Chapter Text
Chapter One: Sunday
Katherine hadn't yet gotten used to the way the hotel swayed around her, wood groaning under her every step, and the whistling of whispers lost in the dust.
Her relationship with the ghosts was rocky at best, downright hostile at worst. She saw them as a nuisance and a serious weakness in bringing in business. They saw her as strict, rude, and an intruder—not that she cared what they thought about her.
The hotel had many problems, not limited to the supernatural: leaking pipes, rotting wood, peeling wallpaper, all things on an endless To-Do list. It was a mountain for Katherine to tackle, and she was determined not to fail.
If someone a year ago had told her that she would be running a ghost-infested hotel that her brother left to her after his death, she would have laughed in their face.
Out of the two of them, Nathan would be the one to die first. He was impulsive, naive, and ridiculously irresponsible. He always had been, but Katherine cared about him nonetheless.
As his family, it was her duty to worry about him. Tied by blood, everything in her life always led back to him, whether she wanted it to or not.
As his family, it was her duty to take on the mantle of hotel owner and make this shit work.
Admittedly, Katherine wanted absolutely nothing to do with this hotel. It was a money pit, a logistical nightmare, and quite frankly, a pain in the ass. She, in her right mind, would have never come within fifty feet of the Undervale.
But she wasn't in her right mind. She hasn't been since she found out Nathan killed himself.
Katherine received the call on a Sunday.
She sweeps the kitchen floors, humming to herself. Her phone buzzes in her pocket, and she stops, pulling it out. She freezes when she saw the number.
Undervale Hotel
Nathan. What does he want?
Katherine reluctantly presses 'answer' and holds the phone up to her ear, "Hello?"
Silence.
"Nathan? Why are you calling me from the hotel's line?"
Heavy breathing. Someone was definitely on the other line, but they didn't say a word.
"Hello? Is anyone there? Nathan?"
What is going on?
"Can you hear me? Hello?"
"Aunt Kathy." The voice drifted over the static, cracking and small.
"Oh! Abaddon!" Katherine sets the broom against the kitchen counter. "Why are you calling?"
Silence.
Jesus, what a weird kid. "Abaddon? Hello?"
No response.
"Is something wrong?"
"I–I..." The kid sniffles.
"Is everything okay?"
"My dad. He's-he's–" He breaks out into choked, wet sobs, tearing at Katherine's heartstrings.
"Hey, hey, honey, slow down. What's wrong?" Katherine speaks softly, attempting to soothe the crying child over the phone.
"He's dead."
Everything slows down to a stop. Katherine can’t breathe.
"Wha–what? What do you mean, Nathan's dead?"
Abaddon shrieks incoherently over the phone.
PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER.
She inhales, "I'm calling 911, okay? Just stay where you are, please. It's gonna be okay, sweetie. I'm heading down there right now, just be brave for me, okay? It's going to be okay, honey–"
Sounds of shuffling crackles over the line.
"Hello?? Abaddon? Are you there?"
Silence.
"Hello? Can you hear me?"
Silence.
Goddamn it.
She hung up, dialing 911 with shaking fingers. While it rang, she mumbled to herself, it's fine, it's going to be fine!
"911, what's the address of your emergency?"
"Hi. The address is um, 13 Elm Boulevard. I need someone to go there right now. Please." She tries not to break out into tears.
HOLD IT TOGETHER.
"And what's the situation, ma'am?"
"I think–...I just got a call from my nephew. He said that his dad is um..." She couldn't bring herself to say it out loud; the word was too heavy, too sticky.
"What did he say about his dad?"
"He said that he's dead," she chokes out.
"Okay. Are you at the residence?"
"No, I'm at my apartment two hours away. Can you please send someone to check on them?"
Ben pokes his head around the corner, "Hey, Mom, could you–"
Katherine holds up her hand with a wet glare.
"Sorry!" he whispers, backing away. But Katherine could still see his shadow looming around the corner, eavesdropping.
"Yes. What's your nephew's name?"
Katherine inhales a shuddering breath, "Abaddon Freeling."
"And what is his dad's name?"
"Nathaniel Freeling."
"Okay. We'll send some people over to make sure they're okay. Is the number you’re calling from okay to give you a call back on?”
“Yes.” Her stomach twisted; she felt like throwing up.
“Help is on the way. I’m going to disconnect, but if anything changes, you call us back immediately.”
Katherine pulls the phone away from her ear, seeing the ‘Call Ended’ flash across the screen. She steps back, gripping the kitchen counter with her hands.
HOLD IT TOGETHER. HOLD IT TOGETHER. HOLD IT TOGETHER.
"Mom?" Ben hesitantly steps back into the kitchen, "What was that about?"
Katherine turns around, plastering a fake smile on her face, "Nothing you need to worry about. I'm gonna head out for a few hours. Can you watch your sister for me?"
"Uh, yeah. Sure." Ben's eyebrows furrow, but he didn't press the matter.
She grabs her purse and keys, practically running out the door.
There's no way he's dead. I'm sure he's fine. Everything is fine. It's going to be fine.
Flashing red and blue lights illuminate the hotel's courtyard from two police cars.
Good, they're here—Nathan's fine.
Katherine parks, sliding out of the car and rushing into the hotel.
Two police officers stand in the lobby, quietly conversing. They look up at her entrance.
"Hi!" She approaches them, out of breath, "I'm Katherine, Nathan's sister. I'm the one who called. Is Nathan okay?"
The officers exchange a glance. One spoke, his tone rough like stone, "I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm afraid that Nathaniel has died."
The pause hangs in the heavy, choking, and wet.
"We arrived at the scene about two hours ago. The cause of death appears to be suicide by overdose."
Katherine couldn't speak; her throat was stuffed full of cotton.
"I can give you the contact information of the coroner."
"What–what about Abaddon? Where is he? Is he okay?" she forces out.
The officer raises his eyebrows, "Who?"
"His son. Where is he? He was the one who called me. Please tell me he's okay."
The officers exchange a glance, "We haven't seen any children. We'll take a look around, we'll find him."
KEEP IT TOGETHER.
Katherine only nodded, trying not to cry.
Now she was stuck with a hopeless hotel.
The singular missed call from him before he committed suicide brought Katherine an insane amount of guilt.
She hadn't been in the mood to entertain him. She regretted not picking up his call.
Katherine regretted a lot of things.
Dropping out of college, marrying Ron, giving Nathan so much money, and enabling his behavior; a list of endless guilts.
She had always sworn to herself that she would make a name for herself. To be strong, independent, and a hell of a woman.
But here she stood, recently divorced, in a hotel she never asked for.
She knew the past year had been hard on the kids, too. They have moved twice, lost their dad, and gotten tangled up in this mess.
Katherine tried not to hold a grudge against Nathan. But truth be told, she did.
For giving her this hotel, for not talking to her, for wrapping up her kids in this, for fucking killing himself and not leaving any clues as to why, not even a note.
But Katherine couldn't even talk to him about all of this.
Maybe that was for the best. It would probably dissolve into a screaming match.
His kid, Abaddon, was missing too. He had disappeared after the phone call without a trace. Katherine tried to look for him, filing a missing person's report and putting up posters, but there was no sign of the kid anywhere.
It was easier to focus on finding a missing kid than thinking about her brother. She obsessed over it. If she wasn’t working on the hotel, she was making phone calls, being out and about, or printing more posters.
Statistically, if a child wasn't found within seventy-two hours of disappearing, it was extremely likely that they would never be found.
It's been two months.
Katherine didn’t like to think about that.
She had to find him for Nathan. It’s what he would’ve wanted. It was the least she could do after what she and their family did for his funeral.
Sunday sun beating down on her slumped shoulders, she stood amongst the crowd, squinting. The bright white snow glitters in the light, shining like crushed diamonds. Tainted by man, its surface is scattered with footsteps, staining it with ugly shades of brown and gray.
A man, a pastor, stands at the graveside, reciting Bible verses.
Nathan would've hated this.
Nothing about this is what he wanted.
He didn't have a will, but since they were teenagers, he told Katherine exactly how he wanted his funeral to look—nothing like this: people clothed in black, gathered around an empty grave.
Mom cremated his body.
Katherine didn’t say anything to her about his wishes. Bringing up the morbid idea of his body being launched into a pit of tigers didn’t feel appropriate at the moment.
There were many things wrong with this funeral: the sun, the people, the pastor, the empty grave, and her dry cheeks.
She didn’t cry.
It was supposed to rain at funerals. The people at the funerals were supposed to be there because they genuinely cared for the person, not just because they happened to be related. The pastor was supposed to say something meaningful that would touch all of their hearts.
And Katherine was supposed to cry.
But something inside her shattered the day Nathan died.
She shouldn't leave her kids alone. Not on a day like this.
That was the thing about motherhood: it was a never-ending revolving door of sacrifices. Nathan was her brother, sure, but he was also their uncle. This was their first major loss in their life; they didn't know how to handle it. She should be there for her kids on the day of his funeral.
In the night, Katherine slipped out, grabbing her keys and her purse.
She drove aimlessly, no destination in mind. Letting her hands guide her, she drove in silence.
She just needed an hour to herself.
Putting the car in park on the curb, she realizes that she drove all the way to her old house—the house she bought with Ron.
She got the house in the divorce, but she had to sell it. It was too expensive for her on her own salary.
Katherine loved that house; it was her dream home: two floors, three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a decently sized yard. The kitchen had built-in shelving for spices, beautiful shutters for the windows, and she had painted all the walls to her liking.
She was a control freak. All her life, she spent scrambling for even just a crumb of control in the endless spiral. It brought her solace, comfort, and peace.
In that house, there were so many things she couldn't control. Ant infestation, the dishwasher leaking (they had to replace the kitchen flooring), and Ron's nightly routine of getting drunk off beer while watching TV.
They got into a lot of fights about his drinking.
Katherine didn't like him drinking around the kids. Ron insisted it was his house, so he could do what he pleased (it wasn't his; it was in Katherine's name). As it turns out, having a credit score of two hundred ninety-nine doesn't look good on a mortgage application.
She thought she could control him (she couldn't): his bad business ventures, his standoffish behavior towards the kids, and his drinking.
And she couldn't let him go.
The divorce was a twelve-year buildup of financial problems, arguments, and sexual frustration.
Ron and Katherine were always arguing: if not about his drinking, then about his gross habits (leaving jars open, not washing his laundry, not flushing the toilet, etc.), and if not about either of those, then about money.
Ron and Katherine stopped having sex after Esther was born. He said that her body 'didn't look the same anymore' and she should 'lose some weight'.
Another thing she couldn't control—her body. No matter how much she exercised or dieted, she couldn't lose that little bit of baby fat clinging to her stomach and thighs.
His comments about her body made her spiral into postpartum depression. Raising two kids basically alone was difficult enough, but with the gnarled monster in the back of her mind whispering awful things about her, it certainly didn't help.
The breaking point came cracking down on her on a Sunday night.
Ron had been drinking, as usual, watching some stupid football game. Katherine came home after a long day of work to find him passed out drunk on the couch.
She woke him up to yell at him. He hadn’t been watching the kids all day.
They had a screaming match.
Something was different this night, maybe it was the phase of the moon, or the position of the stars, or fate, or maybe it was just the heat of the moment.
Ron slapped her.
Katherine packed up the kids that night and got a motel room. She filed for divorce shortly after.
She tolerated a lot of his shit, but physical abuse crossed the line.
Katherine rests her head on the steering wheel.
She was supposed to be the good one. The perfect one. The golden child. The one who went to college, earned a degree, built a successful career, and gave her mother grandchildren.
She supposed that, in comparison to how Nathan turned out, she was the better of the two.
Internally cursing, she hated herself for thinking like that. She shouldn’t think like that. Not about Nathan. She shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.
But she was so fucking angry.
Angry at Nathan for constantly using her as a source of money, a source for venting, and a source for an alibi. For constantly making stupid decisions and expecting her to bail him out. For falling into holes, he couldn’t dig himself out of for forcing her to be the responsible one, the reliable one, the steady one.
Katherine didn’t want to be the responsible one anymore. She wanted to crawl away into the night and start over. She wanted to run.
But she couldn’t. As if she were cursed, she couldn’t think of herself first. Everything had always been about Nathan, about Ron, about her kids. Everything had always been about someone else.
This was never meant to be her life, something she could control, something she could call her own. She was born only to erase everyone else's mistakes and be better—control herself.
And she was so fucking angry that Nathan killed himself.
Her vision went blurry, her eyes stinging.
Maybe if I had answered his phone call.
Maybe if I had tried to help more.
Maybe if I came over and talked him out of it.
Maybe if I hadn’t said all of those awful things to him.
Maybe if I were better.
Her chest heaves with violent sobs, hot tears streaming down her cheeks.
Why didn’t I answer?
Why didn’t I try to help?
Why didn’t I visit?
Why did I yell at him?
Why is it so hard for me to just BE BETTER HAVE CONTROL?
Shadows against light, flitting in the windows.
Katherine looks up, seeing two figures standing by the house’s front window. They laugh, pulling each other into a close embrace.
WHY CAN’T THAT BE ME?
She clenches her jaw, biting back a scream.
She cries, alone, in her car, sitting in front of the house that wasn’t hers anymore.
The grief affected each of Katherine’s kids differently.
Ben stopped sleeping. At night, Katherine heard him moving around in his bedroom. He was always a quiet, sensitive kid, but after Nathan's death, he spent much more time in his room.
Esther started getting into physical fights at school. In the two months they've lived in Midwich, she's been suspended three times.
Katherine knew they both desperately needed therapy. But since she had to quit her job, she no longer had health insurance. She couldn't afford therapy.
She tried to sit down and talk to them about it, about their feelings. Esther denied being emotional, and Ben just dodged her questions and made awkward attempts at jokes.
But the avoidance of the difficult conversations didn't distract her from the fact that she heard them both crying in their rooms at night.
There had to be something she could do to help them. Maybe there was a therapist out there who was really cheap. Maybe online therapy. Just anything.
Katherine couldn't live like this anymore. She felt like a stranger to her own kids. She was starting to go crazy.
She missed Ben's random 'fun facts', and Esther's countered 'unfun facts'. She missed Ben clinging to her all day and having to practically peel him off her. She missed stopping Esther from performing rituals on the kitchen table. She missed her kids.
She supposed a part of all of them died the day Nathan died.
Scrolling, searching, she found the only therapist in all of Midwich—someone named Mikaela Lindberg.
It was worth a try.
She sent an email.