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The air in the Linda Vista Community Hospital was thick with more than just dust and the smell of mildew. It was heavy with the palpable tension between Shane and Ryan that had been building over the last few weeks. Usually, their banter was free flowing and as easy as breathing, With Shane’s unfailing scepticism acting as the perfect foil to Ryan’s high-strung belief.
Things had been a little tense since the announcement of “Get Scared” coming to a end, moving offices, and the more frequent budget meetings, But tonight after three days of minimal sleep and back-to-back shoots to meet production deadlines, the flow was stilted and edged with sharpness. They lingered in the hallway of the Main hospital wing, waiting on the crew to finish set up and B-roll filming for the next area.
"Ryan, for the last time, that 'thud' was literally just the building settling," Shane sighed, his flashlight beam cutting a lazy arc across the peeling wallpaper. "It’s eighty degrees out. The wood is expanding. It’s physics, not a phantom."
Ryan whirled around, his own light cutting through the oppressive darkness towards Shane. "It wasn't ‘settling wood', Shane! It was rhythmic. Like footsteps, But you wouldn't have heard it over the sound of you shooting down every piece of evidence I found tonight!"
"I didn’t hear footsteps, because there were no footsteps. You probably just heard your own heart thumping out of your chest from the constant cardiac arrest you border on every time we enter a room with less than 50% visibility." Shane retorted, his voice dripping with an uncharacteristic sharpness.
"You're just being petty and contrarian for the sake of it now," Ryan snapped, his face flushing. "It’s like I’m talking to a brick wall. Actually, I’d get more of a reaction out of a brick wall."
"Then go talk to one!" Shane shot back.
Ryan’s jaw tightened defiantly. He didn't say another word, He just turned on his heel and marched down the dark corridor, his heavy boots echoing against the linoleum.
"Ryan, come on, don't be a child!" Shane called out, but Ryan didn't stop. He needed air. He needed a minute away from Shane’s towering, smug indifference.
Ryan wandered deep into the East Wing, a place the locals called the "Silence Ward." His heart hammered against his ribs, fueled by a mixture of frustrated adrenaline and genuine hurt.
"Unbelievable," he muttered to himself, kicking a stray piece of debris. "I’m pouring my soul into this, trying to find proof, and he just... he just laughs. I wish he could understand me better. It’s like we’re speaking different languages. We aren't even on the same book, let alone page anymore.”
As those last words left his lips, the atmosphere shifted.
The air didn't just get cold, it felt like the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. A violent pop of pressure rang in his ears, similar to the sensation of a plane descending too quickly. Ryan’s head swam. The flashlight slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor and casting long, dizzying shadows.
He choked out a load gasp, reaching for a nearby gurney to steady himself. His fingers missed and he caught the edge of an old wooden side table instead, sending it crashing over as he collapsed. The world began to tilt and dim, and through the ringing in his ears he thought he heard a distant, panicked voice calling for him.
He tried to call back, but before he could the darkness of the room rose up to meet him.
...
"Ryan! Hey, hey, look at me! Open your eyes, man!"
Ryan became aware of Shane’s panicked voice first, sounding slightly muted to his still ringing ears. Ryan felt hands on his shoulders next, shaking him with a frantic energy that didn't match the Shane he knew.
He groaned, the back of his head throbbing. He opened his eyes hesitantly, his initial hazy vision clearing to reveal Shane’s face hovering inches from his own. Shane looked pale, his usual mask of careful indifference completely shattered by...Concern? Fear?
"Oh, thank god," Shane breathed, his voice cracking. "I think you hit your head pretty hard. Don't move, okay? Just... just stay still. Are you hurt anywhere else? Can you hear me?"
Ryan blinked, trying to clear the cobwebs. What happened to him? He opened his mouth to ask the same question.
“¿qué pasó?”
Both Ryan and Shane froze. Shane’s hands tightened slightly on Ryan’s shoulders and his expression shifted from concern to confusion. "What? Ryan, stop. That’s not funny. Are you okay?"
Ryan frowned. He tried again, slower this time.
“Shane, ¿qué me pasó? ¿Por qué me miras así?” (Shane, what happened to me? Why are you looking at me like that?)
Shane pulled back slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Okay, look, I get it. You're still mad at me. I’m sorry I was a jerk earlier, alright? I was tired. Please don’t do a bit right now Ry, You literally passed out man."
Ryan’s heart began to race. He wasn't doing a bit. He knew what he meant to say, but he had heard himself speaking and the words that left his mouth were not English. Everything he tried to say came out in fluent Spanish, a language he had only a passing, high-school-level knowledge of.
He gripped Shane’s forearm, his eyes wide with genuine panic.
"¡No es una broma! ¡No puedo hablar inglés! ¡Ayúdame!" (It’s not a bit! I can’t speak English! Help me!)
Shane’s initial skepticism flickered and died. He watched the way Ryan’s hands were shaking, the way his pupils were blown wide with terror. This wasn't the face of a man playing a prank. This was a man who was shaken with fear.
"Ryan..." Shane whispered, his voice trembling. "You’re not messing around are you?"
Ryan shook his head frantically, a tear of frustration escaping.
"No entiendo por qué está pasando esto." (I don't understand why this is happening) He whimpered, having no idea how to process this.
Shane looked around the dark, oppressive room of the Silence Ward, lost at how he could help Ryan in that moment.
"Okay, stay calm." Shane soothed, his voice dropped into a low, grounding tone as he reached out to pull Ryan into a sitting position. "To start we’re getting you out of this dusty old hospital right now. I’ve got you.”
He took off his Ghost Files jacket, draped it over Ryan’s shoulders and bundled him under his arm, giving support in case he passed out again. He made his way towards the entrance, firing off a text to the crew calling off the shoot and apologising for the last minute change of plans. He quickly requested an Uber, opting to pay premium for a faster pickup.
The ride back to Ryan’s apartment was the quietest, most anxious thirty minutes of Shane’s life. Ryan sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window at the passing streetlights, his hands tucked tightly under his thighs. Every time he tried to speak, he’d catch himself after the first syllable, his brow furrowing in a mix of anger and despair when the wrong sounds hit the air. Once they arrived Shane thanked the driver while Ryan all but tumbled out of the car, and power walked into his apartment building. Shane followed quickly after, still at a loss for what the next steps were.
Despite Ryan’s eagerness, even once he was inside the safety of his apartment and taking in the familiar surroundings and the smell of home, it did nothing to ease the tension in his chest from surreal nightmare he was in.
Shane hovered in the doorway, his hands fidgeting as he watched Ryan process. His own brain was working overtime trying to construct a scaffolding of logic to support a situation that was clearly collapsing.
“Okay...” Shane thought, pressing the heel of his hands into his eye sockets. “Think. People get hit in the head and wake up speaking other languages. It’s a thing. Foreign Accent Syndrome? No, that’s just the accent. Maybe... maybe he’s been secretly doing Duolingo for three years? Maybe he’s a closeted genius and the concussion just... rewired the circuit board?”
It was a weak theory. It was a pathetic theory. Shane struggled to even accept that the situation was a reality, let alone what could have triggered it.
"Here," Shane said, herding Ryan into the living room and on to the sofa. “Rest. You probably just have a concussion. Everything will look different in the morning. Your brain just needs to... reboot. Like a router."
Ryan took a seat, his eyes tracking Shane with a haunting intensity. "Gracias." he murmured. He looked down at this hands, his shoulders slumped. “Siento que estoy perdiendo la cabeza. no puedo encontrar las palabras.”(I feel like I'm losing my mind. I can't find the words.)
"Right. Totally. 'Rebooting,'" Shane muttered, having understood exactly zero percent of that. “Come on, to bed with you.”
After fetching some ibuprofen and making sure Ryan had drunk some water then changed into a t-shirt, Shane steered him toward the bedroom. The exhaustion was finally hitting them both, a heavy, leaden weight that made Shane’s limbs feel like they were made of stone. The argument they'd had earlier felt like it had happened a lifetime ago, a lingering spirit from a different reality.
"Okay," Shane said, standing in the doorway as Ryan climbed into bed. "I’m gonna... I’m gonna head out. I’ll leave my phone on loud. If you feel dizzy or start puking, you call me and I’ll come back and take you to the ER, okay? Wait, the Spanish thing... Or just text me. Emojis work in every language, right?"
Shane turned to leave, his hand already on the doorframe.
"¡Shane, espera!"(Shane, wait!) Ryan called out.
Shane paused, looking back. "What? You need more water?"
"No te vayas, por favor." (Don't go, please.) Ryan said, his voice small. "No quiero estar solo. Tengo miedo de que si me duermo, me despertaré y no recordaré quién eres."(I don't want to be alone. I'm afraid that if I fall asleep, I'll wake up and not remember who you are.)
Shane sighed, rubbing his face. "Ryan, I don't know what you're saying, buddy. Just get some sleep."
He took a step into the hallway, but before he could clear the threshold, he felt a sharp tug. Ryan had lunged forward, his fingers snagging the hem of Shane’s shirt.
Shane stopped in his tracks, looking down at the hand with a vice grip on his clothes. He looked up to find Ryan staring at him, his expression raw and pleading. Ryan didn't say another word; instead, he reached out and patted the mattress beside him, then pointed to the floor next to the bed.
The message was universal. Don't leave me here alone.
The bravado Shane usually wore like armor finally cracked. He saw the sheer fear in his friend’s eyes. The fear of being trapped in a world where he couldn't be understood by the people he trusts and cares about most.
"Okay," Shane whispered, his voice softening. "Okay, I'm staying. Relax."
He gently pried Ryan’s hand off his shirt and guided him back under the covers. He watched as Ryan sank back into the pillows, a visible wave of relief washing over him. Shane dragged the heavy armchair from the corner of the room to the side of the bed, wanting to keep watch in case Ryan needed anything during the night. He sat down, leaning his head back against the upholstery and stretching his long legs out.
"I'm right here.” Shane soothed, his gaze drifting from the ceiling to look at Ryan’s face barely peaking over the thick comforter. "I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure it out tomorrow. We’ll go to a doctor, or... I don't know, a linguist. Or an exorcist. Whatever you want."
Ryan reached out, his hand resting briefly on the arm of Shane’s chair before he let his eyes close. "Gracias, Shane. Eres un idiota, pero gracias."(Thanks, Shane. You're an idiot, but thanks.)
Shane gaze drifted away after he noted Ryan’s breathing even out. "I have a feeling you just insulted me," Shane muttered, a tiny, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "But since I can't understand you, I'm going to assume you said I’m the best Ghoul-friend you’ve ever had."
He closed his eyes, the silence of the apartment finally feeling less like an oppressive barrier and more like a temporary truce.
The morning sun poked cruelly through the blinds of Ryan’s bedroom what seemed like minutes later. Shane was already awake, perched in the armchair like a gargoyle, his hair a mess and his eyes bloodshot. He looked like he’d been holding his breath for six hours.
Ryan sat up, rubbing his eyes as the memories of the previous day flooded back. He felt the weight of the week's exhaustion in his bones as well as a dull ache in his head. He looked at Shane, hoping, maybe even praying that the overnight "reboot" had worked.
"Morning," Shane whispered tentatively, his voice hopeful.
Ryan opened his mouth. "Buenos días, Shane. ¿Dormiste algo?" (Morning Shane. Did you get any sleep?)
The silence that followed was deafening. Shane’s shoulders slumped, the hope draining out of him in a single, heavy exhale. "Still Spanish. Right. Okay. New plan."
Ryan looked dejected and flopped back onto his pillow in despair.
“Hey! None of that now.” Shane admonished as he slapped his knees in determination. “Shake a leg, we have tests to conduct and theories to debunk. We’re not going to take this laying down.”
“Dios dame fuerzas.”(God give me strength.) Ryan groaned, accepting his fate.
The following seven days were a blur of frustration and bizarre waiting rooms. Shane took charge with a frantic, protective energy that Ryan had never seen before.
The first doctor diagnosed "atypical aphasia", but the MRI showed a perfectly healthy brain.
The psychiatrist suggested it was a psychosomatic response to extreme stress. Ryan yelled at him in Spanish for forty minutes.
The second doctor suggested “Foreign Language Syndrome” (A bilingual person who forgets their native language) not listening when Shane explained that Ryan wasn’t ever bilingual. The Doctor snorted condescendingly.
“Of course he is, look at him. He’s Mexican isn’t he?”.
Shane yelled at him in English for forty minutes.
The Priest Performed a minor blessing. Ryan didn't catch fire, but he didn't start speaking English, either.
The Hypnotist managed to make Ryan believe he was a chicken for ten minutes, but even then, he clucked with a distinctly Spanish inflection.
By day eight, they stayed back at Ryan’s apartment, defeated and exhausted.
Shane was hunched over his laptop at the dining table editing, Ryan assumed, and listening to music. Ryan himself was sprawled out on the sofa, staring at the ceiling fan as it spun lazily. He felt like a ghost in his own life.
"Esto es el fin, ¿verdad?"(This is the end, right?) Ryan muttered to the ceiling. "¿Cómo vamos a seguir con el show? No hay 'Watcher' si no podemos hablar. No hay nada." (How are we going to continue with the show? There is no “Watcher” if we cant talk. There is nothing.)
He rolled onto his side, looking at the back of Shane's head. “Y lo peor es... nunca te lo dije. Pasamos años en sótanos y cementerios oscuros y nunca tuve el coraje. Ahora estoy atrapado hablando de esta manera y nunca sabrás que estoy perdidamente enamorado de ti. Eres un idiota frustrante y contrario a la corriente, Shane Madej, pero eres mío." (And the worst thing is... I never told you. We spent years in dark basements and cemeteries and I never had the courage. Now I'm stuck talking this way and you'll never know that I'm madly in love with you. You're a frustrating, contrarian idiot, Shane Madej, but you're mine.)
Suddenly, the clicking of the keyboard stopped. Shane let out a sharp, strangled gasp.
Ryan sat up, startled by the noise. Shane was staring at him, his mouth slack, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and sheer disbelief.
"You..." Shane's whispered, his voice coated with uncertainty. "You love me?"
Ryan froze. His heart skipped a few beats, then began to hammer against his ribs in double time. He pointed at Shane in panic, then at his own mouth and ear, his whole being portraying a frantic question mark. How?
Shane slowly reached up and tapped a small, white earphone nestled in his right ear. He turned his laptop screen so Ryan could see the complex looking translation software.
"I... I wanted to hear you," Shane said, his voice trembling. "I’ve been testing out different live translation services. I wanted us to be able to talk while eating dinner, this one just finished installing and i was testing it out. I heard everything, Ry."
Ryan felt the heat rush to his face. He scrambled to find words, his hands flying in a frantic attempt to backtrack, to explain, to hide. "¡No! Yo... quiero decir... ¡Shane, espera! Nunca quise decir—". (No! I... I mean... Shane, wait! I never meant-)
Shane didn't let him finish. He was up off his chair in a second, crossing the room with two long strides. He grabbed Ryan’s face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over Ryan’s cheekbones.
"Don't take it back," Shane begged, a radiant, genuine smile breaking across his face. "Please don't take it back. Because I’ve been sitting in that chair for a week thinking I’d lost my best friend, and all I could think about was how I never told you the same thing."
Ryan’s breath hitched. Shane leaned in, hesitant for only a fraction of a second, before closing the gap.
The kiss wasn't like the movies. It was a little clumsy, and tasted of too much coffee and a weeks worth of desperation, but magical in the same way everything else they did together was. As they pulled apart, Ryan felt a strange sensation. It wasn’t the oppressive "pop" of the infirmary, but a warm, rushing hum that started in his chest and radiated outward.
Ryan blinked, dazed. He looked at Shane, his mind feeling suddenly... clear.
"I love you Shane,." he whispered.
They both froze. Shane’s eyes went wide.
"Say that again," Shane breathed.
“I love you Shane! Oh my god. Shane, I’m speaking! You can understand me again!" Ryan lunged forward throwing his arms around Shane’s neck, laughing with a hysterical relief when Shane clutched him back. "It’s gone! The... the whatever-it-was! It’s gone!"
...
An hour later, they were sitting on the floor, leaning against the sofa, still buzzing with adrenaline.
"See?" Ryan said, nudging Shane’s shoulder. "I told you. It was a curse. A real, supernatural curse that could only be broken by true love's kiss. That’s some Disney-level haunting shit right there, Admit it!". Shane rolled his eyes in exasperation, though he didn't pull away. Shane looked at Ryan, his expression softening into that warm, private gaze he usually only reserved for when the cameras were off.
"Statistically speaking," Shane began, his sceptical reflex kicking in, "the major surge of dopamine and oxytocin probably just triggered a neurological reset. Your brain was in a trauma-loop and the emotional shock broke the cycle. It’s science, Ryan."
Ryan grinned, leaning his head on Shane’s shoulder. "Sure, Shane. Keep telling yourself that. But you felt it, didn't you... The sparks? The magic?”
Shane went quiet for a moment. He looked down at their intertwined hands and felt that same undeniable, hum of warmth. The kind that didn't have a scientific equation or a logical explanation behind it.
"Okay," Shane conceded softly, kissing the top of Ryan's head. "Maybe there’s a little truth to it. But we are never, ever telling the fans about the 'True Love's Kiss' thing. I have a reputation to uphold."
"Too late," Ryan laughed. "I'm putting it in the season finale."
Bonus Scene
The return to the Linda Vista Community Hospital felt different. The air was still cold, and the shadows were still long, but the jagged tension that had nearly broken them a over week ago was long gone, replaced by a quiet, steady warmth.
As they walked through the East Wing, Shane was uncharacteristically silent. He didn't lag behind to investigate unique architecture or make sweeping gestures of disbelief. Instead, he stayed close... so close that their shoulders frequently bumped, and Ryan felt his looming presence behind him at all times. Shane’s hand hovered near the small of Ryan's back, a silent, protective tether.
"You okay?" Ryan whispered, glancing up at him.
"Fine," Shane said, though his grip on his flashlight was tight and his eyes didn’t falter from their constant vigilance. "Just... keeping an eye on the floor. Don't want you tripping over any more tables."
The location guide stopped them in the center of the Silence Ward, the very spot where Ryan had collapsed. The guide’s voice lowered, echoing off the damp walls.
"There’s a reason this place is called the Silence Ward," the guide began. "In the late 1920s, a woman was brought here. She hadn't been injured, but she had lost every bit of her ability to communicate. She couldn't speak, couldn't write...it was as if the concept of language had simply vanished from her mind. They never found out who she was, or where she came from. She spent thirty years in this wing, a ghost before she even died, with no family to claim her and no one to hear her story. They say she still wanders here, looking for someone who finally understands what it's like to be unheard."
Ryan felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty windows. He looked at the spot where he had fallen, remembering the terrifying "pop" of the air and the way the world had shuddered under his feet.
He felt the red strings connect on his mental theory board. He realized that what happened was never intended to be a curse, It was a lost spirit answering him. “I wish he could understand me better...” Ryan had said. The spirit had given him a taste of her own, true isolation so that he would realize just how loud his life truly was.
While the crew started recovering the static cams, Ryan stepped away for a moment. He looked into the dark corner of the ward and whispered, "Thank you. For showing me how lucky I am. I can hear him now, properly. And I promise I won't stop talking."
Beside him, Shane stepped into Ryan’s space, looking at him with a soft, questioning expression. "You good, buddy?"
Ryan smiled, a real, bright thing. "Yeah. I’m better than good. Let’s finish this."
They made their way to the front entrance to film the outro infront of the heavy iron gates to the infirmary. The sun already set, painting the brickwork in shades of bruised purple.
"Well," Ryan said to the camera, his voice steady and familiar. "That’s it for the Linda Vista Community Hospital. Whether it’s an unexplainable anomaly, a lonely spirit, or a drafty hallway, I think it’s safe to say this place leaves a mark on you. Shane, you ready to get out of here?"
Shane turned to Ryan, his face perfectly serine.
"Tak, jestem gotowy. Chodźmy do domu." (Yes, I'm ready. Let's go home)
The world stopped. Ryan’s heart plummeted into his stomach and his brain halted like a record scratch. The flashlight in his hand shook as he stared at Shane, his eyes wide with a burgeoning, horrific panic.
"Shane?" Ryan croaked, his voice hesitant. "Shane, what did you just say? Oh god, Not you. Not again!"
Shane stared back, blinking innocently. "Co masz na myśli, Ryanie?" (What do you mean, Ryan?)
"Shane! Stop it! We have to go back in! We have to find the lady!" Ryan was practically vibrating, his hands reaching out to grab Shane’s jacket and tug his back towards the door.
Suddenly, a sharp, wheezing giggle broke through Shane’s stoic mask. He buckled over, clutching his stomach as he let out a loud, cackling laugh that echoed across the grounds.
"Yo-your face!" Shane managed to gasp out, turning to the crew to call cut, while wiping a tear from his eye. "I spent the whole drive over on Duolingo, speed running some Polish phrases."
Ryan stood frozen, his hands still clenched in Shane’s shirt. The sheer panic was slowly being replaced by a hot, indignant flush of annoyance.
"You... you absolute bastard," Ryan hissed, though his bottom lip was quivering with a repressed laugh of his own. "I thought you were cursed! I was about to dig out the Ouija board to contact the Silent Lady!"
“Hey, I just wanted to test the 'True Love's Kiss' theory," Shane murmured out of earshot of the crew, leaning down so they were eye-to-eye. "You know. For science. I wanted to see if the cure worked on sceptics, too."
Ryan rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt, but he didn't let go of Shane’s shirt. He looked over at the camera crew, who were busy packing up the van and paying no attention to them.
"You're an idiot." Ryan muttered.
"But I'm your idiot." Shane winked at him, echoing Ryan's words from the week before.
Ryan tugged on Shane’s lapels, pulling him toward a shadowed corner of the infirmary's outer wall, away from the prying eyes of the crew.
"You want to test the theory, Madej?" Ryan challenged with a smirk playing on his lips. He let himself fall to lean against the wall, his grip on the jacket pulled Shane forward with the momentum and flush against him. "Fine. But we're going to need a lot of data points to make it a sound analysis."
Shane’s smirk softened into something much warmer, much more real. "I’m a man of science, Bergara. I’m prepared to stay here all night in the name of research."
As they stepped into the shadows to commence their experiment, the Silent Lady observed them from afar. Not out of loneliness or frustration this time, but because finally, everything that needed to be said had been heard.