The Gilbert Journals

by bunnyflakes

Summary:

Grayson Gilbert hides a terrible secret, it's up to Elena and Jeremy to uncover what it is before it's too late.

Except they can't find out which secret matters most.

Chapter 1: my name is elena gilbert

My name is Elena Gilbert.

There is no one story, not here. There’s too many interconnecting lives involved. Even my life as a doppelganger is inconsequential when compared to the entire history of everyone that’s led me to this moment. My death.

But in hindsight, we are all prey to what has already been done before. 

There’s another doppelganger. Tom. I think we were both EMT’s at the same time, once. When he lived in Toronto and I was back in San Diego. It’s funny how different magics worm their way around with each other. Silas. Inadu. Cade. Grayson. It’s funnier how Tom was just- 

- fine.

Nothing weird with him. Nothing out of the ordinary. No unnecessary deaths outside of his own.

There are days I envy him for not knowing magic, then there are ones where I feel sorry. 

It doesn’t matter. None of it does. We’re all just convinced that there’s some brighter force out there acting either as a guiding hand or ruthless punisher. In the end, the only thing that reflects from the sky is ourselves. 

My story began when my dad went missing- then ‘died’. News outlet and all. But he wasn’t dead. I knew it. We knew it, Jeremy and I. A witch once told me that magic always came with a cost, that ‘the balance’, whatever that fucking means, must always be protected. But I’ve known suffering. Lived it. Breathed it, at one point. And no cost is ever too high. Ever. 

My story is simple. It’s always been simple. It starts with one phrase:

Family above all. 

 

---

 

All we know about the mysterious disappearance of the Father of Modern Medicine

Dr. Grayson Gilbert, Nobel Peace Prize winner and founder of Gilded Lines, a pharmaceutical company specializing in manufacturing and selling the first and only cure for dementia, was confirmed missing on May 28 after a leak was brought out none-other than his own son, Jeremy Gilbert, in reddit post at r/GetItOffMyChest. Dr. Gilbert’s family was confirmed to have last seen him on April 09, police said. “I’d suggest Mr. Gilbert to stay in line and contact the authorities as requested,” said SDPD Chief, Logan Holffstead- referencing Dr. Gilbert’s son’s post. No other comments were made from authorities or Gilded Lines' legal team. more on page 5. 

The Gilbert Family in Virginia… p. 30-31

Jeremy Gilbert’s ‘hilarious’ reddit threads… p. 13-17

Dr. Grayson Gilbert, the world's current brightest and most beloved mind... p. 18

Chapter 2: the start of the end

[1]

I hate this- the silence, the sympathy. It reminds me too much of high school. Of Mystic Falls and a full four bedroom house with a giant mahogany table in the dining room. Of whispers and apologetic faces.

“I already knew.” I save my partner from the awkward confrontation by jumping into it first. Seeing a tiny little tv with my dad’s face plastered big on the screen saying, “Dr. Grayson Gilbert: PRESUMED DEAD” wasn’t exactly my idea of a good morning shift. Judging by Romero’s sudden awkwardness, neither was it his. 

“I’m sorry about your dad, Elena.” 

My eyes flush up on their own. I force myself to look out my window. The tears aren’t from grief or sadness. It’s a burning fire that starts from my chest that wants to get out. He’s not dead. 

I nod, crossing my arms and picking at my nails to help me bite my tongue. He’s not dead. “Thank you,” I say.

We found your father’s car by Mt. Laguna, said Holffstead. We need you to come in to confirm his license and belongings.

But they couldn’t find the body. Nothing but a small sample of blood and flesh. 

He takes the next exit and cleared his throat. “Dispatch will understand if you have to leave early.”

“I already told them that I’m taking a two week break,” I say. “Max knows that I won’t be back till after the funeral.” 

He actually looks at me this time, turns his head to the side instead of making brief eye contact through the rear view mirror. I spot sympathy. “Are you guys bringing him back to Virginia?” 

The ambulance’s engine roars loudly to my dull ears, and for a second I thought the windows were down cause of the way my chest tightened up so quickly. “Yeah,” I say. Technically, we’re taking a glossy urn as a placeholder.

“It’s our ancestral home,” I added absentmindedly. “My entire family’s lived there for generations. We have a lake house around the area, too.”

“Did you ever think about going back?” Romero asked, keeping the conversation light. “They’ll do good with your pair of hands.” 

I think of university and my in-progress masters. Happily pre-med, just like my dad- and just like his dad. I’ve been getting emails from all of their colleagues, from the old ones at Mystic Falls to my dad’s convention buddies from Silicon Valley. Then I think of small town Mystic Falls, tucked away in layers of trees and even more trees. Weeks of therapy and a lake underneath a bridge.

“No,” I tell him. “They’ve got enough hands in Mystic Falls.”

[2]

“I don’t understand how you can survive out here.” Jeremy made a face at the receipt before throwing it to the trash.

It feels so surreal having him in my apartment, eating right in front of me. He flew in from Colorado a few days ago. While I never seemed to have gotten older after moving away from our home town, doe eyes and all, Jeremy just kept growing. He’s 25, now— all bulked up with a soft 5’o clock shadow. “How can you pay for this while in minimum wage?” 

I snort. If there’s anything I miss about Virginia, it was the cost of living. Not that I even understood what that meant at the time. But— 

I take a large bite off a bunch of tiny, cute, cubed-shaped strawberries paid by my share of Dad’s inheritance money, suddenly grateful for the 2 bedroom apartment and my fully-paid car.  “Dad.” 

Jeremy is surprised. “You’re using your stash now?” 

“Yeah?” I say the same way one would have said ‘duh?’. “What else am I supposed to do with it?” 

It’s not like it was any problem. We have enough money from our Dad’s work for our grandkids and their grandkid’s grandkids to live comfortably here in San Diego.

Jeremy says nothing and stands, and I’m thankful that he doesn’t comment on my sudden willingness to use my share of the inheritance after weeks of arguments about it. He carefully steps around my hazardous floors, filled with scraps of paper, books, and some of my homework from late nights thinking I’ll pick it back up the next day. I already yelled at him after he smudged up my thesis. 

He looks at the board I had set up, which somehow looked crazier than my floor (I really need to clean up) and says, “I don’t think you should be using his money like this.” 

I know he doesn’t mean the food.

“He’ll be financially stable when he gets back.” He has another account set up for the both of us linked to Gilded Lines revenue and shares, only to be accessed in the event of his death. He has a main account too, I’m pretty sure. Though I don’t really know what banks do in the event one of their account holders die- or be presumed dead, in this case. Our family lawyer, Emily Blake, one of Mom’s good friends from their shared time at Whitmore College, handles all of our financials.

Ugh. I need to get into that.

“Elena,” Jeremy says, “are you even listening to me?”

I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “Say what again?”

Jeremy turns back to the board in lieu of answering. I’ve had multiple theories as to what happened to Dad, most of it from heading up to northern California by the weekends when I’m off work. While Dad knew plenty of people that could hold a grudge because of his work, nevermind Big Pharma, none of my theories were feasible. There was no one with an actual motive to kill him. 

I look at the very top left of the board, a scrapped piece of paper with a random number written on it. It was the same number that started all this, the one that called Jeremy one night in Colorado, telling him that our Dad had been kidnapped, days before he even went missing. Below it was all the information I found from doxxing him.

Jeremy had shrugged the call off, because why wouldn’t he? After Dad published his paper, we’ve been getting all sorts of threats and red herrings. Dad was fine later that day after the call, we even went out to dinner after I had him read my latest research paper. But that phone call was our only lead. The call was too close to the day he went missing, and the events that led up after it was too accurate, too knowing, for it to be ignored. Of course, SDPD thought differently.

“I think we should stop,” he says quietly.

I’m still looking at the phone number, it had “WASHINGTON” pinned right next to it in giant bold red letters. So engrossed that it takes me a second to process what he said. 

“What?” I say, “no.” It was Jeremy who started this whole spiel, looking for clues, for anything, to find out what really happened to our Dad. And now he wants to back out?

Jeremy took a deep breath. “Elena, we haven’t found anything we haven’t known before. People are becoming concerned. It’s been months.”

“I don’t care.” I walk past him to angrily start decluttering my apartment, suddenly feeling a rush of energy burst through me. “There has to be something else we’ve missed. Something from San Francisco, hell- something from Mystic Falls."

Unlike my spending habits, my sudden desire to clean didn’t go unnoticed by Jeremy. He takes a good look around my apartment, suddenly looking older than he actually is, and says, “Elena, look at this place. Look at you. This isn’t healthy.”

I glare at him, unwanted memories of our younger selves coming into mind, back when Jeremy still smoked pot and did who knows what. “Not healthy?” I echo back. A scrap of paper gets crumpled on my hand. In the back of my mind I hoped it wasn’t homework. “Don’t you start,” I warn him. “Not when dad’s still missing.”

I look back to our board in disbelief. He started this, for everyone in the world to see. For some reason I don’t voice this out loud, the thought of actually confronting that weeks of searching, scraping for information, led to nothing, made my stomach churn. Like someone took a hot spatula and decided to stir my insides with it like I was 3-in-1 soup. 

“Using his money for all this, trips to San Fran to take pictures of dad’s old coworkers—”

“You know they know something Jer—”

“Elena,” he says desparately. “You can’t go on like this. We can’t keep relying on Emily to save our PR.”

“I don’t care about my PR.” 

“You know that’s not true,” Jeremy argues, “What about the board? Do you think they’ll let someone with a restraining order become a doctor? You’re seven months away from graduating.”

I shake my head at him, face flushing red. In sadness, grief, anger? I have no idea. But whatever it is it burns in my body, hot and cold all at once. I wanted to scoop it out. I screw my eyes shut. My dad. My dad. The only other person in the world who understood what it’s like to drown. Who loved me despite for murdering his wife.

I don’t understand why he’s changed his mind. I don’t understand how he can.

“Don’t-” I say, but to my embarassment it comes out as a hazardous cry. Jeremy’s firm resolve crumples, breaking at the sight of me crying. It breaks me out of my haze. I get a grip, sniffling hard. “Just— stop.”

Jeremy’s already halfway across the room, arms open for a hug. I try to struggle, angry and sad and hot from the thick jacket he’s wearing in the middle of the fucking summer. But he forces my head down to his shoulder. No, no, no. 

At a point, he stopped supporting me and I held unto him as he bared all his weight down. At a point, there was no telling whose snot was on whose shirt. We were one pillar left standing in the ruins of a majestic citadel, fusing the same way a child would force misshapen pieces of the same puzzle together. 

Later, more to comfort my brother than myself, I clean the rest of my apartment. Jeremy helps as I bregudgingly take down pictures of Dad’s coworkers and of people he knew, William Belknap, Thomas Cox, Amelia Sneider, Lucien Castle— and many others. With each pin getting put down feeling like a betrayal. But as I watch Jeremy’s tense body begin to relax, I found myself finding it easier to breathe. How odd, the way I feel so unstable and structured right next to him. Still, I don’t shred any files away, keeping them all tucked in a box, hidden away in my passenger bag. 

[3]

It’s been 10 years since we moved away from Mystic Falls, six since I’ve last seen it, and the layers of dust in the old Gilbert House is an obvious display of our neglect. There’s a giant spider where my favorite pillow used to be, one that I aggressively wack away with a hairbrush as soon as I placed my bag on the floor. 

My bag falls down with a soft thud, the sound more resonating than I wanted it to be. It breaks me out of the haze I’ve been trapped in for the past few months, and my eyes temporarily widen as I remember why I’m actually here. 

“Aunt Jenna!” I call out for no reason. 

“Yeah?” she calls back out. Jenna rushes up the stairs, strawberry blonde hair tied up to a neat bun. Behind her, I can see her husband- Alaric- hovering in concern. Three-year old Miranda’s tucked in his arms, ginger curls flying everywhere as she slept. I quickly scramble for an excuse. 

“Is the Grill still open?” I ask. 

Jenna’s expression relaxes. “Yeah,” she says. “Actually Elena, I think I saw Caroline with the sheriff across the street. Maybe we could-”

“That’s fine, I’ll call her later.” I smile tightly. “Thanks, I think I’ll just go grab dinner and head to the historical society afterwards.”

If Jenna felt bothered by my rebuke, she was careful not to show it. 

I don’t go to the Grill. Instead, I’m an hour away from my childhood home, tucked inside our family’s old lakehouse. Oddly enough, it looks much neater than the Gilbert home— though I suspect Jeremy’s been using the place as a little getaway. 

I don’t know why I lied to Jenna. Or why I’ve been so distant towards her since we got here. I love her. She came back to Mystic Falls despite working on her degree when Mom passed away, putting her life into a halt just to help out raising Jeremy and I until Dad finally got his head back together. At that point we became closer than ‘aunt and niece’. We became sisters in the way that Bonnie, Caroline, and I desparately tried to become.

Seeing her again— stable, happy, and starting her own family, felt bittersweet. I guess it was just too much to look at her right now. 

Taking a deep breath, I slowly start to organize the entrance hallway in preparation for the two days Dad’s empty coffin would be here before the move to the Gilbert house. 

I start by sweeping the floors, ignoring the frozen happy faces of the whole Gilbert family staring straight back at me from their designated spots in the shelves. Looking at it, the shelves look dusty— I grab a towel next and made it shine with whatever wood primer was left in the garage. But now that the shelves are all shiny, I realize that I need to mop the floor. 

The cupboard under the stairs, where the mop and his lightning bolt scar resides, is jammed. I sigh, contemplating how badly I wanted to do this. 

Another glimpse at the floor tells me I needed to do this badly.  

It takes a while for me to pry the door open—

“Fuck.”

I pried it too hard, parts of the frame hang lowly to the side—

Wait. No. I didn’t break it. 

I frown deeply, what the hell is this? The wall right next to Moppy Potter emitted a soft light by its edges. I squint my eyes and take a peak, my curiousity getting miles ahead of me. There was definitely something on the other side, but the gap was too small to truly make sense of what it was. There was something behind the wall. A room? A safe? Another cupboard?

Grabbing my phone, I was seconds away from calling Jeremy to ask about it when I remembered our argument back in California and decided not to. Instead, I inspect the wall further. And there! By the bottom left of the wall, of what was the corner of the small cupboard, was a little latch. Heart suddenly beating fast, I open the damned thing.

I didn’t know what I was expecting. But it wasn’t this.

Crossbows. Spikes. Stakes. Stakes, for goodness sake, were hung up on the smaller room within the cupboard under the stairs. Along with them were stacks upon stacks of journals, labeled with years starting as early as the 1800s written on the spine of each little notebook. 

“What the hell?” I murmur, grabbing the journal at the very top of the stack. Only for my eyes to significantly widen upon reading the front page. Moving my fingers along the fine print, I suddenly found it more difficult to breathe— from excitement, grief, and hope. 

There, written in regular print because his cursive has always sucked, was my Dad’s hand-writing.

By Grayson Gilbert, 54

Journal #37  

Chapter 3: no rush

[4]

Despite his office being filled with generations of our family’s journals,  Dad was never the writer in the family. 

When I was six years old, mom sat Jeremy and I down in the living room couch and introduced us to the mystical girl, Lorelai Loo. We listened as she craftilly told us about Lorelai’s dearest’s friend’s curse, the dark prince from another world, and the mystical creatures of her own. Naturally, we loved it. It was filled with all the tropes our little brains loved and understood. Later on, it became a hit. Not exactly New York’s best seller, but I still see them in the children’s section at Barnes and Noble. 

Even then, Dad’s ‘Journal 37’, was the antithesis of Lorelai Loo. Dark. Disturbing. And definitely not written for little kids. 

“Do you think Dad had any secret hobbies?” 

Jeremy looks puzzled for a second, but I see the suspicion in his eyes. “Elena, we’ve talked about this.”

I wipe the dish I was washing clean before putting it in the dishwasher. Jenna, Alaric, and Miranda were out at a historical society dinner— one that both Jeremy and I felt reluctant to go to. 

“I know,” I say curtly. Grabbing a wash towell, I dry my hands before I fish out my phone from my bag and grab the journal. “Look, I found something weird at the lakehouse today.” 

That caught his attention. I turn my phone to show him the picture I took of the cupboard after I ransacked it. “Did he ever go hunting? Did he even ever say he liked hunting? — and, this,” I trail off, trying to think of any sort of explanation to what I’ve read so far as I show him the journal. Vampires. Warewolves. And his… ‘experiments’. “It’s like a little lore book,” I settle on. “It’s got all sorts of things, I mean. Things that can’t be true or real—”

“What do you mean?” Jeremy asks slowly, taking the journal from my hands. 

I try to imagine our Dad talking excitedly about vampires the same way he talks about atoms. The image never materializes. Jeremy goes through the pages of the journal. 

“It’s like he’s created a dungeon’s and dragon’s campaign.” I finish lamely.

“Oh yeah,” Jeremy looks up to me from his concentrated look at the journal. “Yeah. D&D.”

I frown. “He played?”

“He was a dungeon’s master,” Jeremy says. 

“What?” I say, “I don’t ever remember him inviting people over—”

“We talked about it a couple of times back in San Fran,” he explains, “He’s asked me to set up his computer so he could stream with his friends in discord. I guess he just never mentioned it to you.”

“Well, I guess. But then why would all this be all the way over here?”

Jeremy pauses. “I don’t know, Elena.”

My frown doesn’t go away, but I know that look on his face. He doesn’t wanna talk about it anymore. He’s hiding something. 

“Right,” I say, grabbing the journal back. 

“Wait.” He doesn’t let go.“I think I spotted some drawings in here. I wanna take a look at it.”

I don’t let go either.  “I-” found it first. “I wanna finish reading it. Look, Jer. I’d give it over after the funeral.”  I finish it off with a smile instead of the glare I badly want to give him. 

Another pause. I can tell he’s not convinced, but he does let go. “Alright,” he concedes, “You promise?”

Dammit. He knows my weaknesses. 

“I promise,” I say reluctantly. 

[5]

#034.A23

Subject 16 non-compliant. Treatment rejected by subject 23 minutes after administration, prompting Code 72. Effects immediate, ultrasound @ 2300 depicts absence of mass on both kidneys. Code 72 remains to be the best treatment for all illnesses. Yet, the lack of progress on #034 is frustrating. Trials for A24 has been pushed back for two months, per Luc’s request. I have another meeting with him at ASHW, state. The kids think I’m off to another convention, and it’s not a lie if it’s partially true. I just need to make sure I’ll bring something back for Jeremy’s birthday, I think kid’s are raving over Sony’s new PS5. 

[6]

It’s raining the day of the funeral. The soft pitter-patter of droplets falling from the sky matched my dwindling mood. It’s like the world decided to match my held breath, the calm before the storm— or in this case, the metamorphical end to my sanity since I’ve started reading dad’s journal. 

The funeral passed by faster than I thought it would, so unlike the drawn-out day of mom’s. We’ve decided to bury the empty casket right next to her, while we keep the glossy urn at the Gilbert house, at least until we actually find the body and give him a place to rest.

If he were actually dead. 

“Hey, ‘lena.” Bonnie’s voice is soft next to me. Caroline is surprisingly quiet. I’m proud of them both. Bonnie’s a TA at Whitmore under Sheila’s guidance, while Caroline just came back to visit her mom after another successful show at NYU. 

I once considered these girls the best chapter of my life, and I knew them like I know Jeremy, like I know the back of my hand. 

We spoke about nothing, and it showed everything. It rained a little harder after that. 

If I locked myself up in my room afterwards, my family spoke nothing of it. 

The next day, I set myself up to a difficult task. I wore one of my old shirts, out of nostalgia or comfort, I’m not exactly sure. The pink has faded long ago, but I saw it while rummaging through my closet after another sleepless night reading the journal. 

Jenna looks at me with sympathy. Jeremy looks like I grew devil horns right in front of him despite my efforts on timing my little announcement as best I can, making sure my brother was in the right mood by giving him dad’s journal before breaking the news. 

“You’re going to where?” he echoes.

“Ohio,” I repeat. “I need a break.”

I’ve rehearsed this conversation a thousand times in my head, although a week ago I had thought Jeremy would be lying with me, right next to me. 

“But to Ohio?”

“Jeremy,” Jenna warns, giving him a stern look. “But your brother has a point, Elena. What brought this on?”

I fiddled with the frays of my henley, uncomfortable. “I need to get away from everything,” I say truthfully. “And Jeremy, I didn’t suddenly decide to fly to Ohio last night—” no matter what he might think “— And before you start about school again, the board already knows I’ll be sending them my thesis and defending it online.”

That seemed to have made him relax, but not less confused. 

“But why Ohio?”

Because I had no reason to be there. 

I shrugged. “I heard it’s nice this time of year.”

“And your job?” Jenna asks timidly. I try not to wince at the implication of her disappointment. 

“I’m switching to 911 once I get back.”

“Well,” Alaric began, “it seems like you’ve got it planned out.”

I send him a grateful smile, glad that somebody in the family was willing to give me the benefit of doubt. 

“It’s only for a few weeks,” I continue, looking Jeremy at the eye. “I’ll be back in San Diego once I get my residency assigned.”

Seemingly satisfied with my response, Jeremy nods. “Fine,” he agrees. Then, softly, “I’ll drive you.”

I give him a weird but amused look. I don’t recall trading places with him as mama bear. Then again, it wasn’t like there’ll be anybody to worry about us in that sort of way ever again. 

Or maybe I was being overtly dramatic. Jenna, Alaric, and Miranda all came with in the drive to the airport. I try not to tremble as Jenna gives me a tight, warm, hug outside the line. 

“I’ll always be here,” she says. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

She’s always been too understanding. 

“I do,” I say confidently. “I love you.”

Jenna smiles, “‘love you too.”

I say the same to Miranda and Jeremy, and gave Alaric a short goodbye hug.

“You’ve got your ticket?” Jeremy asks.

“Yeah,” I answer, absentmindedly waving my ticket. “I’ll see you guys.”

“Be safe in Ohio.”

I tuck my ticket in my pocket and smile, hoping that the ink stating ‘WASHINGTON’ won’t fade into my fingertips for them all to see. “I will.”

[7]

Bonnie 

You’re already gone? 

Elena

I wish I could’ve stayed longer, but I haven’t been feeling good since I got back to Mystic falls. 

Caroline

It’s okay :)) We could always catch up some other time. Though it would’ve been nice if you at least said goodbye before you flew out of state. Again. 

 

I take a deep breath, annoyance ringing through me despite knowing that Caroline probably didn’t mean any harm. Probably. I narrow my eyes as I see her type somethiing out again,

 

Caroline 

Oh!! I have another show in December and I’ve got an extra set of tickets with your names on it. Think you guys will be free? It’s perfect timing for me to show you Central Park and this cute coffee shop I always go to.

Elena

When is it? I’ll block it out.

Caroline 

Dec 13-20!

Bonnie

Saved!

[8]

Despite it all, there’s a part of me that’s afraid I’ve gone too far. It never really wavers, only growing stronger as I stalked dad’s old coworkers and went through files upon files of his spending habits. It’s a lot like that feeling kids get whenever they’re awake and out late at night, a lot of fear, excitement, and shame mixing in— knowing that they’re doing something wrong, but being absolutely helpless about it. 

I’ve never been to Washington till now. 

It’s more quiet than I expected, and it reminded me a lot of the town I’ve just left. It’s both nostalgic and new, and I can’t quite help myself from snapping a couple of random pictures here and there, of the people, the trees, in an effort to encapsulate myself to the feeling. 

“Can I help you?” 

“Hey,” I give the desk-lady a tight-lipped smile. “I’m a friend of Curtis Lancaster. I wanted to give him a surprise visit since I’m around town this week.”

The lady humms and looks back at her monitor before typing away on her keyboard. She shakes her head. “No, there’s no Curtis Lancaster here.”

I frown. That can’t be right. “He lives at the 8th floor,” I elaborate, “Room 819.”

The lady gives me the stink eye, “Listen, girlie. I’ve worked here for a whole decade and I’ll let you know that there’s nobody named Lancaster here.”

“But—”

The lady slides her window shut, not that it was any use. I knock at it aggressively, “you do know this is glass, right?” I huff out. “Hey!”

“Is there a problem here?” the local security man asks, he and hag share a look. 

I back off the window, but not without giving her a final glare. “No,” I answer. “No problem.”

“You looking for someone?” he continues.

“Curtis Lancaster?” I ask hopefully. The man shakes his head. 

“You must’ve gotten the wrong address,” he says. “You can check the next building.” He holds the door wide open and gives me a pointed look. 

“R-right,” I stammered. “Thanks.”

[9]

Gideon’s never one to close a door on a sweet girl. 

“Can I help you?” He asks politely. 

“Hello, I’m Elena.” Oh— and it helps that she’s beautiful; brown curls, doe eyes, and a lithe frame. She looks a little awkward, repeatedly playing with her hands, stance unsure. She keeps looking behind him, as if expecting to see someone else. Though, she does seem to be Curtis’ age. “I’m-uh. I’m a little lost. I’m a friend of Curtis from college.”

Gideon opens his door wider, “I figured.”

She nods enthusiastically, smile never wavering. She relaxes. “Yeah, we have linguistics together. My phone,” she grimaces, putting up a shattered Iphone for him to see, “I broke it on the way to the falls. I’ve never been to this side of town and I don’t really know anyone else from here—”

“You know Curtis.” Gideon stops her rambling. God, bless the young and their fumbling. He opens the door fully. “Curt!” He yells out, “You’ve got a visitor!” 

There’s a ruffled ‘yeah?’ before some steps walking around from the second floor.

“Thank you,” she breathes, shuffling inside. “Thank you.” 

Gideon shrugs, “Eh. Just don’t make too much of a noise when it gets going.” He winks at her. Elena laughs, seemingly charmed. “Do you want anything? Water?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” Elena says. “Actually, coffee sounds great right now.”

“Coffee,” Gideon mutters, his cane clacks as he throttles towards the kitchen. While he was there, Gideon grabbed his favorite tea. “Hey Curt! You want some coffee?!”

“You don’t have to yell,” Curtis’ sighs as he walked down the stairs. He’s young, 23, with a wild tuff of orange hair on his head. “You’re gonna wake—”

“Wake who?” Gideon asks, oblivious to Curtis’ sudden abruptness. “It’s my house!” He continues, “I can be as loud as I like, I don’t care about Sofya or Dennis’ sleep! They should’ve came home earlier instead of being out doing who knows who!” He snorts, “or each other.” 

Elena doesn’t laugh in that pretty-chime sound again. In fact, it’s gone awfully quiet outside his kitchen door. Gideon quickly grabs the mug and puts in instant coffee for the girl before taking a peak outside. He snorts at the look on Curt’s face, “you alright, lad?”

“Is that my coffee?” Elena gracefully moves towards him to grab her mug. She offers him another sweet smile before cheekily placing a soft kiss on his cheek. “Thank you.”

Gideon laughs. “Oh dear! You’re very welcome.”

Elena beams. “Curtis, do you mind showing me around town? Maybe the nearest best buy?”

“I- I don’t know,” he stammers. 

 “He’d do it,” Gideon says. “Go! You never go outside.”

“I think Sofya wanted me to drive her to school today.”

“I can do that, ” Gideon shoots him a look. Dear Curtis has been alone for far too long, and Gideon knows better than to let an opportunity pass by despite his old age. “We can’t have Elena  out here in the town all by herself. Besides, you guys can go catch up on homework.” He sends them both an exagerated wink. 

“We do have a lot of those,” Elena confirms, eyes never leaving Curtis’. “This is the perfect time to catch up, I need to polish my bulgarian.”

“I’m not really good at that,” Curtis said. 

“He’s being humble,” Elena said charmingly, giving Gideon another sweet smile. “He’s second in class to another friend of ours. Her name’s Katherine.”

“What are you talking about, Katherine?” Curtis asked harshly.

“Curt,” Gideon claps the younger man in the back, giving his shoulder a tight squeeze. He frowned at the feel of his tense shoulders. “Curtis here doesn’t like being called second-best, Elena.”

Elena laughs, sheepish. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

Curtis looks at Gideon suddenly, as if only comprehending then that he’s there. “Right,” he says. “Right, right. Elena? Elena.” 

Elena laughs again. “That’s me.”

“Okay,” Curtis says, shrugging off Gideon’s arm from his shoulders. “Okay. We can go.”

Notes:

Hello everyone, I'm really sorry for the late update. My dad unironically passed away in real life as I was writing this. No worries! I plan on continuing- I hope! Anyway, this chapter's a little dry, but I promise that it will all pick up quickly.

Chapter 4: the smell of fear

[10]

Eight years ago.

“Elena,” Hayes said softly. “Your father is getting worried.”

“He’s always worried,” I said. “What makes now any different?”

Hayes sighed, her expression a mix of sympathy and concern. "Elena, your father has noticed some changes in your behavior lately. He's concerned about how you're coping with everything."

I leaned back in my chair, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. "I'm fine," I insisted, my voice betraying the turmoil inside me. "I'm just dealing with a lot right now."

Hayes nodded, her gaze steady. "I understand, Elena. But keeping everything bottled up isn't healthy. It's okay to talk about what you're feeling."

“Then why can’t he be here to talk to me himself?” I argued. “I go here— to his office, twice a week, once to see you and a second time for a follow up, and I rarely even see him. And you’re telling me he’s worried about my feelings?”

Hayes sighed again, her eyes filled with understanding. "I know it's difficult, Elena. Your father has a lot on his plate, and sometimes he may not express his concerns in the best way."

I huff and cross my arms.“Or in any way,” I mutter angrily. “I’m fine. I don’t understand the point in all this.”

Hayes leaned forward, her expression gentle yet firm. "Elena, I know this is overwhelming, but discussing your adoption and your feelings is important for your well-being. Ignoring your emotions won't make them go away."

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, feeling a mix of frustration and vulnerability from her gaze. "I don't see the point," I said. "What good does it do to talk about something that can't be changed?"

"It's not about changing the past, Elena," Hayes explained patiently. "It's about understanding how this revelation is affecting you and finding healthy ways to process your emotions."

I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Which handbook did you get that from?”

That earned me another sigh. 

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s switch gears.” I watch, cautiously, as my therapist revealed an album from her desk. “What would you like to know about your birth parents?”

“Besides the fact that my dad’s my uncle?” I deadpanned.

“Your mother,” she clarified. “Your mother, Isobel Flemming, on the night you were born, gave birth to twins.”

I hummed. “I already know this.”

Hayes’ lip twitched. “You’re not at all curious about your sister?” she asked.

“I’m pretty sure there’s a HIPPA violation there somewhere,” I looked at her straight in the eyes. “And my mother’s name is Miranda.”

Hayes’ nodded. “Right, well. Your birth parent, Isobel, told your parents it was fine to tell you about Katherine once the time was right.”

“Which is somehow after mom’s death?” I narrowed my eyes, “they never bothered to tell me anything before then?”

“Your mother,” Hayes’ paused. “Maybe she had her reasons, maybe she thought your relationship with her would change after you found out.” She shook her head, “that doesn’t change the fact that there’s someone out there that looks just like you. Doesn’t that bother you at all?”

I shrugged, “it’s not like I’d ever see her, now, will I?”

[11]

From what I knew, there’s nothing special about Curtis Lancaster. There’s a two year gap between his freshman year at the local community college from when he graduated high school, time he spent on the road travelling across the country before settling in to his major. He barely posts anything in social media— but that’s where I found her. 

It was a blurred photo of Curtis in a bar, presumably during his 21st birthday. I wouldn’t even have known Katherine was in the picture if I didn’t know what I looked like from the back, half a body in view with a hand on my curls. Or her curls, since it wasn’t me in the photo.

But it’s not regret I see in Curtis’ eyes. It’s fear. 

The drive is silent. I don’t really have a place in mind, I’m sure he knows. His leg continued to bounce nervously since he went in my car. 

“What do you know about Grayson Gilbert?”

Curtis blinks, surprised. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. I don’t know a Grayson Gilbert.”

“You called my brother, Jeremy,” I accuse, heart hammering. My eyes are focused in the road, knuckles white from holding the steering wheel too tightly. “Days later, my dad, Grayson Gilbert, goes missing. A week later, people are telling me he’s dead— that he died.”

I pull over and stop the car by an open field, it jerks violently. Curtis quickly unbuckles his seatbelt, hauling himself out of the car after throwing the door open. 

Maybe I shouldn’t have stopped the car. I quickly get unbuckled and get out of the car, speeding up towards him. 

“Listen, I just want to talk!” I bring both of my hands up in surrender. “It was you. You called Jeremy to warn him, you knew what was going on. Was he here? My dad? Did he meet up with Katherine?”

“Meet up with Katherine?” Curtis echoes. He goes still, I watch as he takes in a very deep breath. Suddenly, his entire demeanor changes. “You’re not Katherine.” He says decisively. 

I shook my head, “No.” It felt wrong, somehow, to impersonate my sister even further than I already have. “I told you, I’m Elena.” 

“That’s impossible,” he says. “You- you look just like her.”

“We’re twins,” I say simply. I turn around to my car, grabbing the print-out of my dad’s face and my journal that contained all the information that I’ve gathered so far from the glove box. 

My mistake. 

It all happened so quickly. One moment, I had my back turned towards Curtis, the next, I was being squished between him and the harsh metal curve of the hyundai I had rented out. I gasped, eyes wide. I fish out my pepper spray from my back pocket but he slaps it away with a strength I had doubted his skinny-self would have. 

His eyes darkened. I watch, horrified, as the skin under his eyes began to writhe, the color of his irises began to bleed. His mouth widening, revealing sharp canines. 

Impossible. 

It was all impossible. 

“Human,” he growled. 

There was no way. 

“Curtis,” I breath out. His right hand quickly curls up around my neck. “Curtis,” I gasp, “I just- I just wanted to talk.”

There was no way.

There was no fucking way this was actually happening. 

I scream as he launches his mouth directly to my neck, sharp canines breaking against skin. But as quickly as he bit into me, he quickly staggers away, hissing. My blood sizzled against his mouth, and I squeeze the area where he bit me tightly. I’m going to pass out.

My dad’s journals. His fucking d’n’d campaign. They were true. They were all true. 

Our eyes met, his mouth still bloody. And then he disappears. 

[12]

#046.A23

Subject is still non-compliant. Treatment rejected by subject immediately after administration, prompting Code 72. Effects immediate. I worry for A24. My meeting with Luc didn’t go as well as I thought. The system wants it soon, we fear it’s not yet ready.  But I can see him starting to cave, he’s getting desparate. I think he’s starting to believe what his witch told him about the sirelines. He’s starting to push about getting more E72, I keep telling him that we have enough supply for a whole human’s lifetime— and getting more will only lead to our team getting complacenct. I’ve done enough for the family legacy, our debt has been paid. It’s time for me to leave before my actual family gets hurt. 

May God forgive me for what I’ve done, and what I’m about to do. 

 

Chapter 5: beginning of dawn

Notes:

Ha! I'm alive!

[13]

One of the perks of working in emergency healthcare is in the event that someone gets punctured in the neck, causing an arterial bleed and possible bacterial infection, is knowing everything that could possibly go wrong with the patient and doing everything possible to stop them from dying.

Is that a perk? That should be a perk, I think. 

What’s not a perk is actually being the patient.

I have a hand grasped onto my open wound, the other furiously looking for something to compress my neck with. I’m not sure how much blood I’ve lost, but from experience I could tell it’s about half a liter— and that volume is growing fast. I find a tie hidden underneath the passenger chair, and I quickly tear off my shirt to create a make-shift gauze pad I can wrap my neck around with. My heart is pumping quick, faster than it had when I first did CPR. 

I need to go to a hospital.

— And tell them what?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I slam the door of my car shut, quickly turning it on and speeding away from what could have been my murder-scene. Not even the beautiful view of the western forest can help calm me down. Luckily for me, I have experience with blasting through the backroads during high stakes scenarios.  

It’s when I’m back to my rented motel when I realize that something’s wrong. Or really, something for me has gone very right. It shouldn’t be possible, but I’ve stopped bleeding. 

I hurry myself into the bathroom, and look at my neck. My reflection stares back, wide-eyed and trembling. It’s a bloodied mess, parts of it has already clotted. But— now that I’m thinking about it, I’m not in pain.  I tug at the makeshift bandage, breath catching in my throat. There’s blood everywhere—my collarbone, my chest, even dried in the curls framing my face. But when I touch the spot—

There’s no pain. No tear. Just skin.

“What the hell…”

I lean closer, hands braced on the sink. My heart is still hammering, but it’s got nowhere to go now. I wipe the mess away, rinsing off congealed blood in the rusted faucet water. It stings out of habit, but there's no burn.

I tilt my chin up.

The wound is gone.

Not healing. Not scabbing. Just… gone.

Had I imagined it all? No, I’m too much of a bloodied mess for it not to have happened. Still, I grab my phone and snap photos of myself for good measure, looking through where the wound should be by zooming into my neck. 

I decide to do what any sane person would.

I take a shower and immediately go to bed after. 

[14]

I wake up to the startling realization that last night wasn’t a dream, and that Jeremy had lied. 

The bite mark may be gone, but the memory isn’t. I can still feel the ghost of it—his hand on my throat, the heat of blood leaving my body, the way the world tilted and narrowed until it was just teeth and survival instinct.

I sit up too quickly. No vertigo. No weakness. My body feels...wrong. Not aching, not sore—fine.

Too fine.

I glance around the motel room, half-expecting Curtis to be standing in the corner, ready to finish what he started. But it’s empty. Just the buzz of bad lighting and the crinkle of motel sheets.

My phone is dead.
Figures.

I find myself staring at the mirror, watching my reflection, half expecting for the girl at the other side to jump and go, “Haha! Got you!” but it never happened. Instead, I fumble through the pages of my dad’s journal, trying to make sense of what happened. 

The only lead I’ve got is that it has to have something to do with E72. It was the only thing in the journal that mildly had something to do with medicinal properties. What was it? Did he make some kind of breakthrough that allowed for fast-human healing? 

Why was it in her? Why had it activated now? Why not when she got scrapes or bruises, or that occassional fever brought by covid?

The only thing I know for sure is that something in me has changed. And whatever E72 is, it’s the only thread I’ve got.

I flip back to the page where my dad mentioned it—“E72: stable in Subject A24. Requires further testing. No signs of rejection post-incident.”

Incident?

I scan the margins for notes. There’s a line in his shorthand—one I don’t recognize at first. I trace it slowly.

“Activation tied to high-stress trauma. External threat required. Latent until triggered.”

Latent. Waiting.

I go back to the creaky motel chair, pressing the back of my hand to my neck again. The skin is smooth. Untouched. I remember what it felt like when he bit me—my blood on his teeth. And then the way he recoiled.

My blood burned him.

What the hell did my father put in me?

I snap a photo of the page, just in case. Then I search my phone—E72, Gilbert Labs, anything with a whisper of relevance. Most of it’s blank science-speak, buried behind medical patents or government-locked PDFs. I try cross-referencing with keywords from the journal: A24. Subject line testing. I even try Luc.

That’s when something pings back.

A ghost website. Unlisted. Archived. But there’s a page—half-corrupted—that mentions a Lucian Castle, private contractor for “regulatory testing,” under a company I’ve never heard of. One that folded ten years ago after multiple ethical complaints.

Lucian Castle? I feel the ground shift under me. That’s as close as another lead as I could get.

I screenshot it all. I start a new note in my phone, title it Curtis, Jeremy, Luc, E72. Then I write under it:

• What did Jeremy know?
• What was Dad trying to cure or create?
• Why did Curtis call Jeremy first?
• Was Katherine involved?
• Why did my blood burn him?

[15]

There’s something people don’t talk about wild goose chases; the anticipation of something to come. 

Not the hope of finding answers, but the creeping certainty that whatever you uncover is going to change everything.

You chase shadows long enough, and eventually, they start chasing you back.

A24 must be something my dad created, something he feared. E72 was something he either created earlier and took  or something he slowly cultivated and used.

E72… that was the seed. A24 was what grew from it. Maybe he thought he could control it.  But if it needed trauma to activate—if it needed blood and fear and survival to wake up—

Then it wasn’t medicine. It was something else.

A weapon.

I inhale sharply and turn back to my MacBook, staring at the grainy photo of Lucian Castle. CEO of Kingmaker Land Development Inc. He’s younger than I expected—angular jaw, dark hazel eyes, the kind of face that would’ve been on a GQ cover if the lighting hit right. Unmarried. Private.
His family’s owned the company for over two decades. But there’s no public connection to medicine, biotech, or pharmacology. I even check through my student account at my university’s scholarly search for any hits.
No patents. No research grants.
Nothing.

Which means whatever my dad was involved in…
It wasn’t legal.
Or it wasn’t supposed to be found.

The company is a real estate empire. Commercial land, upscale housing developments, the occasional shell company no one questions too closely.

On the surface, he’s squeaky clean. A golden boy. But I’ve worked in emergency care. I know how easy it is to hide rot beneath a polished surface.
Especially when everyone wants to believe you’re saving lives.

With a sigh, I book myself a flight to the current heart of their company—  New Orleans.