Chapter 7: Short Bad Ending

👉 Previous Decision: You chose Option A – Dispatch a standard county patrol unit to check 1442 Old Furnace Road immediately and ignore the supernatural line glitch.

Maeve’s fingers hovered over the console, the phantom voice still whispering in her ear. Silas Lawson stood behind her, his breath warm on her neck.

“Send O’Donnell,” she said, her voice flat. “Routine check. Possible prank call.”

Silas nodded once, his eyes still holding a question she couldn’t answer. He turned to the main console, confirming the dispatch.

Deputy Marcus O’Donnell’s cruiser rolled through the gates of 1442 Old Furnace Road. On Maeve’s monitor, Julian was still in the entryway, the two process servers standing patiently. He looked up as the cruiser lights pulsed through the windows.

O’Donnell approached the front door, his hand resting on his sidearm. Julian opened it, a calm, almost serene look on his face.

He gestured for O’Donnell to come inside. The deputy hesitated for a moment, then stepped over the threshold.

Julian’s lawyers, a pair Maeve didn’t recognize, moved forward. They handed O’Donnell a stack of papers.

The deputy read through the documents, his posture stiffening with each page. He looked from Julian to the lawyers, then back to the house.

O’Donnell’s radio crackled. Maeve heard his voice confirm her employee ID.

“Dispatcher Hollister,” he said, his tone devoid of personal warmth. “I have a civil commitment order here, citing your history of substance abuse and alleged hallucinations over 911 lines.”

Maeve felt the air leave her lungs. Her past, a two-year fog of prescription pills, had been weaponized.

“I’m sober,” she managed to whisper into the headset.

“The order states you’re experiencing delusions,” O’Donnell continued, ignoring her. “Due to your past, protocol dictates immediate suspension.”

Silas moved to Maeve’s side, his hand on her shoulder. His face was a mask of sympathy.

“Maeve,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. They’re already on their way up here.”

Two officers Maeve didn’t know entered the dispatch room. They moved with an efficiency that suggested they’d done this before.

“Maeve Hollister,” one said. “You’re to be escorted off the premises.”

She took off her headset, the phantom voice silenced. The room swam.

As she was led out, past the blaring screens and flashing lights, she saw Silas’s pained expression. The world outside the dispatch center felt cold and unforgiving.

By sunrise, the county clerk’s office processed a quick transfer. Julian, unopposed, signed over the Hollister House title to an offshore shell company. Maeve, still reeling, knew nothing of the ancient deed or the true source of the spectral calls. Her career, her home, her truth—all were gone.