

Charlie sat two rows back near the end of the aisle, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded tightly. At fourteen, she looked a little out of place among the college students—but no one seemed to question her presence. She was quiet, attentive, her copper-red hair falling in soft waves down her back, a pencil gripped in her hand, and a notebook sat open in her lap, doodles curling around the margins of sparse notes. Beside her sat Drew, Ed’s longtime assistant, resetting the projector.

Charlie leaned toward Drew and muttered just loud enough for him to hear, “I give the whole thing a solid seven on the creepy scale.”

Drew smirked, not looking up. “Only a seven?”

“I’m pacing myself.”

Ed addressed the room again. “So we got the church to send a priest over to bless the house and the occupants. Whatever was oppressing that apartment…”—he gave a small shrug—“…was no longer with them.”

There was a beat of silence before Ed scanned the crowd. “Any questions?”

Hands went up. Charlie noticed one of the girls near the front looked like she wanted to ask about five different things but was trying to narrow it down to one.

“Yes,” Ed said, pointing.

“Where’s the doll now?” the woman asked.

Charlie didn’t need to look to know which doll they meant. The answer never changed—but the way people asked always did. She could feel the flicker of tension around the question, like someone had cracked open a cold window.

“Someplace safe,” Lorraine said evenly.

“Yep,” Ed echoed with a nod.

Next, a guy raised his hand, half-curious, half-skeptical. “So, what are you guys? I mean… what do people call you?”

Charlie rolled her eyes faintly, leaning toward Drew again. “Cue the identity montage.”

Ed launched into the well-worn list. “We’ve been called demonologists—that’s one name.”

“Ghost hunters…, paranormal researchers…,” He offered next.

“Kooks,” Lorraine added lightly, to scattered laughter.

“Wackos,” Ed chimed in.

Charlie whispered, “Don’t forget ‘the weird family with the haunted basement.’”

Drew snorted quietly, but kept it under control.

Lorraine stepped forward a little, her expression softening. “But we prefer to be known simply as…Ed and Lorraine Warren”

There was a quiet that fell after that—not awkward, not tense, just thoughtful. Even the students who hadn’t quite believed everything looked like they wanted to. Some of them had leaned forward. Others scribbled notes, unsure what to make of what they’d just heard.

Charlie looked toward her parents, the pride unmistakable in her eyes—even if her dry wit stayed intact.

When the lecture hall began to stir again, students collecting bags and buzzing with commentary, Charlie murmured just loud enough for Drew to hear:

“They’re gonna have nightmares for a week.”

Drew glanced at her, half amused. “Including you?”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Please. My room is right over the real thing.”

Chapter Text

EXT. SCHOOL BACK LOT – LATE AFTERNOON  

The metal door groaned shut behind them as Charlie, Annie, and Jake stepped out into the pale warmth of late afternoon. The sun hovered low, throwing their long shadows across the cracked pavement behind the school.  

Annie flung her arms wide like she’d just escaped prison.  

“If Mr. Levitt makes us read one more Civil War article,” she groaned, “I’m going to flip his desk. Personally.”  

Jake slung his backpack higher on his shoulder and gave her a look. “You didn’t even read today’s.”  

“I skimmed,” Annie said, indignant. “Spiritually.”  

Charlie smirked. “You asked if Ulysses S. Grant was a kind of snack cake.”  

Annie shrugged, unbothered. “Ulysses sounds delicious. Like, chocolate-filled or something.”  

Their footsteps echoed as they turned the corner toward the shortcut by the old, boarded-up wing. The structure sat squat and forgotten—its windows black with grime, ivy curling over brick like fingers. No one used that wing anymore. Most students crossed the lot fast and avoided looking at it altogether.  

Charlie didn’t.  

She slowed, gaze drifting up toward the highest windows. Her shoulders stiffened.  

“Please don’t say it,” Jake muttered beside her.  

“Say what?” Charlie asked, distracted.  

Jake gave her a pointed look. “That you feel something. Or saw something. Or heard a Victorian whispering about jam.”  

Annie grinned. “No, it’s marmalade this time. Definitely marmalade ghosts.”  

But Charlie wasn’t smiling. Her eyes narrowed, fixed on a smudge just behind the cracked glass. For a breathless second, something flickered in the shadows. A shape. A movement. Gone.  

Her hand instinctively touched the gold cross necklace at her collarbone.  

“Hang on,” she murmured. “Something’s—”  

A loud thud echoed from inside the building. Not a crash. Not settling pipes. A single, solid sound—like something heavy falling or being dropped.  

All three froze.  

“Nope,” Jake said, backing up a step. “That was not the wind. That was a plot twist.”  

Annie’s eyes lit up. “Amazing. I vote we break in next time.”  

“I don’t think it wants visitors,” Charlie said quietly, still staring.  

The silence stretched. Then Charlie blinked, the tension leaving her shoulders all at once. She turned away.  

“Come on,” she said. “We have to get Judy.”  

EXT. ELEMENTARY SCHOOL – TEN MINUTES LATER  

The last bell had long since rung, and the elementary school lawn buzzed with the chaos of end-of-day energy. Kids in bright backpacks darted past in streaks of noise, laughter, and poorly tied shoelaces.  

Charlie stood by the gate, scanning the crowd with practiced eyes.  

“There’s your sister,” Annie said, pointing. “In the pigtails and judgmental expression.”  

Jake tilted his head. “She always looks like she knows something I don’t.”  

Charlie smiled. “She probably does.”  

Judy Warren—eight years old, serious-eyed and thoughtful—spotted them and took off at a run, her pink backpack bouncing behind her like a parachute.  

“Charlie!”  

Charlie opened her arms just in time for Judy to crash into her. The hug was brief but fierce.  

“Hey Jude,” Charlie said, brushing a leaf from Judy’s hair. “Good day?”  

“I got a gold star in math,” Judy announced, proud. “And we drew volcanoes. I made mine erupt. Miss Weller said it was ‘too dramatic.’”  

Annie laughed. “A true Warren.”  

She reached for Charlie’s hand, curling her smaller fingers around it as they turned to walk home.  

“Anyone bother you today?” Charlie asked softly.  

Judy shook her head. “No. But the lunchroom felt weird again. Like... it was loud, but it felt quiet. Like something was... listening... or watching.”  

Charlie glanced down at her sister. There it was again—Judy’s strange sensitivity. Not quite like Charlie’s, not yet, but enough to make her stomach tighten.  

“You tell me if it happens again, okay?”  

Judy nodded. “I always do.”  

They walked in a line along the sidewalk, the golden light filtering through trees above. Annie started humming a tune, bouncing along the curb like it was a stage. Then she launched into made-up lyrics without warning.  

“♪ Judy’s eight, she’s super smart,  

 She draws volcanoes full of heart—  

 And Charlie sees ghosts like it’s modern art... ♪”  

Jake groaned. “Please don’t turn that into a real song. That’s how cursed nursery rhymes are born.”  

Charlie rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her mouth. Judy skipped once, swinging her arm with Charlie’s.  

For now, the air was light. Normal. But Charlie couldn’t shake the echo of that thud behind the boarded windows.  

Still, she squeezed her sister’s hand a little tighter and kept walking.

INT. WARREN HOUSE – LIVING ROOM – EARLY EVENING  

The front door creaked open with the low groan of tired hinges and too many years. The late-day sun spilled into the entryway, casting long golden lines across the wood floor. The air was cool, not cold—not yet—but held that unmistakable whisper of fall. The kind that clung to your sweater and smelled faintly like dry leaves and chimney smoke from somewhere down the block.  

Charlie was the last one through the door, nudging it shut with her foot. “Ah, home. Where the ghosts are friendly and the couch doesn’t judge.”  

“Yet,” Jake said, pulling off his jacket. “That thing groaned last time I sat on it.”  

“Yeah,” Annie added, dropping her schoolbag by the stairs. “I think the upholstery is haunted.”  

“I’m haunted,” Charlie muttered. “By math homework.”  

The Warren house was quiet, golden with early evening light. A patchwork quilt Lorraine had sewn hung over the back of the couch, and a faint trace of incense clung to the air like a memory.  

Judy untangled her hand from Charlie’s and plopped her backpack at the base of the stairs with a little sigh.  

“Straight to cartoons, or dramatic monologue about your day first?” Charlie asked, swinging her jacket onto the banister.  

“Neither. I’m gonna change,” Judy said matter-of-factly, already heading up the stairs. “But someone left spooky juice in my lunchbox again.”  

“Spooky juice?” Annie echoed, raising a brow.  

“It leaked. Again,” Judy called back. “It smelled like raisins and evil.”  

“I vote we blame Winston,” Charlie called up.  

“I second,” Jake added, already raiding the cookie tin on the side table. “These better not be the weird raisin ones.”  

“They’re oatmeal,” Charlie said, reaching over to steal one. “The betrayal is part of the experience.”  

At that moment, Ed stepped into the room, a folder tucked under his arm.  

“Smells like teenagers and stolen cookies,” he said.  

Charlie grinned up at him. “Hi, Dad.”  

“Hey, sweetheart.” His eyes swept the room. “Where’s Judy?”  

“Went up to her room,” she said. “She was a little quiet.”  

“Hmm.” Ed nodded, then gave her that soft, searching look he always did when he was checking for something deeper. “And how are you?”  

Charlie threw her arms wide, deadpan. “Fully functioning and emotionally stable.”  

Ed chuckled, stepping closer. “Translation: you need a nap and at least three pancakes.”  

“Minimum.”  

He leaned down, kissed the top of her head, and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ll go check on your sister. Don’t eat all the oatmeal cookies.”  

“No promises.”  

He moved toward the stairs but paused to look back at them—his daughter laughing easily on the couch, her friends sprawled comfortably across the living room. For a moment, nothing felt heavy. It was just home.  

From upstairs, a faint thump sounded—something dropping to the floor. Charlie didn’t react, just raise her eyes to the ceiling as if she could see Judy causing havoc in her room.  

“Tell Judy if she’s summoning anything, she has to include me,” she called.  

Ed chuckled softly, then headed upstairs.  

Behind them, in the hallway, the old coat rack gave a soft creak—but the light above it held steady.  

For now.

INT. WARREN HOUSE – KITCHEN – A BIT LATER – 1971  

The kitchen was steeped in end-of-day quiet, the kind that comes after friends leave and the light shifts just enough to signal the turn from afternoon to evening. Outside the window, the breeze stirred yellowing leaves, early hints of fall dancing through the backyard.  

Charlie sat at the kitchen table, legs folded under her, flipping through a battered paperback she’d already read twice. An apple sat forgotten next to her, half-eaten, with a few bite marks along the edge.  

"Ed walked in slowly, a cleaning rag on his hands, the faint scent of old wood and polish trailing after him. He gave her a quiet smile before tossing the rag onto the counter.  

“Hey, squish,” he said, gently knocking his knuckles against the table. “Got a minute?”  

Charlie looked up over the book’s spine, eyebrows raised. “I always have a minute for vague parental suspense.”  

Ed chuckled and sat down across from her, folding his arms loosely. “Just a heads-up. We’ve got a visitor coming by tonight.”  

Charlie tilted her head. “Not the clergy or the cursed kind, I hope?”  

“A reporter,” he said. “Local guy. Wants to do a piece on the work your mom and I do. He asked to see the artifact room.”  

Charlie blinked slowly. “Ah. So, a bit of both.”  

“He’ll be respectful,” Ed added. “I told him no touching, and I’ll be with him the whole time. Mom’s sitting this one out—she’s had a long day, and frankly, she’d rather not entertain a skeptic with a tape recorder.”  

Charlie gave a faint smirk. “Wise choice. Mom’s polite until she’s prophetic, and then things get awkward.”  

Ed leaned back, tapping his fingers lightly on the table. “I’m only telling you so you’re not surprised if you hear a stranger’s voice tonight. No need to be involved—you’ve had enough excitement this week. But I know you. You like to know what’s coming.”  

Charlie closed the book around one finger, thinking. “So, I’m not needed to hover menacingly in the hallway and whisper ‘it wants to be seen’?”  

“Not unless he tries to pocket something,” Ed said with a small grin. “Then I’ll send for you.”  

Charlie finally grinned too, dropping her hand over her apple and spinning it slightly. “All right. Just don’t let him near the monkey toy. That thing does want to be seen, and it’s needy about it.”  

Ed laughed, standing again. “I’ll keep him clear. Thanks, kiddo.”  

As he headed back down the hall, Charlie turned her gaze to the window, where the last of the golden light clung to the trees. The wind picked up just slightly. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked—not ominously. Just... the house being itself.  

And Charlie, for now, was fine with that.

INT. WARREN HOUSE – BASEMENT – ARTIFACT ROOM – LATE AFTERNOON  

The door to the Artifact Room opened with its usual rusty sigh, like even the hinges weren’t thrilled about what was behind it. Ed Warren stepped aside, gesturing with one hand as the reporter hovered at the threshold like he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or nervous.  

“We keep everything locked in here,” Ed said, slipping the keyring back onto his belt. “Feel free to look around—just don’t touch anything.”  

The reporter, a lanky man with a comb-over and the slightly dazed look of someone on their second cup of stale coffee, took a cautious step inside. His recorder was already in his hand, blinking red.  

“Wow,” he muttered, eyes darting from the shelves to the walls like he was waiting for something to blink back. “This is… I mean, this is insane.”  

“Yeah,” came a voice from behind them. “That’s one word for it.”  

Charlie, leaning against the doorframe with a peanut butter sandwich in hand, raised her eyebrows. “Personally, I like ‘terrifying’ or ‘absolutely nope.’”  

Ed shot her a quick look over his shoulder. “You didn’t have to come down here.”  

“I didn’t. My legs did. I’m just along for the ride.” She took another bite of her sandwich and wandered in a few feet but stayed well away from the shelves.  

The reporter didn’t seem to know what to do with her. He blinked at her, then at Ed, and gestured vaguely at the collection. “So… all these were taken from cases you investigated?”  

Ed nodded. “That’s right. Everything you see in here is either haunted, cursed… or being used in some kind of ritualistic practice. Nothing is a toy. ”  

The reporter paused in front of a battered-looking wind-up monkey on the lower shelf, its cymbals forever frozen mid-clash. He started to reach for it.  

“ Not even the toy monkey ,” Ed said, not missing a beat. “ Don't touch it.”  

The hand snapped back like the monkey had snarled.  

“Right. Of course. Sorry.”  

Charlie stifled a smirk and took another bite. “That one is probably the creepiest thing in here, so good call.”  

The reporter gave a laugh that sounded like it wanted to be braver than it was. “So… Isn't it scary or… doesn't it worry you to have all these items right in your home? ”  

“That’s why we have a priest come by once a month to bless the room ,” Ed replied. “ The way I see it is, it's safer for these things to be in here than out there. It's kind of like keeping guns out of the streets. ”  

“ Oh, why not just throw them in the incinerator? ” the reporter asked, shifting on his feet. “ Destroy it? ”  

Charlie spun around with exaggerated shock, hands on her hips as she faced a mannequin with a wedding dress. “Wait—burning cursed stuff? Groundbreaking. Someone alert the Vatican.”  

Ed cracked a tired smile. “It will only destroy the vessel. Sometimes it's better to keep the genie in a bottle.”  

The reporter nodded like that made sense, though his eyes lingered nervously on the objects surrounding him. “Say, is the Annabelle doll here?”  

Ed gestured toward the far end. “Right this way.”  

They made their way over to the thick, sealed case. The Annabelle doll sat inside like a patient at a very sinister waiting room.  

The reporter stepped closer to the glass case, his gaze narrowing as he studied the doll inside. “You said she’s a conduit?”  

“That's right.”  

“What does that mean?” the reporter asked, eyes still fixed on the doll.  

“A very powerful demonic has latched itself onto her,” Ed explained.  

The reporter glanced at his recorder, then back at Ed. “So when you investigate these hauntings… how do you keep them from latching onto you?”  

Charlie spoke before Ed could. “Oh, you know. Lavender oil, lucky socks, and a lot of prayer.”  

“Charlie,” Ed warned gently.  

“What? It’s true. You just said a priest comes by every month now—but when Annabelle first showed up, they had to come weekly just to keep this place blessed.”  

Ed turned back to the reporter. “We have to take great precaution.”  

“But what about your wife?” the reporter asked.  

Ed’s shoulders tensed. “What about her?”  

“Father Gordon said…”  

Ed’s voice cooled. “That was different. What happened to my wife, happened during an exorcism.”  

The reporter opened his mouth for another question, but a small thud echoed through the room.  

Everyone turned toward the shelves.  

Ed frowned, stepping toward the sound.  

Charlie squinted. “Please let that be the monkey.”  

But it wasn’t. Tucked near the floor behind a cabinet, Judy sat crouched and still, her big blue eyes wide and unblinking.  

“Honey,” Ed murmured, crossing the room in three quick strides. “What are you doing? Come here. You know better.”  

Judy let him help her to her feet, but didn’t speak. She wasn’t looking at Ed—her gaze was fixed behind the glass at the Annabelle case, staring like it had said something only she could hear.  

Charlie’s heart did an uncomfortable twist. She turned her head to look at Anabelle, who hadn’t move since who knows when.  

“Georgiana!” Ed called toward the stairs and crouched in front of Judy, hands gentle on her arms. “Did you touch anything?”  

Judy shook her head slowly, still watching the doll.  

Charlie’s eyes flicked toward the case again. Nothing had moved. Nothing had changed. But something in her sister’s face made her skin crawl. It wasn’t fear exactly.  

Georgiana appeared at the top of the stairs, visibly startled. “What’s she doing down here?”  

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Charlie said, a frown still in her face. “Classic horror movie move.”  

“Can you take Judy upstairs?” Ed asked as Judy was ushered toward her grandmother.  

“You can't go in this room no matter what, remember?”  Ed reminded Judy gently.  

“Yes, Daddy,” Judy said, her voice quiet.  

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Go on.”  

Judy let her grandmother guide her away, but her eyes stayed locked on the Artifact Room as long as they could, like something in there was still holding her attention.  

Charlie stood next to her dad as the door closed upstairs.  

“Well,” she said eventually, folding her arms, “on the bright side, I think that reporter just got the opening paragraph to his article.”  

Ed sighed. “She felt something.”  

Charlie nodded. “Yeah.”  

“You feel anything?”  

Charlie gave him a look—equal parts tired and annoyed. “Besides the overwhelming urge to sage this entire room and move to Alaska?”  

She let out a breath, then shifted her gaze toward the glass case. 
“Though... it’s always worse when there are kids around. Annabelle gets all stirred up—like she thinks she owns the place.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “She doesn’t like me much either. The feeling’s mutual.”

INT. WARREN HOUSE – OFFICE – EARLY EVENING – 1971  

The soft, rolling sound of laughter drifted down the hallway—a lullaby of comfort that pulled Ed from the lingering silence left behind by the reporter’s departure. He followed the sound to the office, the old floorboards creaking faintly beneath his steps.  

There, in the warm glow of the desk lamp, Lorraine sat in her favorite rocking chair, Judy curled up on her lap in a white dress stitched with tiny, embroidered flowers. Her long brown hair was half-brushed, half-wild, and Lorraine was absently combing her fingers through it as she chuckled at something Judy had just whispered.  

Charlie was sprawled nearby on the floor, half-curled on her side with a pillow under her elbow and an open sketchpad beside her. A mechanical pencil was still in her hand, but she wasn’t drawing anymore—just watching them with a soft expression, one that only deepened when Ed stepped into the room.  

“Hey,” he said, his voice warm, smiling at the whole tableau. “What’s going on in here?”  

Judy turned her head, beaming. “Daddy, look!” She held out her skirt like she was showing off a ballroom gown.  

Ed walked further in, crouching slightly to meet her at eye level. “Well, you look very pretty.”  

“Tell her that again when she’s wearing it for dinner,” Charlie muttered from the floor without looking up.  

Lorraine gave a dramatic sigh through her laughter and gently nudged Judy off her lap. “All right, I'm done. Go get dress for dinner.”  

Judy hopped off Lorraine’s lap and twirled once for show. “I am wearing it to dinner.”  

“No, you're not.”  Lorraine called after her, shaking her head with a smile as Judy danced her way out of the room, singing something tuneless but bright.  

Ed handed Lorraine the cup of tea he’d prepared, then sat on the edge of the desk, arms folded loosely. “Here you go.”  

She took the cup and looked up at him, eyes searching. “How’d it go?”  

Ed let out a slow breath, the kind that released more than just air. “I think he may write a positive article.”  

“Ooh,” Lorraine said, raising her eyebrows and giving Charlie a look. “A non-skeptic, that's a pleasant change ”  

Charlie snorted softly. “Miraculous, more like.”  

Ed smiled faintly, but there was a heaviness still clinging to his features. “Yeah. We’ll see.”  

Lorraine studied him for a long moment, reading the space behind his eyes like she always could. Then, gently, she said, “Stop blaming yourself.”  

The room quieted, the ticking of the mantel clock seeming louder in the stillness.  

Charlie looked up, her gaze steady. “You know he tried to ask me if any of the objects ‘actually bite.’” A pause. “I said not since the mirror got counseling.”  

Ed blinked, then barked a short laugh that crumpled the tension like paper. “You didn’t.”  

“I absolutely did. Then I made prolonged eye contact with the samurai armor. He nearly tripped on the way out.”  

Lorraine reached over and squeezed Charlie’s foot. “That’s my girl.”  

Ed shook his head, chuckling, then glanced back at Lorraine as she took a sip of her tea. Her face twisted immediately.  

“No sugar?” he said, half a wince, half a question. Ed stood, reaching for the cup. “Be right back.”  

Charlie rolled onto her back, tossing the pencil up and catching it on her chest. “Tell the sugar it’s urgent. We’re emotionally delicate tonight.”  

Ed gave her a salute with the teacup. “On it.”  

As he left, the room settled again—warm and full, the kind of quiet that wasn't empty but lived-in. Lorraine leaned her head back in the rocking chair, watching her older daughter silently sketch hearts and half-haunted ideas in the margins of her page.  

And somewhere down the hall, Judy’s voice echoed faintly, still singing.

INT. WARREN HOUSE – MASTER BEDROOM – NIGHT – 1971  

The hallway light spilled into the bedroom in a soft line as Ed cracked the door open. “She’s already in here,” he said over his shoulder, voice hushed with amusement.  

Lorraine followed behind him, robe wrapped around her, hair pinned up loosely. On their bed, curled like a cat across the quilt, was Charlie—barefoot, pajama-clad, and fast asleep with a book open over her chest. Her hand loosely clutched the edge of Ed’s pillow.  

“She did it again,” Lorraine whispered, smiling.  

Ed sat on the edge of the bed and brushed Charlie’s hair off her cheek. “I think she was waiting for us.”  

As if on cue, Charlie stirred. Her eyes blinked open groggily, then squinted at them like she was evaluating if they were real or just part of a dream.  

“Oh good,” she muttered, voice low and thick with sleep. “I didn’t miss the nightly parental wisdom broadcast.”  

Lorraine chuckled softly and eased down beside her, shifting the book aside. “You’re supposed to be in your own bed, sweetheart.”  

“I was,” Charlie mumbled, nestling against Ed’s side without shame. “But then I remembered I had a pitch.”  

Ed raised an eyebrow. “A pitch?”  

Charlie blinked up at both of them, more awake now, though still swaddled in the quiet intimacy of the hour. “You guys are gonna get a case soon. I can feel it. So, I was thinking…” She trailed off, then yawned. “Maybe I could come along. Just… to observe. Like a psychic intern.”  

Lorraine smiled, but it was the tight kind—guarded by worry. “Charlie—”  

“Not into the fire or anything,” she added quickly. “Just… in the room. I’d stay out of the way. I’d keep notes. I could be useful.”  

Ed let out a slow breath. “You are useful, kiddo. But we—”  

“I know it’s dangerous. I know what you do isn’t just haunted dolls and reporters with too many questions. But you already know I feel it too. And I’d rather face it with you than wait at home wondering what might be coming back through the door.”  

The silence stretched in the room like the pause between thunder and lightning.  

Lorraine reached out, brushing Charlie’s forehead gently with the back of her hand. “You’re not wrong. But you’re still our daughter.”  

Charlie gave a crooked, sleepy smile. “You guys let Judy keep a rooster that screams at ghosts. I feel like the bar’s not that high.”  

“That rooster saved us once,” Ed deadpanned.  

Lorraine rolled her eyes. “He squawked at a lamp.”  

“A haunted lamp.”  

Charlie grinned, nestling closer into the crook of Ed’s arm. “Just think about it. Please?”  

Ed and Lorraine exchanged a glance over her head. It was the kind of glance full of silent conversations—parental instincts, psychic warnings, and the ache of raising a child into a world they didn’t ask to understand.  

Ed sighed, resting his hand gently over Charlie’s. “We’ll think about it.”  

Charlie nodded once, satisfied. “Good. I’ll make badges. ‘Team Warren, Junior Division.’”  

Lorraine kissed her forehead. “Sleep now, intern.”  

Charlie’s eyes were already fluttering shut again, her hand curled around Ed’s arm like it had done since she was little. “Love you,” she whispered.  

“We love you too,” they said together, soft and in unison.  

Outside, the wind rustled gently through the trees, and the Warren house settled for the night—brimming with love, haunted by purpose, and holding its breath for whatever might come next.

EXT. WARREN BACKYARD – MORNING – EARLY FALL – 1971  

Golden leaves scatter across the grass as a light breeze passes through. Lorraine stands inside the chicken coop in boots, coaxing their spirited white rooster.  

“Mr. Winston!” she calls out gently, reaching for the bird with practiced calm.  

“Winston! Winston!” Judy echoes in her best ‘chicken wrangler’ voice, trailing after him.  

“Get behind him,” Lorraine tells her, guiding with a hand gesture.  

The coop rustles with feathers and giggles as Charlie leans against the fence post with her arms crossed, smiling faintly at the scene. The air was peaceful here—warm, domestic, and quiet. It felt like a rare kind of stillness that didn’t last long in their family.  

But Charlie’s gaze shifted as a familiar creak caught her attention—the sound of the side door opening.  

Ed stepped out, a light jacket folded over his arm, his expression unreadable. He was trying to move quietly, like a man hoping to slip out unnoticed.  

Lorraine, quick to catch the movement, turned toward him, her brow already raised. “Where are you off to?” she asked, walking toward the edge of the coop.  

Ed slowed. “Uh, I just gotta run to the store for a few things,” he said, too casually.  

Charlie watched her parents from her place near the fence, eyes narrowing slightly.  

Lorraine rested her arms on the top of the fence, giving Ed a knowing look. “Why do you even try?”  

“What?” Ed shrugged a little too quickly. “What do you mean?”  

“In fifteen years,” Lorraine said, tilting her head, “have you ever been able to lie to me?”  

Next to them, Charlie raises an eyebrow and calls out with a grin, “No, and I have been around for fourteen of those fifteen.”  

He hesitated, smile faltering. “Father Gordon called,” he admitted with a sigh. “There’s a case he wants us to look into. I told him I’d check it out myself.”  

Lorraine stepped out of the coop and brushed hay from her skirt as she moved toward him. Charlie straightened from the post and followed silently, sensing the shift in atmosphere. She stayed back a few steps, unnoticed for the moment.  

“Lorraine, myself ” Ed insists, walking backward toward the car like that’ll make her stay put.  

“I’m coming with you,” Lorraine said simply, matching his pace.  

At the car, Ed reached for the driver’s door. Lorraine leaned against the rear one, blocking his path with gentle finality.  

“I know you’re worried it’s going to happen again,” she said softly.  

He stilled, hand resting on the door handle.  

“Yeah,” Ed admitted after a pause. “I am. I really am.” His voice was quieter now, touched with the weight of memory.  

Charlie lingered close by, uncertain whether to step forward or let the moment stay between them. Her fingers curled around the edge of her sleeve. She could feel the undercurrent in their exchange—something deep, unspoken, and heavy.  

“Maybe it’s just time we take a break,” Ed said with a sigh. “Write that book.”  

Lorraine gave a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Do you remember what you said to me on our wedding night?”  

Ed raised an eyebrow. “Can we do it again?”  

Charlie groaned loudly from a few feet away. “Ugh, seriously? I haven’t even had breakfast. Can you guys not flirt while there’s livestock present?”  

Lorraine laughed softly, not missing a beat. “After that,” she said, giving Ed a look, “you told me God brought us together for a reason.”  

Ed didn’t reply at first. The sun dipped a little lower, casting longer shadows across the yard.  

“I’m pretty sure it wasn’t to write a book,” Lorraine finished.  

She turned then, heading toward the house.  

“I’m going to get dressed,” she called over her shoulder.  

Charlie stepped closer as Ed stood there, watching Lorraine disappear through the door.  

Charlie watches her go, then looks back at Ed. “I meant what I said last night, you know.”  

“I know,” Ed says. He ruffles her hair. “We’ll keep talking about it.”  

Charlie nods. “Okay. Just don’t take too long. You’re not the only Warren who wants to help people.”  

Ed smiles at her, full of pride and worry, then heads toward the car to wait.  

Behind them, Judy shrieks, “He pecked my sock!” and Winston flaps his wings in triumph.  

Charlie sighs, turning back toward the coop. “Right. Chicken duty it is.”