Thoughts of Junie

Junie| Thoughts of Junie -The House at The End of The Street – Chapter 6

The orchard’s scent still clung to her coat—apples, cinnamon, and sun-warmed earth—but the feeling it had brought, that fleeting sense of peace, vanished the moment Harper pulled into her driveway.

The sky had gone dark. Salem Oaks was quiet the way only small towns can be—too quiet. Her headlights washed over the familiar curve of her parents’ porch, and for a moment, everything looked normal. Safe. Home.

Then she saw it.

A small rectangle fluttering against the door, caught in the breeze. Something white, taped just below the peephole.

Harper’s steps slowed as she approached, the sound of leaves crunching underfoot suddenly too loud. The closer she got, the colder her hands felt. The note wasn’t from her mom. It wasn’t a delivery slip. And it wasn’t anything good.

Her heart beat once, hard.

She peeled the paper from the door.

Scrawled in thick, uneven handwriting—almost carved into the page—were five words:

“You won’t escape from me.”

She stared at it, unable to blink.

The note fluttered slightly in her fingers as she stood frozen, her breath caught somewhere in her throat.

It had no name. No signature. Just a sentence that felt like a shadow wrapping around her chest.

Eden.

Her first instinct was to rush inside, call her daughter’s name—but her parents had taken Eden to a family dinner across town. She was safe.

Harper, however, was not so sure about herself.

She opened the front door quickly, locking it behind her with trembling fingers. Her heart pounded in her ears. She checked every room, every closet, even under the beds—something she hadn’t done since she was nine years old. She kept the note in her hand the whole time, gripping it so tightly it crumpled.

What the hell was this? A prank?

But deep down, she knew better. Something about the note felt… personal. Not random. Not vague. Like someone had been watching. Like someone knew her.

And worst of all—someone knew her past.

Her thoughts spiraled, skipping over old wounds and unhealed memories. Was this about what happened in New York? Could it be someone connected to the trial? Or someone from before—someone from Salem Oaks?

A chill ran up her spine.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. She jumped.

It was just Summer, sending a picture of Ethan asleep on Eden’s shoulder.

Harper blinked back tears. She quickly texted back a heart, followed by: Hey, can I call you in a bit?

But when she set the phone down, her hand hovered over it.

She almost called Phoenix.

Almost.

Instead, she took the note, walked over to the kitchen trash can… and stopped.

No. She didn’t throw it away. She folded it—carefully—and tucked it inside an old recipe book on the top shelf. Somewhere she wouldn’t accidentally find it, but where it could still exist. Still warn her.

And then she locked every door and every window, and curled up on the couch with the lights still on.

But no amount of light could stop her from feeling like something dark had returned to Salem Oaks with her.

Something that never really left.

The old Montgomery house had never been warm.

Not when he was growing up inside it, not when he returned years later, and certainly not now—despite the fire crackling in the hearth. Phoenix stood in the living room with a drink in his hand, the glow of flames flickering across the worn floorboards.

His grandmother had gone to bed early, mumbling something bitter about “small town rot and bakery sugar,” but he wasn’t paying much attention. His thoughts kept circling back to Harper.

To the orchard.

To the way her eyes softened when she looked at Eden—like life had finally given her something to hold onto.

He hadn’t expected to care again.

And yet… here he was. Wide awake. Restless.

The fire snapped loudly, drawing his eyes to the shadows curling along the far wall. He took a sip of bourbon and turned toward the stairs—planning to call it a night—when something caught his attention.

The front door was ajar.

Only slightly. Barely noticeable. But he had locked that door. He remembered doing it.

He put down his glass, slow and quiet.

A cold draft moved through the hallway, brushing against the back of his neck like a whisper. He stepped forward, reaching for the handle. His fingers curled around it just as something shifted in the silence—a faint creak from upstairs.

His entire body went still.

It wasn’t his grandmother—he would’ve heard her cane, her muttering. No… this was something else. Something off.

He climbed the stairs slowly, his boots silent against the wood. The hallway was dark, except for the sliver of moonlight leaking through the far window.

He opened the door to his room.

Nothing.

He moved to the guest room across the hall.

Still nothing.

But then he saw it.

On his nightstand, sitting like it had always belonged there: a small, black-and-white photograph. Old, cracked at the edges. From high school.

Him. Jason. Summer. And Harper.

He hadn’t seen that photo in years. He was sure he’d lost it long ago.

And now… it was here. On his nightstand.

His stomach turned.

He picked it up slowly. There were smudges on the edge—like someone had held it recently. Not him. Someone else.

His heart thudded once, hard.

Phoenix closed the door and checked every window, every exit, even the back door leading to the woods. Nothing looked broken or forced.

But someone had been there.

Someone had walked through this house. Quietly. Comfortably. Like they belonged.

He sat on the edge of his bed, still holding the photo.

There were ghosts in Salem Oaks. Some wore familiar faces. Some hadn’t finished what they started.

And now, one of them had just made it clear:

This wasn’t over.

The photo felt heavy in his hands, like it carried more than just memories—it carried a warning.

Phoenix set it down on the nightstand with care, but his jaw remained tight. He glanced toward the window, half-expecting to see a shadow in the trees, a movement in the dark.

Instead, he saw light.

Across the street, nestled between the porch columns and the ivy-covered siding of the Grace home, her bedroom window glowed.

Harper’s room.

The soft yellow light poured through the curtains, flickering faintly like she was pacing or moving about inside.

It was after midnight.

Something twisted in his gut—not quite fear, not quite instinct, but that strange pull he’d always felt when it came to Harper. It had been that way even back then, when they were all just reckless kids playing with feelings they didn’t yet understand.

He couldn’t explain it. Not fully.

But he knew something was wrong.

He grabbed his phone off the dresser and stared at the screen. Her contact was still there—newly added again just days ago. He hadn’t used it since.

His thumb hovered over the call button for a moment, debating. Would it wake her daughter? Would it seem strange?

Then he remembered the open door.

The photograph.

The sound upstairs.

He hit the call button.

The line rang once. Twice. Three times.

Then he heard her voice.

“Hello?” Harper sounded breathless. Not like she’d been sleeping. Like she’d been crying—or trying not to.

“It’s me,” Phoenix said, his voice lower than usual. “Are you okay?”

There was silence for a moment, just long enough to make his chest tighten.

Then, softly, “Why are you calling me right now?”

“I… saw your light on,” he admitted. “And I had a feeling.”

She didn’t speak.

He pressed the phone closer to his ear. “Harper, did something happen?”

She let out a shaky breath. “I… I found something on my door. A note.”

Phoenix straightened. “What kind of note?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It said, ‘You won’t escape from me.’”

His blood ran cold.

Phoenix stood, walked to the window again, and looked across the street at the glowing room, the silhouette behind the curtain.

“I need you to lock your doors,” he said. “Every one of them. Right now.”

“I already did,” she whispered. “I haven’t sat down since. I can’t… I don’t even know if I should’ve called the police or—”

“You’re not crazy,” Phoenix cut in. “And you’re not imagining this.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“Did something happen to you?” she asked suddenly, her voice softer, more careful.

Phoenix looked down at the photograph on his nightstand.

“Yeah,” he said. “Something happened.”

Neither of them spoke for a while, both suspended in the quiet night and whatever storm was slowly making its way back into their lives.

“I’ll stay on the phone,” he said after a while. “If you want.”

Harper didn’t answer. But she didn’t hang up either.

The silence between them said enough.

The line between them remained open.

Harper’s breathing had steadied, but Phoenix could still hear the edge in it—like she was holding herself together just long enough to survive the next wave of fear.

He sat on the edge of his bed, the phone pressed to his ear, staring into the dark beyond the window. Her light was still on.

“I don’t know why I’m scared,” she said finally, her voice barely a whisper. “I’ve been through worse. But this—this shook me.”

Phoenix leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Because it’s close,” he said. “Because it’s here.”

Another long pause.

She exhaled slowly. “I hate that I feel like I’m back at the beginning again. All this work to move on, and suddenly I’m right back where I started. Alone.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Not anything that would help.

But then she added, more quietly than before:
“Would you… would you mind coming over?”

Phoenix blinked, caught off guard by how soft the words were—how raw.

“Now?” he asked, already reaching for his keys.

There was a beat of hesitation. Then:
“Yeah. Please.”

He stood without a second thought.

“I’m on my way.”

Across the street, her light still glowed, a beacon in the dark. Something had shaken both of them tonight—something real, something dangerous—but in that moment, they had found one clear thing:

They didn’t want to face it alone.