The Night Before

February 28, 2026 Dark Evil House The living room looked like a camera store exploded in it.

Lenses lined the coffee table in careful rows.

Camera bodies sat with their caps on, batteries removed and charging in a neat cluster near the outlet.

Memory cards, lens cloths, filters in little round cases—a whole quiet army of glass and plastic, waiting to be loaded.

Sean stood in the middle of it all, hands on his hips, chewing his lip.

“If I only bring two lenses, I’ll regret it,” he muttered. “If I bring all of them, you’ll make jokes for the rest of my life.”

From the couch, Michael raised an eyebrow.

“You say that like the jokes are avoidable either way,” he said.

He had his feet up, one ankle crossed over the other, laptop closed for once. A half‑packed duffel bag lay open on the rug at his feet—hoodies, socks, flannel shirts spilling over the edge.

Grayson walked in from the kitchen with a mug of tea, took one look at the scene, and laughed.

“Oh, good,” he said. “You’re packing for a two‑day trip like it’s a three‑month documentary.”

“It’s more than two days,” Sean protested. “We’re leaving the night of the eleventh and coming back on the fourteenth. That’s, like… three sunsets. Three sunrises. That’s, minimum, a thousand photos if Dad cooperates.”

“A thousand?” Michael said. “My legs didn’t sign off on that.”

Sean ignored him, moving to another pile and checking a lens mount.

The house felt different tonight.

Not the heavy difference of bad news.

The charged difference of an upcoming storm—only this time, everyone wanted it.

Suitcases stood by the wall.

Backpacks leaned against chairs.

Michael’s blue sunglasses were already in their case on the end table, next to his keys and ring.

“You sure about the dates?” Grayson asked, settling into the armchair. “March twelfth to fourteenth?”

“Yeah,” Sean said. “Forecast looks decent. Cold, but not icy. Clouds but with gaps. Good light. Not as dead as January, not as crowded as April.”

He said it like he’d checked the patterns a dozen times. He had.

“So tonight is dress rehearsal,” Michael said. “Packing. Planning. Making sure I don’t forget whatever crucial piece of gear you’ll blame me for if I leave it behind.”

Sean looked up.

“The only crucial piece of gear is you, old man,” he said. “The rest is replaceable.”

Michael snorted, but his chest warmed.

“You hear that?” he said to Grayson. “Apparently I’m equipment now.”

“You’ve always been equipment,” Grayson said. “We’re just finally getting you out of the office.”

He sipped his tea, watching Sean move with an almost clinical eye.

“Do you want help?” he asked. “Or is this one of those sacred packing rituals where if we touch anything, the gods of photography strike us down?”

Sean hesitated.

“You can help Dad,” he said. “I’ve seen how he throws shirts in a bag. That’s a crime.”

“Hey,” Michael protested. “My system works.”

“Your system is ‘hope,’” Sean said.

He crossed to the couch and dropped a small zippered pouch into Michael’s duffel.

“What’s that?” Michael asked.

“Earplugs,” Sean said. “For when you realize the walls in hotel rooms are thin and you hate hearing other people breathe.”

“Thoughtful,” Michael said dryly.

Sean straightened, looked at the pile again, then went back to sorting.

Grayson leaned toward his father.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, low.

“Like I’m about to leave a twelve‑story baby unsupervised,” Michael said. “And like that’s good for me. And like I want to throw up.”

“Good mix,” Grayson said. “Means you care about both things—this place, and him.”

He nodded toward Sean.

“Yeah,” Michael said.

He watched his younger son fuss over a filter case, shoulders tense in that too‑familiar way.

There was something else humming under Sean’s skin lately.

Not just excitement.

Not just nerves about the trip.

A different kind of static.

Michael tried not to name it yet.

He had a feeling the mountains would force the conversation, and part of him was both dreading and craving that.

“Did you book the room?” Grayson asked Sean, louder.

“Yeah,” Sean said. “Two beds, same room. I told them ‘quiet side, top floor if possible, away from ice machines.’”

Michael raised an eyebrow.

“Specific,” he said.

“I’ve done this before,” Sean replied. “With Mom. With school trips. Trust me, you don’t want to be next to the elevator.”

“You been having fun over‑planning?” Grayson said.

“It’s not over‑planning,” Sean said. “It’s… controlled enthusiasm.”

Grayson smiled.

“I like this version of you,” he said. “He plans vacations instead of hiding from them.”

Sean rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at his mouth.

He picked up one of the lenses, held it up to the light, and then, almost casually, said, “Do you remember New York?”

Michael’s heart twitched.

“Yeah,” he said. “Hard to forget. The ball dropping. The crowd. That guy who tried to sell us ‘authentic’ glow sticks for twenty bucks.”

Sean’s mouth curved.

“I meant the photo,” he said. “The one you keep in your office.”

Michael pictured it.

The cold air.

Sean’s hand on his shoulder.

The way he’d felt more like a father than a ghost for the first time in a long time.

“I remember,” he said.

Sean set the lens down carefully.

“That was the first time I thought, ‘Okay. This might actually be real,’” he said. “Like… this isn’t just a trial run. You weren’t just going to change your mind and send me back. It felt like… I don’t know. Proof.”

He shrugged, as if it were no big deal.

It was.

“The mountains are going to be… the next one of those,” Sean added. “New York was noise. This is… the quiet version.”

Michael swallowed.

“Quiet scares you less now?” he asked.

Sean glanced at him, and for a brief second something flickered behind his eyes—sharp, intense, there and gone.

Michael’s chest responded before his brain could.

Buzz.

Warning.

Echo.

“Sometimes,” Sean said. “Sometimes it’s worse. Depends.”

Grayson’s gaze flicked between them, reading the air like only he could without any supernatural help.

“That’s your cue to pretend you didn’t notice and wait until day two,” he said lightly, standing up and stretching. “I’m going to go make sure the office doesn’t implode before you even leave.”

He set his mug down.

At the doorway, he paused.

“Hey,” he said. “Pack something comfortable, Dad. Not just the ‘I used to go to the gym’ shirts. You’re hiking, not auditioning.”

Michael smirked.

“I like these shirts,” he said.

“We like the dad belly,” Grayson replied. “Let it breathe.”

Sean snorted.

“On that note,” Grayson added, “I’m out. You two will be fine.”

He looked at Sean.

“If you need anything while you’re up there,” he said, “text me. Even if it’s three in the morning. I won’t answer at three, but I’ll answer eventually.”

Sean’s expression softened.

“I know,” he said.

When the door closed behind Grayson, the house settled.

Michael looked at the mess on the coffee table.

Sean looked at him.

“So,” Michael said. “How many cameras does one trip need?”

“All of them,” Sean said.

He stepped around the table and dropped onto the couch beside his father, shoulders almost touching.

For a moment, they both just sat there, looking at the gear, the open duffel, the faint reflection of the TV in the dark screen across the room.

“Tomorrow night,” Sean said quietly, “we’ll be in a different bed in a different room, and you’re going to complain about how the pillows feel wrong.”

“Probably,” Michael agreed.

“And the night after that,” Sean continued, “we’ll be up stupid early, and I’m gonna make you stand at a stone wall in the cold and take pictures until your fingers hurt.”

“Definitely,” Michael said.

Sean leaned his head back against the couch.

“You still okay with that?” he asked. “With all of it?”

Michael looked at him.

At the lines that had started to show at the corners of his son’s eyes.

At the way his hand absentmindedly rested over his chest, fingers tapping a rhythm only he could hear.

“I said yes,” Michael replied. “I meant it.”

Sean nodded, but he didn’t move.

The clock on the wall ticked.

The house creaked as it always did at night.

Outside, the world went on.

Inside, a father and son sat in the middle of packed and half‑packed lives, knowing that in a couple of weeks, they’d drive toward a mountain range where conversations they’d postponed for years wouldn’t be able to hide anymore.

Sean nudged his shoulder against his father’s.

“I’m gonna finish charging these,” he said, pushing up off the couch. “You should go figure out how many flannels one man can realistically wear in three days.”

“At least five,” Michael said.

“Two,” Sean countered. “And a jacket. Calm down.”

He gathered the battery chargers, the cord tangling in his fingers.

“March twelfth,” he murmured, more to himself than to Michael. “We finally get to see what the sky looks like up there together.”

Michael didn’t say anything.

He just watched his son move through the room—the ease, the small tells of tension, the weight of something unsaid riding just under his skin.

Whatever was brewing in Sean, whatever had started after high school and grown into something he didn’t yet have words for, the mountains would drag it into the open.

For now, it was enough to pack.

To pick shirts.

To pretend the only thing they needed to worry about were batteries and weather.

The rest would come with the sunrise.

Next step: Chapter 2 proper can open on March 12, arrival at Shenandoah, picking up