Huntcast

Katie woke to the smell of burnt toast and the sound of her mother humming off-key. The morning light bled through the blinds in thin, golden stripes. Her phone buzzed with birthday texts she didn’t want to read.

From the kitchen: “Happy birthday, baby!” her mother called. “Seventeen. God help me.”

Katie pulled on jeans and a hoodie, still half-asleep. Her backpack sagged by the door, untouched since Friday.

She passed her grandfather in the hallway. He was hunched over the sink, rinsing out a chipped mug. His voice came without turning:

“You’re late.”

Katie blinked. “It’s my birthday.”

“School doesn’t care,” he muttered. “Neither should you.”

She almost snapped back, but didn’t. He’d been sharp lately—like something inside him was splintering.

As she reached for the doorknob, he tossed something across the room. It clattered against the floor. A keyring.

“For your studio,” he said. “Hollow and Third.”

Katie stared at it. The keys were old—brass, worn smooth. One had a tag: STUDIO A. Another was shaped like a lightning bolt.

She looked up. He was already walking away.

Katie sat in the back of the bus, earbuds in, phone screen glowing. Birthday texts scrolled past—some from people she barely knew, others from friends who’d stopped talking to her months ago. She ignored most of them.

One message she did send:

Hey. Could you help me clean the studio sometime? Maybe pick up some stuff to make it feel like home?

She stared at the screen, thumb hovering. Then hit send.

Her grandfather didn’t reply right away. He rarely did. But she knew he’d read it. He always read her messages, even when he didn’t answer.

The bus rattled down Hollow Street. Katie glanced out the window. The studio was just a few blocks away—tucked between a shuttered pawn shop and a church with boarded-up windows. The sign above the door was faded, but she could still make out the letters: STUDIO A.

She’d always been drawn to it. Not just because it was hers now, but because it felt… unfinished. Like a story waiting to be told.

At school, the hallway buzzed with noise. Lockers slammed. Sneakers squeaked. Someone laughed too loud.

Katie moved fast, head down.

“Hey,” someone said behind her. “You hear about that studio on Hollow and Third?”

She froze.

“It’s haunted,” the voice continued. “Swear to God. My cousin said he saw lights flickering inside. No one’s been in there for years.”

Katie turned, but the speaker was already gone—just a blur in the crowd.

She shook it off and kept walking.

Then—impact.

She collided with someone near the stairwell. Hard.

“Watch where you’re going,” she snapped, stepping back.

The boy blinked. He had dark hair, a hoodie pulled tight, and eyes that looked like they’d seen too much.

“I’m Luke,” he said. “What’s your name?”

Katie stared at him. Something about his voice felt… off. Not creepy. Just familiar in a way that made her skin prickle.

She didn’t answer.

Just turned and walked away.

Behind her, Luke didn’t call out. Didn’t follow.

But she felt his gaze like static on the back of her neck.

Katie walked the last few blocks to the studio with the keys clutched tight in her hoodie pocket. The sun was low, casting long shadows across Hollow Street. The building looked smaller in daylight—less haunted, more forgotten.

She unlocked the door. The hinges groaned like something waking up.

Inside: dust, silence, and the faint smell of old wires. The soundboard was covered in a tarp. A reel-to-reel sat in the corner, its tape slack and brittle. Shelves lined the walls, filled with notebooks, cables, and boxes marked ARCHIVE.

She didn’t touch anything. Just stood there, letting the quiet settle.

Her grandfather arrived twenty minutes later, carrying a toolbox and a bag of cleaning supplies.

“You didn’t start without me?” he asked.

Katie shrugged. “Didn’t want to break anything.”

He grunted approval and got to work. They cleaned in silence, rewiring the console, testing the mic, replacing bulbs. Her grandfather moved like he’d done this a thousand times—hands steady, eyes distant.

At one point, he paused and looked at her.

“You want this place to feel like yours?”

Katie nodded.

“Then don’t let it scare you.”

She didn’t ask what he meant.

By sunset, the studio was glowing. Not perfect, but alive. Katie sat on the stool, spinning slowly, watching the lights flicker on the console.

Her grandfather handed her a crumpled twenty.

“Go grab us something to eat,” he said. “That taco place on Fifth. You know the one.”

Katie pocketed the bill and stepped outside.

The air was cooler now. Streetlights buzzed overhead. She turned the corner—and bumped into someone.

Hard.

“Sorry,” she muttered, stepping back.

The boy smiled. Hoodie. Dark hair. Eyes like static.

“Hi, Katie.”

She froze. “How do you know my name?”

He tilted his head. “Your grandfather.”

Katie’s stomach tightened. “How do you know him?”

Luke didn’t answer right away. Just looked past her, toward the studio.

“How’s he doing?”

Katie blinked. “He’s fine.”

Luke smiled again. But it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Good,” he said. “That’s good.”

Katie walked away.

She didn’t look back.

She didn’t know it yet, but when she returned, the studio would be dark. The lights would be off. And her grandfather would be slumped in the chair, a bullet in his head, the mic still live.

The last thing it recorded was silence.

Katie returned with the tacos in a paper bag, still warm, still smelling like cumin and grease. The studio door was closed now. No light behind the frosted glass.

She pushed it open.

The air inside was wrong. Still. Heavy. Like the room had stopped breathing.

Her grandfather was slumped in the chair by the console. Head bowed. A pistol on the floor.

Katie dropped the bag.

There was no blood. Just silence.

On the desk, a note:

I’m sorry. I tried. I love you.

Katie didn’t scream. She just stood there, shaking, the note crumpling in her fist.

“You promised,” she whispered. “You said you’d be here. You said—”

Her voice broke.

She sank to the floor, knees hitting concrete, tears hot and sudden. The studio lights flickered once, then died.

Outside, footsteps.

Katie turned as someone stepped into the doorway.

Luke.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Katie stood, eyes red, voice raw. “Who are you?”

He hesitated. Then:

“I’m Oliver. The ghost that haunts this place.”

Katie blinked. “What?”

She turned to leave, but Oliver stepped forward and pulled her into a hug.

It was warm. Real. Not spectral.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve lost people too.”

Katie stiffened. “You said you’re a ghost.”

Oliver pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.

“I said half ghost.”

Katie didn’t remember walking home.

The streets blurred past—the taco bag still in her hand, untouched. Her legs moved on instinct, her mind stuck in the studio, in the note, in the stillness of her grandfather’s final moment.

She opened the front door slowly.

Her mother was in the kitchen, folding laundry, humming the same off-key tune from that morning.

Katie stood there, silent.

Her mother turned. “Hey, baby. Did you—”

“He’s gone,” Katie said.

The words dropped like stones.

Her mother froze. “What?”

Katie’s voice cracked. “He… he left a note. In the studio. He—he shot himself.”

Her mother didn’t speak. Just crossed the room and pulled Katie into her arms.

Katie collapsed against her, sobbing. The taco bag hit the floor. Her mother held her tight, rocking gently, whispering nothing—just breathing with her, crying with her.

Outside, the wind picked up.

Inside, the house held its silence.

But somewhere, faint and distant, the rift stirred.