Carrie stopped walking.
She turned to look at Casey properly this time. Not the calm voice. Not the jokes. Him.
"Casey," she said quietly, "what are you?"
The house creaked softly around them.
Casey didn't answer right away. He kicked off his shoes, lined them up neatly by the door, then leaned against the wall like this was the most normal question in the world.
"I'm Casey," he said.
She stared. "That's not an answer."
He sighed. "It's the only one that matters."
Carrie crossed her arms, trying to steady herself. "You kicked a metal door off its hinges. You dragged me through the woods. You live in a house full of monsters. You own a car that—" she pointed vaguely outside, "—looks at people."
Casey nodded along. "Fair list."
"So?" she pressed.
He glanced at his parents.
His mother was already walking toward the kitchen. "You want the long version or the one that lets you sleep tonight?"
Carrie swallowed. "The second one."
Casey spoke before either of them could. His voice was flat. Honest. Tired.
"I'm someone who doesn't die easily," he said.
"I see things before they happen."
"And when something from the dark gets too loud, I make it shut up."
He met her eyes.
"That's it."
Carrie searched his face for a lie.
There wasn't one.
His father cleared his throat. "Alright. House rules."
He leaned against the counter like he was about to explain chores.
"Rule one," he said. "If the walls start whispering, don't whisper back."
"Rule two," his mother added from the stove, "if something knocks three times at night, no it didn't."
"Rule three," the father continued, "never follow voices that sound like people you miss."
Carrie's stomach tightened.
"Rule four," Casey's mom said, pointing a spoon at Carrie now, "if Casey tells you to run, you run. Don't argue. Don't ask questions."
Casey lifted a finger. "And rule five—"
His parents said it with him.
"—don't touch the sword."
Carrie stared. "…What happens if I touch the sword?"
The lights flickered.
Everyone went very still.
Casey gently took her hand and moved it away from the wall.
"We find you a new timeline," he said dryly. "And nobody wants the paperwork."
There was a long pause.
Then Casey's mom slid a mug of hot chocolate across the counter toward Carrie.
"You're safe here," she said again, softer this time. "Eat. Drink. Breathe."
Carrie wrapped her hands around the mug. They were shaking.
"…You deal with this every day?"
Casey shrugged.
"Most days," he said.
"Today was supposed to be a date."
Casey climbed the stairs and shut his bedroom door behind him.
The house went quiet.
He let out a long breath and rubbed his face.
"That's another one," he muttered. "Saved."
He crossed the room and sat at his desk. One drawer slid open. Inside was a folded sheet of paper, worn at the edges.
A list.
Names filled it. Some crossed out. Some circled. Some left untouched.
He found the one he was looking for.
Carrie White.
Casey picked up his pencil and drew a single line through it.
Done.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
"Alright," he said to no one.
"Now how the hell do I deal with her mother."
The house creaked softly, like it was listening.
Somewhere below, a floorboard shifted.
Casey closed his eyes.
"Yeah," he sighed. "Thought so."
Casey sat up and pulled another sheet from the drawer.
This one wasn't a list.
It was a rule.
Written in his own handwriting, ink pressed deep into the paper.
Rule Zero:
I do not kill humans.
He stared at it for a moment.
Not because he doubted it.
Because he remembered why it existed.
Monsters didn't count.
Things from the dark didn't count.
Things that wore faces and fed on fear didn't count.
Humans did.
Even the broken ones.
Especially the broken ones.
Casey tapped his pencil against the desk.
"Margaret White," he muttered.
Killing her would be easy. Too easy.
One thought. One flick of will. Heart stops. Brain shuts down. No pain.
That wasn't the problem.
The problem was that Margaret didn't see herself as a monster.
She thought she was righteous.
You couldn't fight that with force.
You couldn't scare it.
You couldn't reason with it.
Religious monsters didn't break when you threatened them.
They thanked God for the suffering.
Casey leaned back in his chair.
"Alright," he said quietly. "So what actually stops you?"
He started counting on his fingers.
"Prison won't work. She'd turn it into a pulpit."
"Therapy won't work. She'd call it temptation."
"Confrontation won't work. She'd martyr herself."
He sighed.
"You don't remove her by attacking her faith."
He opened another drawer.
Inside was a thin folder labeled: Containment.
"You remove her by taking away the damage she can do."
Casey nodded slowly as the plan formed.
Protect Carrie.
Expose the abuse.
Let the system do the dirty work.
Not jail.
Institutions.
Psych holds.
Protective services.
Court orders.
Places where God didn't talk back.
"She won't repent," Casey said. "But she will be contained."
He closed the folder.
"Sorry, Margaret," he muttered.
"You don't get to hurt her anymore."
The pencil moved again.
Status: Removed Without Casualties
Casey leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
"This," he said tiredly,
"is why I don't kill humans."
Outside, the wind rattled the trees.
Somewhere far away, something that liked screaming children felt a piece of the board disappear.
And it did not like that.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the house—
Warm water ran steadily into the tub.
Casey's mother, Miss Clara, worked slowly, carefully, like she was afraid of breaking something already cracked. Her hands were gentle as she washed the last of the dried blood from Carrie's hair.
Red water swirled down the drain.
"I think that's all of it," Clara said softly.
Carrie didn't answer. She just nodded.
Clara paused.
She frowned—not in anger, but in concern. "What's wrong, sweetie?"
The word sweetie hit harder than the blood ever did.
Carrie flinched.
"N-nothing," she said quickly, eyes dropping to the water.
Clara noticed.
Of course she did.
But she didn't push.
She simply poured more warm water over Carrie's shoulders, letting it rinse away the soap, the blood, the night.
"That's okay," Clara said quietly. "You don't have to talk."
She picked up a clean towel and held it ready.
"We'll take things slow here," she added. "No rush. No yelling. No… tests."
Carrie's hands trembled beneath the water.
"…I'm not in trouble?" she whispered.
Clara's chest tightened.
"No," she said firmly. "You're safe."
For a long moment, Carrie didn't move.
Then—very carefully—she leaned forward and rested her forehead against Clara's arm.
Just for a second.
Clara stayed perfectly still.
She didn't pull away.
She didn't say anything.
She just let her stay.
And for the first time that night, Carrie started to cry—not loud, not screaming—but quiet, shaking sobs that felt like they'd been waiting years to come out.
Clara wrapped the towel around her shoulders.
"It's alright," she murmured.
"I've got you."
The house creaked softly, like it agreed.
The water was turned off.
Steam lingered in the air, curling around the bathroom light. Clara wrapped the towel a little tighter around Carrie's shoulders and helped her step out of the tub.
Carrie stood there, small and shaking, staring at the floor like it might open up beneath her.
Clara handed her a clean shirt. Soft. Too big.
"You can sit if you want," Clara said. "Or stand. Either's fine."
Carrie hesitated, then sat on the edge of the tub.
Minutes passed.
Clara moved quietly, cleaning up, giving space. She didn't watch. She didn't hover.
Carrie's voice finally came, barely louder than the dripping tap.
"She said it was my fault."
Clara froze for half a second.
Then she kept moving.
"For…?" Clara asked gently.
Carrie swallowed. "Everything."
Her fingers twisted in the towel. "If I was good enough. Quiet enough. Clean enough. God wouldn't be angry."
Clara set the towel down very carefully.
"And when something bad happened," Carrie continued, eyes fixed on nothing, "it meant I failed again."
Silence filled the room.
Clara knelt in front of her so they were eye level.
"That's not how any of this works," she said softly. No anger. No edge. Just fact.
Carrie shook her head. "She said love hurts. That it's supposed to."
Clara's jaw tightened.
Not visibly. Not dramatically.
But something settled in her eyes.
"No," she said. "Love protects."
Carrie blinked at her.
Clara reached out, slow enough that Carrie could pull away if she wanted to.
Carrie didn't.
Clara brushed a damp strand of hair behind her ear. "No one gets to hurt you and call it faith."
Carrie's voice cracked. "Am I… bad?"
Clara didn't answer right away.
She placed both hands on Carrie's shoulders, firm and steady.
"No," she said. "You're hurt."
Carrie's breath hitched.
Behind the bathroom door, down the hall—
Casey stood still.
He hadn't meant to listen.
He hadn't meant to stop.
But he did.
And he heard everything.
He didn't react.
Didn't clench his fists.
Didn't say a word.
He simply turned away when Clara spoke again.
"You're staying," Clara said quietly. Not a question. A decision.
"As long as you need."
Carrie looked up at her, eyes wide. "She'll come for me."
Clara's expression didn't change.
"No," she said. "She won't."
Carrie searched her face, like she was waiting for the punishment that always followed certainty.
It didn't come.
Clara smiled instead. Small. Certain.
"Not anymore."
Down the hall, Casey walked back to his room.
He closed the door softly.
He didn't go to his desk.
Didn't open the list.
Didn't add notes.
He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the floor.
'Confirmed,' he thought.
That was all.
Outside, the wind shifted direction.
And somewhere far away, a woman prayed louder than usual—
not knowing why the night suddenly felt colder.
To be continued
Hope people like this Ch here and give me power stones