Ethan Ward stood in the main hall of The Haunted Haven, the rusted Patient 0 tag from St. Mary’s Asylum cold in his hand. The morning light streamed through the cracked windows, glinting off the tag’s etched surface, but it didn’t ease the weight pressing on his chest. His mom’s voice—Free them—echoed from the asylum chamber below, a lifeline to his parents trapped in the Haven’s signal. The journal lay open on the ticket counter, his dad’s sketch of the asylum wing staring back, a note scrawled beside it: The cries are the key.

Sophie Bennett leaned against the counter, twirling her wrench like a fidget toy, her blonde ponytail swaying. “So,” she said, breaking the quiet, “we’ve got a haunted locket, a magic key, and now a patient tag. Feels like we’re collecting ghost bingo cards. What’s next, boss?”

Ethan pocketed the tag beside the locket and badge, his flashlight already in hand. “More digging,” he said, voice low. “Lydia said the lost are part of the signal—my parents too. We free them, we find them. Simple.”

“Simple as ghost hunting gets,” Sophie said, grinning. “Think Red Dress will give us a hand, or is she still on the ‘leave or die’ train?”

Before Ethan could answer, a sharp knock rattled the front door. He frowned, glancing at Sophie. “We’re not open yet. Who’s that?”

She peeked through a window, her grin fading. “Tall guy, fancy coat, looks like he’s got a PhD in brooding. Not a tourist.”

Ethan crossed to the door, unease coiling in his gut, and yanked it open. A man stood there—mid-forties, lean and sharp-edged, his dark coat pristine against the Haven’s decay. His hair was graying at the temples, his eyes cold and piercing, like he’d already dissected Ethan and found him wanting. “Ethan Ward?” he asked, voice smooth but clipped.

“Yeah,” Ethan said, arms crossed. “And you are?”

“Dr. Nathaniel Pierce,” the man replied, stepping inside uninvited. He scanned the hall—fake skeletons, creaky doors—with a faint smirk. “Psychologist. Researcher. And, once, a colleague of your parents.”

Ethan’s pulse spiked, but he kept his face blank. “Colleague? Funny, they never mentioned you.”

“They wouldn’t,” Pierce said, his gaze landing on the journal. “Our work wasn’t… public.” He moved toward the counter, his stride deliberate, and Sophie stepped in front of him, wrench in hand.

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“Easy, doc,” she said, her tone light but firm. “No browsing without a ticket.”

Pierce raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering. “Charming. But I’m not here for the tour.” He turned to Ethan, his smirk fading. “I’m here about the Haven. And that.” He nodded at the radio in the office, its silhouette faint through the door.

Ethan’s hand tightened on the flashlight. “What do you know about it?”

“More than you,” Pierce said, stepping closer. “Your parents and I built it—the radio, the signal, all of it. A project to tap into what lies beneath—frequencies of the lost, the broken, the dead. They called it the Haven’s voice.”

Sophie’s eyes widened, but Ethan didn’t flinch. “Bullshit. They ran a ghost house, not a science lab.”

“Did they?” Pierce’s voice sharpened. “John Ward was a genius—electronics, acoustics. Mary tempered him, kept him human. I pushed them further. We found the signal below Hopeville, a resonance of trapped souls. The Haven was our anchor—until they went too deep.”

“Too deep?” Ethan’s chest tightened, the journal’s words flashing—The signal’s alive. “You mean the threshold?”

Pierce nodded, his gaze cold. “A boundary between here and there. They crossed it, chasing the lost. I warned them it was unstable—uncontrollable—but they wouldn’t stop.” He paused, a flicker of something—regret?—crossing his face. “Then they vanished. I thought it was over. Until I heard you’d reopened this place.”

Sophie gripped her wrench tighter. “So you’re the brains behind the haunted boombox? Why show up now?”

“Because it’s waking,” Pierce said, his voice dropping. “Every task you complete, every lock you turn, the signal grows louder. You’re not just freeing them—you’re breaking the Haven open.”

Ethan stepped forward, anger flaring. “Good. If they’re trapped, I’m getting them out. You wanna help, spill it. Where are they?”

Pierce studied him, then sighed—a sound more resigned than sympathetic. “Below. Past the threshold, in the signal’s heart. But you can’t control it—not with that key, not with grit. It’ll take you too.”

“Then why’s it calling me?” Ethan demanded, pulling the locket out. “My mom’s voice—she said ‘free them.’ Why?”

Pierce’s eyes narrowed, landing on the locket. “Sentimental keepsake? Or bait?” He reached for it, but Ethan yanked it back, his jaw tight. “They’re part of it now—the signal feeds on them, uses them. You’re the hook to pull it wider.”

“Enough riddles,” Ethan snapped. “Help or get out.”

Pierce smirked, stepping back. “I’ll help—when you’re ready to listen. Until then, enjoy your game. But know this: the Haven’s alive, Ethan. And it’s hungrier than you think.” He turned, coat swishing, and slipped out the door, leaving a chill in his wake.

Sophie exhaled, lowering her wrench. “Well, he’s a ray of sunshine. Think he’s legit?”

“Maybe,” Ethan said, staring at the radio. “He knows too much—about them, about this place.” He flipped the journal open, landing on a page he’d missed—his dad’s scrawl: Pierce says it’s a trap. Mary disagrees. Signal’s alive. Below it, his mom’s note: Hope’s the key.

“Hope,” Ethan murmured, the locket warm in his hand. “They trusted it.”

“Then we do too,” Sophie said, her grin returning. “Next move?”

Ethan nodded, the radio silent but looming. “We keep going. Pierce or not, we’re cracking this open.” The Haven’s voice was calling—and he wasn’t letting it win.