My Soulbound Lover

My name is Lena. I'm a paranormal investigator—the fourth generation in my family to do this kind of work.

The title sounds impressive, but in reality, my parents run the kind of paranormal agency tucked away at the end of an old street, with a storefront so small most people would miss it—helping people in nearby towns perform exorcisms, clearing out lingering spirits from old houses, and occasionally taking on a few unsolved cases that end up in the local paper.

I grew up surrounded by seance candles and old filing cabinets. I saw my parents rush out on late-night emergencies more times than I can count, throwing on worn trench coats, carrying silver tool cases, and turning back to say, "Lock the door. We'll be back soon."

So while other girls my age were collecting dolls, I had already learned how to tell a malevolent spirit from a lingering ghost, and how to use silver powder and saltwater to draw my first defensive ward.

On my eighteenth birthday, my mother called me into the living room. On the coffee table sat a deep blue velvet box, its corners rubbed pale with age.

"Open it," she said.

I lifted the lid. Inside was a silver pocket watch, three inches across, the case engraved with an intricate ring of vine patterns. The watch had stopped long ago, its second hand resting quietly at twelve. The silver chain was marked with faint scratches, enough to show it had some years on it.

I weighed it in my hand. It was heavy—heavier than it looked.

"This has been passed down through our family for generations. Your great-grandmother gave it to your grandmother, your grandmother gave it to me, and now it's your turn."

"It will protect you." My mother hung the watch around my neck herself, stepped back to look at it, then reached out to straighten the chain. "Your great-grandmother was a very powerful medium. She said this watch would save your life at your most dangerous moment."

"How?" I asked.

My mother thought for a moment, then said, "She didn't say. But your great-grandmother never made claims she wasn't sure about."

I turned the watch over. Inside the cover was an extremely fine scratch, so faint I would have missed it if I hadn't looked closely.

"When did this get scratched?" I asked.

My mother leaned in for a look and said it was probably just age—silver wears down over time. She adjusted the length of the chain for me and told me to wear it every day, not even taking it off to shower.

I said I would, but honestly, I didn't think much of it. An old pocket watch that hadn't worked in years was, at most, just a family heirloom. Wearing it as a charm felt more like psychological comfort than anything else.

Three days later, I almost got killed by a truck.

That afternoon, I came out of the used bookstore in town and stopped at the curb to wait for the light. I pulled the pocket watch out from under my collar and started fiddling with it, my thumb tracing the vine pattern on the case—the engraving was deep enough that I could feel the veins of every leaf.

Then I accidentally dropped it.

The silver chain slipped through my fingers. The watch hit the edge of the sidewalk, bounced once, and rolled into the street. I instinctively ran after it and bent down to grab it—and then I heard the shriek of tires scraping against the road.

A huge force slammed into my left shoulder from behind, shoving me hard toward the sidewalk. My back hit a lamppost, my forehead struck metal, and everything went black.

When I woke up, I was in the hospital.

My mother was sitting by the bed, her eyes red. The moment she saw me open mine, she crushed the tissue in her hand into a tight ball.

The doctor said I was basically fine—just a mild concussion, plus a cut on my forehead that needed a few stitches. A few days in the hospital and I'd be able to go home.

"I think I got hit by a car," I said.

"You just fell crossing the street and passed out from the shock. A passerby pushed you back to the curb." My mother held my hand. Her fingers were a little cold. "Get some rest. Don't overthink it."

But something about it felt wrong. The scream of tires. The huge force that shoved me out of the way. The figure I caught a glimpse of before I fell—it all felt real.

But I was exhausted. My head felt heavy, like something was pressing down on it.

I didn't keep asking.

After I was discharged, my parents told me we were moving—to a more remote northern town. They said the doctor recommended a change of environment so I could recover properly.

I didn't argue. I felt like I needed to leave too—not because I needed rest, but because every time I passed that street, my chest would tighten for no reason, as if something were lodged there, unable to rise or sink.

Our new home was in a place up north called Graystone.

It was a small town: one main street, a few rows of low houses, and a stretch of evergreen forest behind them.

The first night after we moved in, I immediately felt something strange in my room.

Not fear—something gentler than that. It felt like someone was sitting quietly in the corner, watching me without coming closer or making a sound.

I turned over, and the corner of my eye caught something at the foot of the bed. My heart skipped.

There was a blurred, half-transparent figure there.

I lunged for the lamp and switched it on.

There was nothing in the room.

The curtains were swaying faintly, though the window was shut tight.

I sat there for a long time. Then I took the pocket watch off my neck and held it in my palm.

When I looked down at the face, I froze.

The extremely fine scratch inside the cover had become a crack—deeper than a scratch, more irregular, like something had pushed outward from the inside.

I ran my thumb over it. The edges were smooth, not like fresh damage.

But I clearly remembered that crack not being there the last time I opened it.

Over the next few months, I kept helping my parents with the agency while also paying attention to the strange things in my room.

The clothes in my closet kept getting refolded by someone—I always tucked the sleeves in, but every time I opened the closet, the cuffs had been neatly turned out.

Sometimes there would be an extra cup of tea on my nightstand, still warm. The tea bag would be my favorite citrus flavor, steeped for exactly three minutes.

One night before bed, I said into the empty room, "If you're really here, can you at least tell me who you are?"

There was no answer.

But the next morning, the tea was still warm, and under the bottom of the cup was a note torn from an old newspaper. On it was just one handwritten word:

"Okay."

I told my mother about these things.

She was in the kitchen slicing carrots. After listening, she set down the knife and looked at me.

The look was brief. It wasn't confusion. It was something more complicated—like she knew something, but wasn't sure whether she should tell me.

After a moment of silence, she said, "That pocket watch was left behind by your great-grandmother. It really does have some powers we don't fully understand. But it won't hurt you."

A few years later, I had officially become a paranormal investigator.

That day, my father took on a case—three miles north of Graystone, there was a stretch of farmland that had been abandoned for years. Lately, hunters passing by late at night said they'd heard strange noises. Some claimed they'd seen light moving inside an abandoned barn.

My father was going to handle it himself, but two emergency jobs came in at the same time.

I picked up the case file.

"I'll go."

"By yourself?"

"I've got my charm, don't I?" I said, half joking, patting the pocket watch hanging against my chest.

My mother glanced at my father, then helped me pack my tool case, slipping an extra box of seance candles into the bottom.

She said it was just in case.

I told her I wouldn't need any of it—it was only a simple scouting job. Check what was on the farmland, write it down, come back, and report.

When I left, the sky was piled thick with clouds.

I rode my father's old motorcycle north along the gravel road outside town. The pocket watch hung around my neck, swaying lightly in the wind and occasionally tapping against my collarbone.

The farmland lay at the foot of the mountain on the northern edge of Graystone. I parked the bike by the roadside, picked up my tool case, and walked into the overgrown field.

Wind came pouring down from the ridge, flattening the grass.

In the distance, the barn door swayed gently in the wind.

The moon had already broken through a gap in the clouds—bright and round.

I tightened my grip on the handle of the tool case and walked toward the barn.