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Location: Tanglewood Street House
It started like any other hunt.
The GIGGS crew had piled into the van with the usual chaotic energy, caffeine-fueled confidence buzzing through their veins. Grian was already halfway into the equipment locker, elbows deep in gear, wrestling for the best flashlight. Scar, his ever-present grin flashing under the brim of his crooked hat, was fiddling with his shoes like tightening the laces could somehow make him ghost-proof. Gem sat cross-legged on the bench, laughing at something Skizz had said—probably another terrible pun—while Skizz himself loudly debated whether today was a "salt first" or "smudge first" type of day.
Impulse stood near the whiteboard, brow furrowed in thought, scanning the objective list with a careful eye. He felt the subtle thrum of nerves in his chest—the good kind, the kind that came from teamwork and adrenaline, not fear.
Everything felt normal.
Even when they arrived at Tanglewood, everything still felt routine. Their shoes crunched against the gravel, casual and confident. The air was cool but not biting. A sleepy, suburban street stretched behind them, bathed in soft lamplight. It was almost cozy.
Tanglewood was the smallest, safest map. The one they always used for warm-ups. It had nothing left to surprise them.
Or so they thought.
They split up without needing to discuss it—Grian and Gem to the basement, Scar and Skizz moving toward the garage, Impulse taking the bedrooms with a thermometer in one hand and an EMF reader in the other. Everything was second nature by now: check door handles for fingerprints, scan mirrors for breath, flick lights strategically to bait ghost events.
The early signs were textbook. A flickering light here. A sudden cold spot there. A faint puff of breath against the hallway mirror. Standard fare.
And then things changed.
Impulse was the first to get a full reading—freezing temps near the bathroom. He called it in, voice steady over the comms.
“Freezing temps. Hallway. EMF three.”
“Copy that,” Grian’s voice crackled back. “We’ll bring the book.”
But something in the air shifted. Subtle at first—like stepping into a room that had just been vacated, the lingering breath of something unseen. The kind of wrongness you only noticed because instinct, not logic, told you to run.
The first event was subtle. A whisper against the back of Impulse’s ear. Not a groan or static burst—the usual ghostly nonsense—but a soft, wordless lullaby. Humming.
Impulse whipped around. No one there. His heart skipped in his chest.
He reported it, trying to sound casual, but the momentary pause on comms was telling.
“Banshee vibes?” Grian offered. “Maybe it’s just into you, buddy.”
Impulse chuckled weakly, shaking off the goosebumps rising on his arms. Just the usual weirdness. Right?
Wrong.
Minutes later, it escalated.
As he walked down the hallway, every single light he passed blew out—one after the other, synchronized. Not random flickers. Not temperamental wiring. Controlled. Intentional. Like a trail of breadcrumbs leading straight to him.
Gem’s voice came sharp and low. “That’s Demon behavior. Aggressive. Targeted. But it’s early…”
Scar grunted, glancing at the sanity board. “Guys, look at this.”
Impulse’s sanity was tanking. Way below the others.
“It’s targeting you,” Skizz muttered, glancing at the sanity board. “Look at your drop compared to the rest of us.”
And then came the first hunt.
Panic scrambled them into action. Grian dove into the nearest closet with a thud. Scar threw himself behind the dining room table. Skizz and Gem bolted for the garage, slamming the door behind them.
Impulse didn’t get a chance.
The ghost spawned—right beside him.
But it didn’t kill him.
It didn’t even attack.
It walked. Slowly. Deliberately. Close enough that he could feel the icy breath brushing his neck. It circled him once, like a predator sniffing at its prey.
Then it wandered off.
The hunt ended.
No one else had even seen the ghost.
“You good, man?” Grian asked, panting over the radio. “It didn’t even look at us.”
Impulse nodded, though his hands were shaking. “Yeah. Weird, but—fine.”
Except it wasn’t fine.
The next hunt came faster. Meaner.
This time, the ghost sprinted—and every sprint led straight to him. It didn’t matter where he hid. Didn’t matter how quiet he was. It found him. Every time.
But it never killed him.
It just hovered. Smiling.
Waiting.
It wasn’t acting like one ghost.
It was acting like three.
Banshee for the lullaby. Demon for the relentless fury. Deogen for the impossible precision.
They gathered in the van, breathless and silent, gear abandoned around them.
“It’s a Mimic,” Skizz said eventually, voice low.
Gem nodded, face pale. “But I’ve never seen one mimic three types at once. And only go after one person.”
“It’s locked onto you, Impulse,” Grian said grimly. “Like it’s studying you.”
Impulse stared at the monitor. The windows of the house glowed faintly. His reflection in the glass looked small. Vulnerable.
“I don’t think it wants to kill me,” he whispered. “I think it wants to be me.”
And somewhere inside the house, the lullaby began again.
No one spoke.
The soft hum drifted from the house in steady waves, impossible to pinpoint but somehow always there. It wormed its way into the van, past the locked doors, past logic, past comfort. Like a memory you never made but couldn’t forget.
Impulse sat on the edge of the bench, elbows on knees, hands clasped tight. He was trying to regulate his breathing, but the longer they stayed, the more the feeling grew—the wrongness pressing against his ribs like a second heartbeat.
“It’s still in there,” Skizz said softly, glancing at the monitor. “Roaming, but not hunting.”
“But look at this,” Gem said, pointing at the sound sensor readout. “It’s not just moving. It’s following his route. The same pattern Impulse walked in the first five minutes.”
“Repeating it?” Scar asked. “Like—like it’s practicing?”
“No,” Grian said, unusually quiet. “Like it’s mirroring.”
Impulse’s stomach twisted into a knot.
It wasn’t just copying him.
It was learning him.
Gem chewed her lip. “Mimics copy ghost types. Not people. They don’t latch onto a single target like this. And it’s not even using other identities. Just Demon, Banshee, Deogen—back and forth. Over and over. It’s like it found what it wanted and now it’s perfecting it.
“You,” Grian said grimly, “are the template.”
The radio crackled to life.
But no one had touched it.
A voice came through.
Impulse…
A voice slurred his name—wrong at first, then clearer.
Impu lsseee…
Impulse’s blood ran cold.
“That’s not one of us,” he whispered.
“Nope,” Skizz muttered. “That’s the house.”
“It’s calling you,” Grian said, horror tightening his features.
________________________________________________
Despite everything, they went back inside.
They needed proof. Needed closure.
Impulse didn’t want to. Every step toward the front door felt like walking into a trap.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the lights died.
Impulse’s flashlight buzzed once and died. Darkness swallowed them.
In that blackness, he heard it: breathing. But not near him. Inside him.
The hunt didn’t begin like normal. It didn’t manifest immediately. No groan. No shriek.
Just him—and the thing waiting.
Impulse looked up and saw a figure standing at the end of the hallway. Slouched slightly. Thermometer in hand. Head tilted.
Exactly. Like. Him.
Grian’s hand clamped down on his arm. “Get behind me!”
But the figure didn’t charge.
It smiled.
Impulse’s stomach lurched.
“That’s—my smile—!”
Then it sprinted.
Impulse barely remembered reaching the closet. The door slammed. He crouched inside, shaking, as taps began on the outside. Rhythmic. Patient.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Almost like knocking.
Almost like asking to come in.
“IMPULSE, GET OUT!” Gem screamed through the radio.
The tapping stopped.
The house fell silent.
Back in the van, Impulse refused to speak for a while.
Scar wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and Grian sat next to him without a word, hand resting on his knee.
Gem stared at the monitor.
“It wasn’t just mimicking,” she said. “It became him. Perfectly.”
“Except for one thing,” Skizz muttered. “It smiled.”
Impulse shivered. “I don’t smile when I’m hunting.”
The van was quiet.
Then Grian said what they were all thinking.
“…It does.”
________________________________________________
The ride back to their bases was silent.
The others peeled away toward their own homes in the sky, on the ground, tucked into mountains and caverns. Impulse flew toward his base, a familiar sanctuary of stone and redstone wiring, comforting in its complexity.
Safe.
Or so he thought.
Now he sat alone at the edge of his bed, watching the night through the glass windows. His base glowed faintly under the stars. Everything was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that pressed against your ears, making your own heartbeat sound deafening.
And out beyond his window, just barely beyond render distance—
a figure stood.
Smiling.
Watching.
Still learning.
Still waiting.
Impulse’s breath hitched. His fingers hovered over his communicator, uncertain.
“Nope,” he muttered, standing up fast. “Nope, nope, nope.”
He moved toward the door, slamming the button to open the door.
Nothing.
The door wouldn’t open.
“What—?” He tried again, faster this time, clicking and mashing as panic crept up his spine.
Still locked.
He froze, pulse thundering in his ears. Tried again. Nothing.
And then the lights in his base began to flicker.
A low groan vibrated through the walls. Cabinets slammed open and shut in the kitchen. Footsteps scraped against the floor—coming closer.
“No—no, no—” he whispered, backing up, heart hammering against his ribs.
The EMF reader in his inventory shrieked—full red.
Impulse spun, trying to dive into a hiding spot, but a table flipped in front of him as if thrown by invisible hands.
A sharp, distant whistle threaded through the chaos. High-pitched. Melodic.
It was singing.
His breath hitched. “Banshee—oh god, it’s the Banshee form—”
The lights cut out entirely.
And the footsteps grew louder.
Steady. Sure. Unhurried.
Coming straight for him.
“Guys—?” he choked out over comms. “Guys? It’s here—in my base—”
Static.
No answer.
A cold breath slid down his neck.
He turned.
And saw it.
Standing inches away.–
Half-transparent, tall, and flickering—like it couldn’t decide which form to keep. Demon horns one second. Pale Banshee eyes the next. Then a twisted, grinning Deogen face—so close it felt like it could smell his fear.
But always wearing his face.
________________________________________________
Skizz sprinted through the rain, soaked to the bone, shoes slamming against the muddy ground. His wings dragged at his back, useless in the storm’s weight, but he didn’t stop. His comm crackled in and out with the wind, snippets of Gem’s frantic voice bleeding through.
“Be careful—”
“It’s still there—”
“Don’t let it see you!”
Skizz didn’t care. His only thought was Impulse.
Lightning tore across the sky, illuminating the landscape in sharp, blinding flashes. In one burst of light, Skizz caught sight of Impulse’s base—a warm, familiar shape in the distance.
The front door stayed stubbornly shut when Skizz slammed into it. He cursed under his breath, trying the handle again and again. Locked. Jammed. Wrong. Like the house itself was fighting him.
“Hang on, buddy,” Skizz growled.
He threw down a salt pile at the threshold—out of habit more than belief it would work—then backed up, took a breath, and rammed the door with his shoulder.
It didn’t budge.
Inside, he could hear Impulse—quiet, shuddering gasps. His friend was terrified.
And then, all at once, the gasps stopped.
Panic clawed up his throat. No no no—
Another crash of thunder overhead. Another flash of light.
Something shifted behind the door.
Thankfully, Impulse’s voice, ragged and hollow, came through, just barely:
“…Skizz…?”
Relief flooded Skizz’s chest. “Yeah, it’s me! I’m right here, bro! Open the door!”
Silence.
Then—Tap. Tap. Tap.
Slow, deliberate knocks against the doorframe.
Not the doorknob.
The wood.
Low. Precise. Wrong.
Skizz stumbled back, heart hammering against his ribs. He knew that sound. They all knew that sound from Tanglewood. The Mimic.
It wasn’t Impulse standing behind that door.
Not anymore.
________________________________________________
Impulse pressed himself tighter into the corner, arms wrapped around his knees, head low. The cold from the stone floor had seeped straight through his shoes and into his bones, but he hardly noticed it anymore.
He watched the door, barely breathing.
When he heard Skizz’s voice, for a moment—just a moment—hope had sparked. Maybe the others made it in time. Maybe he could get out. Maybe this nightmare could—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He flinched violently, covering his mouth to stop the sound.
It wasn’t Skizz.
The Mimic wasn’t just copying his looks now. It was copying his friends too. Their voices. Their words. Their warmth.
Twisting them.
Impulse squeezed his eyes shut, willing it to go away.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Closer now.
The room temperature dropped sharply, frosting the corners of the windows. His breath fogged the air in front of him.
Then a voice—his own voice—soft, coaxing, called out from the door:
“Come on, Impulse… it’s safe. I promise.”
He shook his head fiercely. No. No no no.
The EMF in his hand screamed again, blasting red, and every light in the room blinked out.
Total darkness.
He wasn’t alone anymore.
_________________________________________________
Impulse didn’t breathe.
The voice outside the door stopped. For a few seconds, silence reigned. Then—
Creeeeaak.
The door of his bedroom slowly drifted open. No footsteps. Just air, pressing inward, as though the darkness itself had weight.
A figure stood there.
Impulse’s own face stared back at him.
It grinned.
“Come on, Impulse,” it said. “They’re not coming. But I am.”
It stepped into the room, slow and jerky, like a puppet on broken strings. Its arms hung too low, and its neck tilted unnaturally as it advanced.
Impulse pressed himself against the wall, fingers digging into the stone.
Outside, footsteps pounded on the ground.
Grian’s voice—real, desperate—could be heard through the door.
“Impulse! We’re here—don’t move!”
The Mimic paused mid-step.
Then turned its head—completely backward—toward the door.
Gem burst in first, flashlight sweeping. “There!”
Scar followed, smudge stick already burning, smoke curling in lazy spirals. “Get away from him!”
Skizz leapt between them, holding up a salt shaker, drawing a rough circle around Impulse where he crouched.
And Grian—he stepped through last.
The Mimic froze.
Its smile faltered.
Grian’s eyes were glowing. A deep, piercing violet-blue—the color not of the sky but of ancient, forgotten stars. The glow pulsed with each breath he took.
“You’ve gone too far,” Grian said softly.
The Mimic tilted its head back toward Impulse. “He invited me in.”
“No,” Grian said, stepping forward, hands raised. “He broke. You twisted him until he couldn’t tell the difference.”
The creature hissed. Its face split apart, stretching into a dozen mirrored versions of Impulse’s face, each one whispering something broken and pleading.
Impulse whimpered behind them, gripping his own arms. “Make it stop…”
The lights above shattered, one by one.
Grian’s glow brightened.
He whispered something in a language none of the others recognized, a low chant that made the walls tremble.
The Mimic shrieked, its body jerking back like it had been struck. Smoke poured from its limbs as it tried to hold shape, flickering between Impulse’s body, Skizz’s laughter, Scar’s grin, Gem’s determined face—
Grian’s glow burst into full intensity. The others shielded their eyes.
The Mimic screamed one last time, and then it was gone. The room fell into silence.
Impulse collapsed forward, unconscious.
Skizz rushed to him, catching his head before it hit the floor.
“He’s burning up,” he muttered, touching Impulse’s cheek.
“No,” Gem said, scanning him with her equipment. “He’s freezing.”
Scar crouched nearby, shaking the last bits of ash from his smudge stick. “That thing… it almost had him.”
Grian stood in the center of the room, the glow in his eyes fading, but not disappearing.
He stared at Impulse, then down at his own hands.
“I was almost too late,” he said, voice tight. “Again.”
_________________________________________________
The air was heavy with silence now. The ghost was gone. The mimic—his mimic—had vanished in a final shriek of distortion and flickering light. Only the real Impulse remained, curled on the ground near the warped remnants of his front door, clutching his chest as though his ribs were trying to escape.
“Hey, hey, it’s over,” Skizz murmured, crouching beside him. His voice was low, but strained. “You’re okay now. You’re okay.”
Impulse didn’t answer. His hands trembled, his face ghost-white beneath the sweat and grime. Every breath came in jagged stutters, as if the air still burned going in.
Gem knelt on his other side, gently brushing ash from his shoulder. “You’re safe. It’s really us, Impulse. Look at me.”
He tried. His eyes flicked open, dazed and flickering with confusion. He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t flinch from her hand either.
Grian stood back a few steps, his own hands shaking. His eyes—glowing, unmistakably glowing that pale violet–blue hue—reflected the dim torchlight eerily. He hadn’t even noticed. His gaze never left Impulse.
“I should’ve realized,” Grian whispered. “The way it mirrored him. The way it… smiled.”
Scar, normally the first to speak with comfort or a joke, was quiet. He stood just beside Grian, the glimmer of his enchanted gear dull under the moonlight. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said finally, voice subdued. “That thing was wearing his face like a costume. It could’ve fooled anyone.”
“But it didn’t fool him,” Skizz said, glancing toward Grian. “It was targeting him. Like it wanted to be him.”
“Or replace him,” Gem added softly.
A strange breeze stirred through the clearing. Cold. Wrong. They all felt it and said nothing.
Skizz reached into his pocket, pulling out his communicator. “We need to let X know. Before anyone else wanders near this place.”
“I’ll do it,” Grian said hoarsely, stepping forward. “He’ll want to hear it from me.”
Skizz hesitated, but nodded. “Okay.”
Grian raised the communicator to his mouth. There was a pause—a deep breath—and then:
“Xisuma. We had… an encounter. A mimic. It got into Impulse’s base. It’s gone now, but Impulse’s hurt. Shaken. We’re going to stay with him until he stabilizes. You’ll want to log this one. It was more than just a ghost.”
There was no immediate reply, but the message was sent.
Impulse stirred, finally finding his voice, though it was faint and rough. “I… I knew it wasn’t me. But I—I kept seeing it. Feeling it.”
Grian knelt slowly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We’ve got you, okay? You’re not alone. You’re never alone.”
Impulse gave a hollow nod. No more words came.
The others began gathering supplies from nearby shulker boxes—healing potions, blankets, even a few torches to relight the darkened base. It would be a long night.
None of them would leave his side.
The communicator beeped.
Grian stepped back as the response came through:
[Xisuma]: “I’m logging in now. Stay with him.”
A moment later, a purple swirl shimmered at the far edge of the path outside the base. The familiar hum of teleportation filled the air as Xisuma appeared, already wearing his full gear, helmet tucked under one arm. He didn’t hesitate—just walked straight past the scorched entryway and toward the group gathered around Impulse.
The others parted without a word.
Impulse was sitting now, propped against the inner wall, a blanket around his shoulders, eyes half-lidded. He looked up slowly when Xisuma approached.
“Hey,” he rasped.
“Hey,” Xisuma said gently, kneeling. “I got Grian’s message. You holding up?”
Impulse tried to smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I think so. Physically, yeah. Mentally… still catching up.”
Xisuma gave a short nod, then turned to the others. “Tell me everything. What kind of ghost was it?”
“A Mimic,” Skizz answered. “It looked like Impulse. Acted like him. Even sounded like him. But it twisted things. Mocked him. Tried to isolate him.”
“It was intelligent,” Gem added. “Targeted him directly.”
Grian added quietly, “It messed with his head. Turned his own face against him. By the time we got in, he was barely holding on.”
Xisuma’s expression darkened. “That kind of targeted mimicry… that’s not standard behavior. I’ll flag it in the database.”
He tapped his comm again, opening a file. “Log: Tanglewood. Mimic-type entity. Confirmed behavioral targeting. Humanoid replication, advanced mimicry, attempted psychological manipulation. Destroyed. No further activity observed. Watchlist priority updated.”
He clicked it off. The air settled.
Then he turned back to Impulse. “We’ll leave the base sealed for now. I’ll run a scan for residual energy in the morning. But you’re done here for tonight. All of you.”
“We’re not leaving him alone,” Scar said firmly.
Xisuma gave a small, grateful nod. “Good.”
He looked at Impulse one last time. “Rest. I’ll handle the rest.”
Impulse, still pale, leaned his head against the wall and exhaled. “Thanks, X.”
No one said anything for a while. The wind rustled through the dark trees beyond the walls, no longer threatening, just tired. Like them.
One by one, they sat down around him. Grian didn’t speak, but he stayed closest, a silent watch in the dim torchlight, his softly glowing eyes fixed outward.
The ghost was gone. But the scars would remain a while longer.