Over the next few weeks the number of Lima residents still believing that the old house on the outskirts of the town was haunted decreased significantly. Like the tales themselves had once done, the truth behind the house spread quickly through the town until barely anyone gossiped about the stories anymore and Lima was once again a boring town with no exciting tales of ghosts and haunted houses to share. Even the people who lived in the street didn't believe the house was haunted anymore. None of them had heard any noises disturbing their sleep during the night in weeks and had passed off the sounds they used to hear as being of a stray animal or some wildlife.

Kurt was beginning to doubt what he knew to be the truth. He didn't believe in ghosts or haunted houses, but something strange was happening in his house and nobody else seemed to notice this but him. He often heard noises during the night, but numerous searches had yielded no potential sources. His belongings kept moving around his room: he would set an item down in one place in the morning, and then find it had shifted when he returned home later in the day. His books kept going missing and then suddenly reappearing days later - the essay writing book that Mercedes had wanted to borrow had turned up on one of his shelves a few days later, even though it had definitely not been there the day he had looked for it. Food was also disappearing and it wasn't all because of Finn's snacking like his dad said when Kurt pointed it out to him.

‘Haunted,' his mind kept telling him. ‘The stories were true, the house is haunted.'

But Kurt did not believe in ghosts...

"Morning," his dad yawned as Kurt entered the kitchen one Friday morning.

Kurt eyed the mug of coffee on the table in front of him. "That doesn't have sugar in it, does it?" he asked sternly.

"No, Kurt," his dad replied with a sigh. "And it doesn't taste the same because of it." He swirled the coffee around his mug somewhat glumly.

Reaching for a box of cereal, Kurt said, "Yes, well, sugar-free is better for you and you'll get used to the taste soon."

His dad grumbled something indistinct under his breath as Kurt opened the cardboard box and started to pour cereal into the bowl he'd fetched. A small amount of cereal tumbled into the bowl and he paused, frowning into the box. He tilted the box upright again and lifted out the plastic bag containing the cereal. His confused frown deepened when he saw the amount of cereal remaining. The box was only around half full, but yesterday morning there had been about three quarters remaining. He was the only one in the house who ate this cereal, so he knew it was another case of food seemingly melting into thin air.

He was puzzling over this so much that he missed what his dad had just said to him. "Sorry, what was that?" he asked, looking distractedly over at his dad.

"I was just reminding you that Carole and I are going to visit her parents in Indiana tomorrow," he said. He drained the last of his coffee and set his mug down on the table. "We'll be back on Sunday evening." He fixed Kurt with a stern look. "No wild parties while we're gone and I don't want to come back to find the house in ruins - that goes for you as well," he added as Finn lumbered into the kitchen, yawning widely.

"I'm staying at Puck's tonight," Finn announced, accepting the box of sugary cereal Kurt was handing him and pouring himself a large bowlful. "We have football practice tomorrow morning."

Burt looked a little concerned by this. "I forgot about that. Will you be ok here on your own for tonight?" he asked Kurt as he joined him at the table.

"Dad, I'm seventeen," he pointed out. "I think I can manage one night by myself."

His dad still didn't look particularly comfortable. "Well, keep your phone on and I'll call you and check everything's alright." He glanced at Finn as he dropped down into the chair beside him and started shovelling cereal into his mouth. "I'm sure Finn will be happy to come back home if you-"

"Dad!" Kurt interrupted, setting his spoon back in his bowl. "I'll be fine - really."

Burt eyed him for a moment, before accepting Kurt's assurances. "Well, ok, but keep your phone on you."

Kurt nodded and smiled reassuringly before returning to his breakfast. He knew his dad had good reason to be really protective of him, what with his mother's death and his bullying at school, but sometimes it did get a bit tiresome and he would have to remind himself that his dad meant well to stop himself from becoming annoyed.

As he was clearing away his breakfast things a lock of hair fell down onto his forehead. He glared up at it and quickly put away the cereal box Finn had left out on the counter before running upstairs and darting into his bathroom to fix his hair. Cursing under his breath, he scrabbled amongst his things, searching for his hair comb.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered as he moved several of his hair products aside and his comb still remained elusive.

Setting down the bottles he was holding, he ran into his bedroom and yanked open a drawer in his vanity, rummaging around until he found a comb. Crouching down to see in the mirror, he quickly fixed his hair and then jogged back into the bathroom to spritz some hairspray over his hair just as Finn shouted up the stairs that they needed to go or they'd be late.

On the drive to school, Kurt began to make a plan. Tonight he would have the house to himself and he would be able to search it for the source of the noises he heard at night and the reason behind the disappearing food and books without being interrupted. He was determined to get to the bottom of this and he would do it tonight.

"Blaine!"

Blaine jumped and spun round in his desk chair, his heart pounding. When his body registered what his wide eyes were seeing - that his bedroom door was still closed and he was alone in his room - he relaxed slightly.

"Blaine!" his dad's voice roared up the stairs again. "Get down here now!"

Knowing better than to disobey his father, he got carefully to his feet, wincing at the stiffness and burning from his older, healing bruises and at the sharp, shooting pain from the new ones. He crossed his room slowly to avoid jarring anything and gritted his teeth as he lifted his hand to open the door, the movement triggering intense pain to course through his shoulder from the result of his dad shoving him hard into a doorway in his disgust and anger.

Taking the stairs was painful as each step shot pain up his spine. It soon wouldn't be possible to see what colour the skin on Blaine's back actually was it was so covered with bruises - bruises from dumpster tosses, locker shoves, being pushed against the stair railings and the edges of desks and countertops, punches, and his dad shoving him around. There were cuts and scrapes on his arms and legs where he'd landed on sharp objects in dumpsters and there was carpet burn on his elbows and forearms from when he'd fallen and skidded across the floor in an attempt to back away from his father when he'd been yelling at him, advancing on him furiously.

His father shouted on him again as he made his way down the hall to the living room. He sounded furious about something and Blaine wanted nothing more than to just go back upstairs and shut himself in his room with his music and his homework, but he couldn't, he had to face his father. He swallowed as he entered the living room.

His father was standing by the fireplace, his blue eyes as hard and cold as chips of ice, his face screwed up in anger. His mother sat ramrod straight on the couch nearby, her jaw clenched, and her expression difficult to read.

Neither of them were looking his way, so Blaine cleared his throat to announce his presence. Both his parents' eyes snapped over to him and he avoided meeting either of their gazes. He felt like they would burn him where he stood if he did.

His mother was the first to speak. "Sit down, Blaine."

Feeling nervous and wondering what this could possibly be about, Blaine moved further into the room and perched on the very edge of an armchair.

His father sized him up for a moment and then said, "I just received a phone call about you."

Blaine blinked, his face scrunching in confusion. Who would be calling about him?

"It was from your school," his father continued, his voice deceptively calm in spite of the anger in his expression. "The principal informed me that you haven't been attending all of your classes."

Understanding dawned on Blaine and his confusion lifted. "I didn't miss the classes on purpose," he explained. "I was-"

His father cut him off. "I don't want to hear your pathetic excuses." He took a step closer to Blaine, his anger now slipping into his tone. "Do you not understand how important it is for you to do well at school? Is it too difficult for you to comprehend that you need good results for a decent college to take you so you can make something of your worthless life?"

"Dad, I-"

His father ignored him. "There's no way in hell I'm supporting you if you don't get a good job."

"I only missed those classes because-" Blaine tried to explain, but was interrupted again.

"If you're not putting any effort in then you can get out. I'm not paying for the upkeep of a lazy, good-for-nothing waste of space."

"I am putting in effort!" Blaine shouted back. "I'm getting top grades in every class!"

A vein pulsed in his father's neck. "Don't you dare take that tone with me. Show a little respect!"

Blaine only just stopped himself from letting out a derisive laugh. Show a little respect? They treated him like a stubborn piece of mould that no matter how much it disgusted them they couldn't get rid of, so why should he have to treat them any better? Sure, they were his parents, but only by blood; real parents didn't treat their children like this.

He gritted his teeth in an effort to contain some of his anger and frustration. "I would, but you're not listening to me and I'm trying to explain why I had no choice but to miss those classes," he said as calmly as he could.

"There's no excuse for skipping your lessons other than being at the nurse which we would have been informed of if you had been."

His father advanced on him and Blaine slid back in his chair, a small bolt of fear shooting through him. The bruises he had received through his father's actions throbbed.

"You're lazy, weak, and worthless, Blaine. You've been nothing but a series of disappointments to your mother and me. We raised you well and this is how you repay us? By throwing away your opportunity to get into a good college and deciding to have filthy little fantasies about other boys?"

His father was so close now that his spit hit Blaine's face as he seethed in anger. Blaine gripped the seat of the chair to try and prevent himself from trembling and giving away his fear - it would only be another reason for his father to think of him as weak.

"I'm warning you, Blaine, if I get one more call saying you're not putting in effort at school, if you disappoint us again, you'll wish you'd never been born, got it?" his father snarled.

Blaine gave a tiny nod, his heart hammering in his chest, his muscles tensed almost painfully.

His father stepped back. "Good." He turned and strode into the kitchen, his mother following him after shooting Blaine a disappointed look. Blaine remained frozen for a moment, his body finally quivering, before he bolted back up to his bedroom.

Things got worse over the next few weeks. He tried to attend all of his classes, but it was impossible when he got thrown into dumpsters or shoved into hard or sharp surfaces and would have to spend the whole of class time in the bathroom cleaning himself up and tending to his own injuries. He was late home from school one day when a group of boys locked him in the sports equipment shed and several hours passed before he got out again. His dad went mental when he finally got home, accusing him of ‘satisfying his disgusting, unnatural urges' instead of coming home. He had screamed abuse at Blaine for over an hour while his mother had just sat and watched on. Blaine spent his days miserable and scared - scared to go to school and scared to be at home, but he had nowhere else to go; anytime he went elsewhere he just endured abuse from his parents when he got home.

The only relief he got was when his parents were out and he was alone in the empty house. He wished it could be like that all the time, just him on his own, getting himself through life until he could get into college and move somewhere he would never have to see his parents again.

It all escalated until the limit was finally reached. Blaine was late home from school again - really late. He had gotten a detention for missing too many classes despite him trying to explain that he hadn't skipped them on purpose, and he had been released from it at the same time as the football team were leaving the locker rooms after practice. He had tried to avoid them, he had kept his head down and hurried towards the door as fast as he could, ignoring the jeers and shouts from behind him, but they had caught him and after pushing him around between them like he was a human version of the football they had been training with earlier, they had thrown him into the tiny janitor's closet and locked him inside. Blaine had landed atop a jumble of buckets, tubs of cleaning products, boxes, and mops and had lain there in pain for ages, his leg jammed between a large plastic container and a tub filled with liquid, listening to the sounds of laughter and high-fives fading away and the hallways becoming silent. When the pain receded enough for him to finally move and free his leg, he had been trapped in the claustrophobic closet for what had to have been almost an hour and he fell into a panic about what would be awaiting him at home. He didn't know if the school had told his parents about his detention, but they would have surely told them he had been missing classes again.

When he was finally released from the closet by the janitor he had limped home, his fear increasing with each painful step he took closer to his house.

His parents were in the living room when he got home: his mother silent and disapproving, sitting poker-straight on the couch; his father absolutely beside himself with anger, a glass of some strong alcohol in his hand.

"So," he said dangerously when Blaine limped into the room.

Blaine remained standing near the doorway, not wanting to get any closer to his father.

"You are," his father glanced at his watch, "over three hours late." He paused, his jaw clenching and unclenching. Blaine's leg began to tremble.

"I know that an hour of that was spent in detention for skipping classes again, but the rest of the time?" He shook his head. "I don't even want to know." He drained the last of the dark amber-coloured liquid in his glass, before moving closer to Blaine, whose legs had frozen. "What did I say to you the last time we got a call about you not attending your lessons?" He stopped a few feet away from Blaine. "What did I say?" he bellowed, his face red and blotchy from a combination of rage and alcohol.

Blaine jumped at the sudden increase in volume of his voice. "I-" he stuttered, his throat dry, his body trembling, his heart racing in his terror.

In one swift motion his dad raised his arm and threw his empty glass at Blaine, who only just ducked out of the way in time. The glass shattered against the wall behind him, shards of glass hitting his back and arms. His dad snarled something he didn't hear and began advancing on him; Blaine turned and ran.

With his father bellowing after him, he thundered up the stairs and threw himself into his room. He ran around it, shoving clothes, books, and any other essential item his gaze landed on into his satchel. He sprinted into the adjoining bathroom, his locked bedroom door rattling as his dad - bellowing furiously - pounded on it with his fists. He swept his arm along his bathroom shelf, letting all the bottles and tins fall into his bag, snatched up his comb, toothbrush, and toothpaste, before sprinting back through to his bedroom, closing his bag as he did so. Placing one hand on the lock of his still-shaking door and the other on the handle, he took a deep breath and braced himself, before turning the lock and opening the door. He ducked under his father's raised arm, raced past him, and sprinted back down the stairs. Both his parents were screaming at him as he skidded down the hall and yanked the front door open and something heavy sailed through the air and smacked into the wall near his head. He threw himself out the door, slamming it behind him, and sprinted down the driveway and along the street as fast as he could, ignoring the pain ripping through his leg and back. He distantly heard shouts behind him over the pounding of his heart and gasping of his breath, but he just kept running, swerving off the street onto a smaller one as soon as he could.

He didn't know how long he ran for or where he was running to, but he just kept going, turning in random directions but making sure that he was still heading away from the house. There was a good chance his parents were racing around the streets in their cars right now, hunting him down, but he didn't want to be found, so he couldn't risk slowing down even though his whole body was in pain and his lungs burned with each breath that sawed out of them.

It was dark by now, which he was grateful for since it meant he would be harder to find. He stuck to the smaller streets, avoided running through the pools of light cast by the streetlamps if he could. Every time he heard a car approaching he crouched behind a wall or a hedge, where he waited with trembling muscles and panicked eyes for it to pass.

It was only when the night reached a quiet stillness and he was jogging along a deserted country road that he allowed himself to slow to a walk. He had no idea where he was, but he knew he was miles from Westerville. He had been running for hours and he wildly hoped that his parents had abandoned their search for him by now; if they had even been searching at all and weren't just glad to be rid of him. There were lights in the distance and he walked until he reached them.

He was on a wide street with large houses set in even larger gardens on the outskirts of some town. The street dead-ended on an old, run-down house with a tangled, overgrown front yard with a battered ‘for sale' sign stuck in it. After glancing furtively along the street, he approached the house cautiously. It looked like it had been abandoned for months, if not years: the windows were dirty, the paint peeling, the façade weathered, and the path mossy. He gazed up at the house, thinking carefully.

He needed to get off the streets before he was caught by the police, or worse, and he needed somewhere safe to hide until he decided what he was going to do next. He shot a quick look around him again, but there were still no signs of life. He walked the perimeter of the house, checking it carefully: there was no sign of an alarm and one of the small side windows had been smashed.

Making up his mind, he approached the broken window, dumped his bag through it, and then wriggled carefully through it himself, avoiding the sharp edges of the broken glass. Once he was inside he scooped up his bag and looked around.

He was in a dusty room completely empty except for a large rock lying on the floor - clearly the cause of the broken window. He crept cautiously through the room into an equally dusty and deserted hallway. With his breath held and his muscles tensed for flight, he searched the entire ground floor, finding absolutely nothing. The house had clearly been empty for some time; there was no furniture anywhere, a thick layer of dust covered everything, and there were cobwebs all over the place.

Knowing the lower floor was too risky for him to stay on, he climbed the stairs, the thick dust muffling his footsteps. The upper floor was just as desolate - empty room after empty room. There was only himself and several dozen spiders here.

Pulling open the last door in the hall and mulling over which room would be the best to sleep in, Blaine blinked, his thoughts trailing off when he saw what was behind the door: not another room, but a short staircase. He climbed it, the wooden stairs creaking slightly under his weight, and found himself in a reasonably sized attic space. Unlike the rest of the house, it wasn't completely bare: there were a few cardboard boxes stacked in it which, on closer inspection, proved to be empty. A couple of small windows let in some street light, and there was no evidence of rats or water leaking in anywhere. It felt safe and secure, he would be able to hear anyone entering the house, and he doubted he would be found up here; it was perfect.

If anyone were to enter his house right now Kurt knew he would look absolutely ridiculous and probably just a little bit insane. It was almost ten o'clock and the house was in complete darkness, the only sound the occasional groan of a floorboard beneath his weight as he walked slowly through the house, using a flashlight to see.

He had felt ridiculous preparing for his search of the house - waiting until it was dark outside and late enough that he thought whatever it was he was looking for would be present, since he only ever heard the noises it made during the night. He had turned off all the lights to replicate the house when everyone was asleep and grabbed his dad's flashlight from the garage. He didn't know what he was looking for exactly, just that there was something in this house that disturbed the silence at night and took their food and his books.

Swinging the beam of light from the flashlight in his hand up to sweep along the ceiling, Kurt crept out of the living room into the hallway. After establishing that the ceiling was free of that something, he directed the light over to the stairs, moving the beam slowly up them until it hit the ceiling again. He had searched the whole ground floor and found nothing; it was time to move upstairs.

Carefully, so as to avoid making the stairs creak, Kurt climbed, his flashlight creating weird, elongated shadows on the wall beside him and causing him to freeze a couple of times, his heart skipping a beat as he glanced over his shoulder, thinking he had seen something move in the periphery of his vision, but it was only ever a shadow.

He entered Finn's bedroom first after sweeping the landing at the top of the stairs, wrinkling his nose at the jumble of clothes and video games on the floor. Thinking how easy it would be for something to hide in this mess, he gingerly picked his way through the room, toeing aside discarded jeans and shirts and shining the light into every nook and cranny. Just as he was stealing himself to shift a large, lumpy pile of who knew what next to Finn's bed, a soft thud came from above his head and he snapped both his gaze and the flashlight up to the ceiling.

He could have hit himself for being so stupid. "The attic," he muttered to himself. Why had he never thought to look up there until now? It was the best place for something to hide out in and it explained why all of the noises he'd heard during the night had seemed to have come from above his bedroom. He didn't think anyone had been up in the attic since the day they'd moved in when they'd stored a few boxes and crates up there.

Glad to have avoided searching Finn's room further, he hurried out into the dark hallway and along to the low door set at the end just next to his own bedroom door. He paused when he placed his hand on the handle, suddenly feeling more nervous than he had been throughout the rest of his search. He knew it was up there, whatever it was, he could feel it. Call it common sense or call it intuition; he knew.

Bracing himself and tightening his grip on his flashlight, he slowly turned the handle and opened the door to reveal the short flight of wooden stairs leading up into darkness. He twisted the end of the flashlight so the light dimmed before starting to climb the stairs as silently as he could with the faint light directed down at the floor.

Nothing jumped out at him when he reached the top, nothing moved, nothing made a sound. There was just a silent attic space, dark save for the faint light from the streetlights outside entering through the two small windows. He could sense something, though. A presence tickled at his awareness and he hesitantly raised his gaze from the floor and lifted the small, quivering circle of light from his flashlight to see the rest of the attic space.

There were the cardboard boxes and wooden crates Finn had put up here the day they moved in, things he had expected to see, but there were a number of things he hadn't expected to find: a satchel, similar to the one he used for school, leaned against one of the boxes and paper, pens, and a couple of books were stacked neatly on top of the box as if it was a desk; a toothbrush, toothpaste, some bottles, and what looked suspiciously like the hair comb Kurt had been searching for that morning laid on top of another box next to a tall bottle of water and a large plastic bowl; clothes were folded neatly on top of one wooden crate, with a couple of hoodies draped over it and shoes lined up in an orderly row on the floor next to it; some food, a plate, and some cutlery sat on another crate and more books were stacked on the floor.

With his heart pounding and the light trembling in his grasp, Kurt's wide eyes took in the pillow and blanket lying on the floor and finally the figure sitting against the wall under one of the windows, reading a book. He couldn't help it - he gasped out loud and the figure moved, leaping to their feet and jumping backwards. The light from one of the windows fell onto the face of a curly-haired teenage boy with panic-stricken hazel eyes.

The flashlight slipped from Kurt's numb hand and fell to the floor with a loud thud.