Rain pounded against the window, the wind howling to drown out the screams. It went exactly as planned; nobody suspected a thing. They stepped outside, the rhythmic drumming of the storm washing over the blood staining their hands, faces, and clothes.

Methodically, they stripped. They washed the fabric until the fibers were raw and scrubbed the house until the air smelled of nothing but bleach and mountain rain. The perfect murder. The perfect crime scene. They had their alibi; they had their excuse. It was done. The house was finally theirs.

No evidence. No blood. No DNA. Only the silence remained.

They were fine with that.

The smell of rain and blood woke her up again. This was the third night this had happened. Her skin was still warm from fingers that were only felt in a dream. For once, she felt at peace.

Elara was only twenty seven. A freelance digital forensicist. She bought her new home at a mind blowing $25,000. It was in bad shape, the weather - beaten three-room Victorian two and a half baths. It was perfect. It was her third night here in Sunnybrooks, New Jersey, and she was going to make the best of it.

She forced herself out of her bed and opened the blinds to her floor to ceiling windows allowing light to fill the room. Dark oak beams and cedar floor boards gave the run down room a spacious feel. Her worn blue slippers placed neatly in a corner begged for a break. Elara sighed, the floor was cold, but the slippers looked warm. She put them on silently, promising herself to buy new ones when she got the chance.

She stood there watching the mountain view. Sunnybrooks was a suburban area only twelve miles from New York. Its most breathtaking feature was the rolling hills, small cliffsides and rocky ridges in the horizon, painting the town vibrant colours of yellow, orange, blue, and purple.

The kettle hissed, pulling Elara out of her head. A chipped mug, milk, coffee beans and her cat were the only familiar objects in the kitchen. Everything else was foreign.

As Elara fed her cat she pulled out her tablet and started to research the house. Her mind pulled her back to the dream.

Who was that? Why was he there? Elara had had dreams such as this before, normally loved ones who had passed, dead people warning her of dangers. But this, this one was different. Familiar. Like she knew him forever, but didn’t quite remember where she met him.

“Who are you?” she mumbled taking a sip from her coffee. The slight tap from her tablet screen echoing in the soft light filled room. “What do you need?”

A sharp knock pierced through the house, interrupting her morning. “I’m coming!” She called. She jogged to the door opening it to find a breathtakingly stunning man standing on her porch.

Julian was thirty-two, Korean, strong broad shoulders showing years of work and manual labour. His obsidian eyes pierced through Elara’s, his jet black hair pulled back in a tiny bunny puff. He wore a black fitted shirt, and tan canvas cargo pants.

“Hi,” Elara’s heart pounded inside her chest.

“Hi,” Julian smiled, sticking out his hand, “You’re the crazy girl who bought the haunted house? Elara Vance, digital forensics analyst?"

She blushed softly, shaking his hand, “Yep. And you’re Julian Vane, the local architect. Right?”

“You can say that, but around here, I’m the person people call when they need to fix plumbing, electrical, or keep their house from falling in on itself.”

Elara smiled, “Um, I’m sorry, do you want to come inside?” Julian's cheerful demeanor faltered, briefly, a shift unnoticeable to people with an untrained eye; Elara saw it.

“Or we could go for a coffee and discuss the flooring plans there.” Julian nodded in agreement. They walked into a small pastry shop called Cover Story. They took the booth nearest to the door, they sat in awkward silence that stretched for what felt like years. The waitress came and took their orders. Julian ordered a straight black coffee and a Texan-style omelet and Elara ordered a pumpkin caramel spice macchiato and French toast.

“You said the house was haunted?” Elara asked as she took a sip of her drink.

“Yeah,” Julian pushed his eggs around, “10 years ago, my friend Elias, was murdered.”

“Oh,” Elara looked down, sadness washing over her amber-brown eyes, “I’m sorry.”

Julian allowed a wry smile, “People who buy the house leave within a week, saying they hear footsteps at night, things moving around, blood on the floor. There was even a lady who went hysterical because knives were lined up in a smiley face on her wall.”

Elara’s eyes rose with interest, “Wow… that sounds intense.”

“One would think,” Julian’s phone buzzed as he stood flagging for a check, “I’m sorry, I have to go.” He gulped down his coffee, “Some other time, call me.” He gave her his card and left in a hurry.

When Elara got back home, she pulled out her tablet and resumed her research.

“Haunted, eh,” She looked at the murder case and gagged, “That’s awful” She muttered. She put down her tablet and got her computer out, doing some digital digging into the house’s past.

***

About half an hour later papers surrounded Elara. “Goodness,” The murder case of Elias Gray was cold, all the people who lived in the house left because of odd occurrences, but Elara was not going to be one of them. She stayed up in her run down living room. Connecting dots she thought that police might have missed. One thing caught her eye. The picture of the crime scene, in her kitchen. Near a faded footprint, there was a blood splatter. Possibly missed by the detectives or the forensic scientist working on the case.

Elara sat there looking for records of people who had been in the house before Elias’s murder. A handful of relatives, some neighbors. But nobody had spotted anything suspicious.

Elara turns the light off letting the light of the darkness fold around the room like a lukewarm blanket.

***

Her dream was even more vivid than the night before.

“He’s fake,” a voice said softly. Elara turned trying to find the source of the voice, “Don’t trust either of them.”

“Who are you?” Elara shouted into the darkness. It was colder. Scarier than the darkness she had let surround her earlier. “Who’s fake?” Strong arms wrapped around her waist.

“Hawthorne,” The voice whispered in her ear. The arms let go, turning Elara around.

“Who’s Hawthorne,” Elara walked forward, her feet touching the ice-cold floor. “Who are you?” She called.

“A nightmare,” lips brushed against her cheek. Elara took another step. “And a dream.”

“Elara!” a familiar voice cut through her dream. “Step away!” Calloused hands wrapped around her arms.

“Wake up!” Julian shook her softly, her eyes opening and shifting into focus. Julian’s worried eyes gazing into her hers.

“Are you okay?” He asked, his voice coated in worry. “Why are you out here?”

Elara looked around, she was on the edge of a bridge, “I-I don’t know,” Julian sighed gently pulling her down.

“You don’t know?” Julian asked, “Do you sleep, walk or something?” Elara allowed him to seat her in his pickup.

“Or something… but very rarely.” She paused, “Who’s Hawthorne?” She turned to see his reaction.

Julian’s eyes darkened from worry to hatred, his jaw tightened. “The detective who failed to solve Elias’s case”

Elara turned, “Oh,” Her voice caught in her throat, after all her research she had failed to gain information on the people who took the case. Julian slammed his side of the door and started to drive at a moderate pace.

“Why do you ask,” He grumbled. Elara rested her head against the window. Watching trees go by, counting the cars parked haphazardly in the driveways.

“I was told he was fake. Not to trust him.” Julian made a turn, his body language still tense. His knuckles gripped the wheel so tightly they turned white.

“That son of a basketweaver can’t be trusted with bagels.” He tapped lightly on the steering wheel, his grip still suffocating the wheel. “Who told you that?”

“A nightmare,” She closed her eyes, shutting out the noise of the cars passing by, “And a dream.”

When Elara opened her eyes, Tina, her cat, stared right back at her. She sat up, and yawned. Gray filled the Great Room that she was sleeping in. A soft rhythmic tap on her window indicated that it was raining outside. She rose from the soft worn blue couch and walked to the window.

“You fell asleep in my car,” a groggy voice started. Elara turned, she hadn’t noticed him sleeping in the recliner. She hadn’t heard him move, or even breathe.

“I figured.” She said, “Thank you.” Julian got up, his face dark with fear and something else Elara couldn’t quite place.

“I haven’t been inside this place in 10 years.” He said meekly. “I’m surprised you haven’t changed much.”

Elara nodded, still confused by why he was here, “I like the look. The aesthetic of the place.” She moved to the kitchen, the hard cedar floor cold beneath her feet. SHe stopped. Right there on the wall, in red outlined in a heart with knives. ‘Good Bones. Bad Blood. Trust No One.’

Elara screamed, collapsing to her knees before passing out. “Elara?” A Julian called faintly, “Oh god, ELARA!” The world turned blue and green before spreading over to black.

***

Cold. Wet.Trembling in fear. That’s how Elara woke up. Red marker against her greenish blue wall, knives outlined in a heart. The words ‘Trust No One’ pressed against her eyes.

Who would do such a thing? She wondered. Footsteps. Slow, steady, delicate coming closer and closer. “Me,” a cold voice said.

Her eyes snapped open, she was surrounded in the darkness void again. The same voice playing with her head.

“Who are you?” Elara called out desperately. A dark figure stood in the corner, and then dissipated.

“I told you,” fingers ran along her arm. Cold. The smell of blood and rain filled her nostrils, overwhelming her. “A nightmare and a dream.”

Elara turned around looking for the voice. “You said trust no one,” Elara’s breath was shaking, fear overwhelming her, “Why?”

“You’re investigating things that are better left buried.” The figure reappeared, closer and somewhat clearer.

Elara stared, eyes widening with fear and recognition. “Elias?” She whispered.

The figure nodded. His head full of curls cut in a low taper fade. A scar under his eyes shimmered in silver. He wore a 25 spurs basketball jersey, baggy jeans and red and black jordans.

“Oh my god.” Elara covered her mouth with both of her hands. “Do you remember?”

Elias turned, but the scowl that he tried to hide was still visible in his body language, his clenched fist, his shoulders squared.

“Yea,” He said, “That’s the nightmare part of it.”

Elara reached out trying to touch his shoulder, but ended up swatting the void.

“Time to wake up,” Elias said, his voice distant and hollow.