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The road wound endlessly through pine and stone, the mountains looming darker the deeper they drove.
The heater hummed low inside the car. Fíli and Kíli whispered in the backseat, half-asleep against each other, their voices too soft for Thorin to catch. Dís sat in the passenger seat, arms folded tight against herself, eyes fixed on the blur of trees beyond the glass.
No one had spoken for a long while.
Finally, Dís broke the silence. “Are you sure about this?”
Thorin kept his eyes on the road. “It’s what Father left us. Where else would we go?”
She turned her head slowly. “You don’t have to live in his shadow, Thorin. We could sell it. Start over.”
His grip on the wheel tightened. “It’s our home now. I’ll not run from it.”
Her laugh was bitter. “You sound just like him.”
That landed like a stone between them.
From the backseat, Kíli mumbled drowsily, “Granddad died in the house, didn’t he?”
Dís hushed him quickly, stroking his hair.
﹏
The house smelled of dust and old wood polish, the kind of scent that clung to places untouched for too long. Thorin stood in the front hall with the key still warm in his palm, staring at the door he had just unlocked. Behind him, Dís shifted the weight of the last box against her hip while the boys hid behind her, both restless and curious.
No one spoke for a moment. The silence pressed against them, heavy as the grief that had driven them here.
“Well,” Dís muttered, pushing the door open. “Welcome home.”
“Go on,” Thorin said gently, though his voice was hoarse from disuse. “It’s ours now. All of it.”
The words felt wrong in his mouth. Ours.
The house swallowed the words.
They moved in slowly, their footsteps echoing through rooms that seemed too empty despite being full of his father’s belongings. The dining table was still set with its single chair. The whiskey cabinet still leaned open, half-empty bottles glinting faintly. His father had died here, slumped in the very armchair by the window, breath gone sour with drink. Thorin’s throat tightened at the memory.
Dís’ voice broke the silence.
“It feels… different.”
Fíli glanced around nervously but said nothing. Kíli shivered though the air wasn’t cold.
“Feels like he’s still here,” the boy whispered.
Kíli tugged at his mother’s sleeve. “Mum, I don’t like it,” he whispered. “Feels funny.”
Dís smoothed his hair but didn’t argue. Thorin shot her a look—don’t encourage it—but he felt it too, the unease crawling across his skin. He told himself it was only memory, only the weight of grief, nothing more.
They unpacked slowly that day. Boxes filled the rooms. The boys bickered over who got which corner. Dís set pans on the counters with deliberate movements, each clang too loud in the silence.
They ate together at the long wooden table, the fire crackling weakly in the hearth. Thorin forced conversation, asking the boys about the journey, about their plans for the rooms upstairs. Fíli answered dutifully, Dís managed a smile, and even Kíli laughed once or twice. For a little while, it almost worked—grief softened by the simple act of being together.
Later, after the dishes were cleared and the fire died low, the house seemed to deepen in silence. Shadows pooled in the corners, stretching long down the hall. They went to their rooms, each one carrying their private ache.
﹏
It was Kíli who woke first.
The blanket tore from his body with a sudden jerk, he shot upright, eyes darting around the room. For a moment he thought Fíli had played a trick—but his brother lay across the room, breathing deep, fast asleep. The blanket lay crumpled on the floor at the foot of the bed.
He crawled hesitantly to the edge of the twin bed, and peered over the oak frame.
Suddenly, someone– or something yanked the heavy quilt into the dark abyss underneath the bed.
He frantically leapt backwards, a scream escaping him as hot tears began to stream down his face.
“Kíli?” Thorin’s voice came from the doorway, thick with sleep. He stepped inside, hair loose around his shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
“Someone pulled my blanket,” the boy said through sobs. “There’s someone under the bed.”
“What’s going on?” a small, sleepy voice asked from the bed parallel to the younger boys.
“Nothing, Fili, go back to sleep,” his uncle attempted to reassure him.
Thorin knelt, peeking under the bed, searching for any sign of a person, but saw nothing but the crumpled blanket. He pulled it out, and set it back over the boy with deliberate calm. “You were dreaming. The mind plays cruel tricks when we’re unsettled.”
“It didn’t feel like a dream.”
Thorin sat heavily on the mattress, wrapping the child in his arms. “No one’s here,” he said firmly, though his own pulse raced. “It was a dream. Nothing more.”
Thorin rested a hand on his shoulder. His grip was firm, grounding.
“Try to sleep. I’m here now.”
Kíli’s eyelids fluttered, and slowly he gave in, sinking back beneath the blanket. Thorin sat there until the boy’s breathing steadied before returning to his own room. But even as he lay back down, Thorin listened to the silence with unease.
﹏
The next day passed without incident—or so Thorin insisted.
Still, the house felt restless. The boys whispered more than usual, Fíli watching the corners of the rooms while Kíli clung close to his mother. Dís tried to keep their spirits light with games and soft reassurances, but her own nerves betrayed her in the tremor of her hands when she set down her cup of tea.
It was the little things.
A door upstairs that creaked open on its own. A draft that carried through the hall, though Thorin checked every window and found them locked. The kitchen clock, which had ticked steadily for years, now stopped and started without reason.
At dinner, Dís paused mid-bite. “Did you hear that?”
Thorin looked up from his plate, frowning. “Hear what?”
“A knock. From the walls.”
The boys nodded eagerly. “We heard it too,” Fíli added, eyes wide.
“Old pipes,” Thorin muttered, forcing calm. “The house hasn’t been lived in for months. Things settle.”
But later, while Dís tucked the children in, Thorin sat alone at the kitchen table. The silence pressed heavy around him. He found himself staring at the back door, the one his father had always locked and bolted before bed.
A faint clatter echoed from the counter. He turned sharply. One of the spoons had fallen to the floor.
He rose, picked it up, and replaced it in the drawer.
The moment his back was turned, another fell.
The hairs along his arms bristled.
﹏
When the footsteps began, Dís thought she was dreaming. But they grew heavier—thud, thud, thud across the downstairs floorboards. Then a door slammed with such force she bolted upright.
She crept down the stairs in her nightgown, her breath frosting faintly in the chill. The kitchen was dark, the back door shut. She reached for the handle—locked.
She released a breath she hadn't known she was holding, turning to go back to bed.
And then it slammed open on its own.
The bolt rattled against the frame, metal shrieking as though invisible hands wrenched it wide.
A shadow moved at the edge of the yard, tall and formless.
Dís screamed.
Thorin came pounding down the stairs, hair loose, eyes wild. “What is it?!”
She was hysterical, clutching at him. “The door—the shadow—I saw it, I swear—”
The boys appeared on the stairs, pale with fright.
Thorin ran out the door, bolting across the back porch, eyes frantically searching for the intruder.
Nothing.
Thorin returned, locking the door behind him. He knelt beside his sister, wrapping his arms around her with a tight hold.
“Thorin I saw it– I swear”, she cried, chest heaving, “We have to do something.”
He sighed.
“I’ll call Gandalf.”
Thorin dialed the number from memory.
The old priest’s voice crackled through the line.
“I’ll come first thing in the morning,” Gandalf said. “But Thorin—” A pause. “The house remembers what lives inside it. Be on your guard.”
Thorin hung up, jaw set. He would not be made to fear his own home.
But when he finally returned to bed, the silence pressed too heavy on his chest. Sleep came only in fits.
Gandalf was much as Thorin remembered: tall, bearded, wearing a dark coat that seemed to sweep the dust out of its own way, the usual black and white collar peeking from beneath it. But at his side was a smaller figure, tidy, with bright, keen eyes that flicked about the house the moment he stepped inside.
“This is Bilbo,” Gandalf introduced, with a wave of his long hand. “He sees more than most.”
Thorin arched a brow. “A psychic.”
Bilbo shifted uncomfortably. “Sensitive,” he corrected. His voice was soft but firm. “I don’t claim to know everything. Only… more than most.”
Thorin crossed his arms, giving both men a look that carried more weariness than welcome. “I was expecting a priest, not… an extra set of eyes.”
“Think of him as a different kind of priest,” Gandalf said dryly.
Bilbo’s mouth quirked. “And I assure you, I’ve been called far worse.”
Dís appeared behind Thorin, the boys peeking from behind her skirt. “We’re grateful you’ve come,” she said softly. “Please, come in.”
The boys peeked out from behind Dís’ skirt. Bilbo smiled faintly at them, and to Thorin’s annoyance, they smiled back.
Inside, Bilbo walked slowly, fingertips brushing along the wallpaper, pausing often as though listening.
“Do you feel something?” Dís asked, her voice hopeful.
Bilbo’s expression tightened. “Yes. Heavy. Old. It clings to the walls.” He turned toward the kitchen. “Especially near the back door.”
Thorin sighed. “Yes, that’s where the door slammed open. Where my sister claims she saw something.”
“Claims?” Dís bristled.
Thorin shot her a look. “We’ve all been under strain. Our minds—”
“Are not fabricating this,” Bilbo cut in gently.
That earned him a grunt.
He walked past them, toward the kitchen, his hand brushing along the walls as if the plaster itself might speak to him. When he reached the back door, he stopped dead.
The house seemed to hold its breath.
﹏
The kitchen was warmer than the rest of the house, though the air still carried that faint, heavy musk no open window could chase away. They sat close around the table—Dís at one end, Gandalf looming like a sentinel at the other, Thorin hunched beside Bilbo, and the boys pressed shoulder-to-shoulder between their mother and uncle.
The stew on the stove went mostly untouched.
“All right,” Gandalf said finally, folding his hands. His voice carried the weight of ritual. “Tell us everything, from the start.”
Dís drew a sharp breath, eyes flicking toward Thorin, but when he said nothing, she spoke. “It began the first night. Something pulled Kili’s blanket off. He says he saw something under the bed. Footsteps downstairs. The back door slammed itself open, though I’d locked it. And a figure—” Her voice caught. “—a figure in the yard.”
Kíli pressed into her side. “It was tall,” he whispered. “I dreamed it was in the hall. Watching.”
Bilbo leaned forward, resting his elbows lightly on the table. “Dreams and visions can overlap,” he said gently. “It doesn’t mean it isn’t real. And it doesn’t mean you’re in danger right this moment.”
Fíli scowled faintly, trying for bravery. “But it could mean that.”
“Yes.” Bilbo didn’t lie, but his tone softened, steady as a blanket. “But things don’t always want to hurt us. Sometimes they just want us to know they’re here. It’s like—” He hesitated, searching for words. “Like if you were invisible, wouldn’t you want someone to notice you existed?”
The boy’s frown eased at that, though Kíli still clung tight to his mother.
Bilbo let the silence settle a moment, then closed his eyes. His breath deepened, shoulders relaxing, as though listening for something beneath the air itself.
The kitchen was quiet except for the soft hiss of the stove.
When he opened his eyes again, they lingered on the far corner of the room. His voice was quiet, careful. “There’s weight. Like walking into a room where someone’s been crying. You can’t see it, but you feel it.”
The boys looked at him wide-eyed.
Bilbo turned his gaze on them, his small smile reassuring. “But we are together, and together we are stronger. It doesn’t matter how heavy it feels—we carry each other.”
Kíli whispered, “You’re not scared?”
Bilbo chuckled, though his voice trembled faintly. “Terrified. But that doesn’t stop me sitting here with you, does it?”
For the first time since they arrived, the boys laughed. Just a little, but real.
Thorin exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ll not pretend I believe in this,” he muttered. “But I’ll not be rude to guests. Sit with us tonight. Share a meal.”
﹏
They gathered around the dining table. The food was simple but warm: roasted chicken, buttered vegetables, bread fresh from town.
Bilbo, to Thorin’s surprise, charmed the boys almost instantly. He listened to Kíli chatter about bows and arrows, nodded gravely at Fíli’s quiet observations, and even coaxed a rare laugh out of Dís. Thorin watched with cautious detachment, sipping his wine.
He leaned forward, fixing Bilbo with a steady gaze.
“Tell me plainly. What are you?”
Bilbo dabbed his mouth with a napkin before answering.
“I wouldn’t call it a gift. More of a… sensitivity. I’ve always seen and felt things others don’t. Since I was a boy, I would wake with shadows at the end of my bed. Sometimes whispering. Sometimes watching. My family thought me odd, but… I learned to accept it. Now, I simply live with it.”
“And you see things? With your eyes?” Thorin pressed.
“Not always. Sometimes it’s a feeling, sometimes a vision. Sometimes…” Bilbo trailed off. His expression shifted. His gaze grew glassy, unfocused. His hand trembled where it clutched his fork.
The conversation stopped. The only sound was the fire crackling in the hearth.
“Bilbo?” Gandalf’s deep voice was gentle, but his eyes sharpened.
The room blurred for Bilbo, phasing in and out of clarity. His head tilted as though listening to something no one else could hear. He didn’t speak, only slowly lifted his head to look directly at Thorin who sat across from him. Everyone followed his line of sight.
There was nothing there.
But Bilbo’s voice trembled when he spoke. “It’s touching you.”
Thorin froze. “What?”
“A hand,” Bilbo whispered. “On your shoulder. Right there.” His own hand rose shakily, mirroring the spot. His breath came quick. “It knows I see it.”
The boys clutched at Dís. Thorin’s jaw clenched, but even he shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders stiffening as though he could feel phantom weight.
The moment broke. Bilbo blinked rapidly, eyes clearing, and the tremor in his hands stilled. But his face was pale, slick with sweat.
“It’s angry,” he said, voice rough. “Very angry that I can see it. It wants me gone.”
Dís’ lips trembled. “You… you mean it’s aware of you?”
“Oh, very aware,” Bilbo replied grimly. “And if I stay, it will not keep quiet.”
Gandalf’s hand closed firmly around his shoulder. “Then that’s precisely why you must stay. Tonight, both of us will remain here—with you, with this family. We’ll see what stirs when the dark comes.”
Thorin’s eyes burned into Bilbo’s, unreadable, but he gave the smallest of nods.
The fire guttered in the hearth as if a breath of wind had passed through.
And somewhere deep in the house, a door creaked open.
﹏
The house seemed to breathe differently at night.
Gandalf had settled himself in the sitting room chair, long legs stretched toward the fire, pipe in hand. He looked as though he were dozing, but Bilbo knew better. The old priest missed nothing.
Bilbo, however, could not rest. He lay on the couch in the adjoining room, the quilt pulled up to his chin, but every time he closed his eyes he felt them—the eyes that were not flesh, not human, watching. His skin prickled with sweat, though the air had grown bitterly cold.
When sleep finally dragged him under, it was not restful. He dreamed of long corridors without end, doors that opened into darkness, and the feeling of hands—too many hands—brushing along his arms.
He woke with a strangled gasp.
The room was icy, his breath pluming in the air. The quilt had slipped to the floor. His heart thundered in his chest as he sat up, trembling.
And then he felt it: a pull. Not physical, not quite, but undeniable. Something tugged at him, urging him to rise, to follow. His feet hit the wooden floorboards before he realized he was moving.
The pull led him up the stairs, down the hall, to a door he had not opened before. Thorin’s room.
Bilbo’s hand hovered above the handle, shaking. He did not want to touch it. He did not want to know. Yet his fingers closed around it, and the door creaked open.
What he saw froze him to the marrow.
Thorin hovered above the bed. His body was rigid, limbs stiff, face slack in unnatural sleep. He floated nearly a foot above the mattress. His chest rose shallowly, barely breathing.
“No…” Bilbo whispered. “No, no, no—”
He lurched forward, but before he reached the bed, something unseen struck him. Hard. He flew back and slammed against the wall, the breath knocked from his lungs. Pain lanced through his shoulder as he crumpled to the floor.
The room thickened with a presence. Not air, not shadow—will. A force pressing against him, wrapping icy fingers around his ribs. Bilbo sobbed, unable to stop himself. His sensitivity, once a tool, was now a curse. He felt every ounce of hatred filling the room.
“What… what do you want?” he choked out.
The reply came.
Not with sound, but with a voice so deep it rattled the walls, reverberating through the marrow of his bones.
“His soul.”
Bilbo’s blood turned to ice.
“No,” he whispered. “You can’t—you can’t take him.”
The voice rose, surrounding him, pressing down with crushing weight.
“Leave. Now. Or join him.”
The air cracked like thunder. The door slammed shut behind him with a violent bang. Thorin dropped heavily onto the mattress, his body jerking as if released from unseen strings.
Bilbo crawled forward, trembling, his hands slick with sweat. “I won’t leave,” he whimpered. “Do you hear me? I won’t leave him.”
The pressure receded—only a little, like a predator retreating into shadow. Thorin’s chest heaved. His eyes shot open, wild, pupils blown wide.
He sucked in ragged breaths, clutching at his chest. “What—what happened?”
Bilbo grabbed the bedframe, panting. “You… you were floating. It had you.”
Thorin stared at him, disbelief warring with terror. He looked around the room, then at Bilbo’s broken expression. His skepticism shattered.
“I… I felt it,” Thorin whispered hoarsely. His hands shook. “I couldn’t move—I couldn’t breathe. It was inside me.”
For the first time since they entered the house, Thorin’s voice broke. He pressed his face into his hands, his broad shoulders shaking with uneven breaths.
Bilbo collapsed against the wall, drained, eyes still darting to the corners of the room where the shadows thickened.
It was no longer a question.
Thorin Oakenshield believed.
And whatever this was, it was not done with him.
﹏
Morning light seeped through the curtains in thin strips, pale against the kitchen walls. It should have felt like relief, but instead it only revealed how haggard everyone looked. Thorin hadn’t slept. Neither had Bilbo.
The house had finally quieted. Dís had taken the boys upstairs, and Gandalf lingered in the sitting room, murmuring prayers to himself while setting out his book and vials.
That left Thorin and Bilbo alone at the dining table.
Bilbo sat with his hands clasped, rosary beads tangled between his fingers, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. Thorin studied him for a long moment before speaking.
“You’ve seen this before,” Thorin said. It wasn’t a question.
Bilbo gave a tired smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “Something like it.”
Silence hung between them. The only sound was the faint hum of the refrigerator, the occasional creak of the house settling.
Finally, Thorin spoke again, voice low. “I haven’t thanked you.”
Bilbo blinked. “For what?”
“For being here.” Thorin’s jaw flexed, as if the words were difficult. “For not running.”
Bilbo’s laugh was soft, a little bitter. “You think I don’t want to? Every part of me wants to be anywhere but here. But—” He paused, looking down at the rosary in his hands. “Some things are harder to walk away from than others.”
Thorin frowned, but he didn’t press. He only gave a short nod, as if he understood more than Bilbo had intended him to.
A shadow shifted across the far wall, though nothing moved to cast it. The air thickened briefly before fading again.
Bilbo exhaled shakily. “Besides… it hasn’t finished with you. I can feel it. And I can’t ignore that.”
Thorin’s gaze lingered on him, steady and unreadable. Then, with a grunt, he pushed back his chair. “Rest while you can. Gandalf will begin soon.”
Bilbo watched him leave the room, the faintest warmth rising in his chest despite the chill in the air. Thorin had not said the word trust. But for the first time, Bilbo thought he heard it buried in the silence between them.
﹏
Gandalf sat at the table, his weathered hands sorting through what he had brought: a Bible, a small silver crucifix, a bottle of holy water, and a stick of incense he lit with a match. Smoke curled upward, fragrant and sharp.
“Blessing the house won’t banish it,” Gandalf said as he rose, moving through the hall with the incense. “But it will weaken its hold, force it into the open.”
Thorin followed him, jaw tight. “Then do it.”
Bilbo had returned to the table, staring into his untouched tea. His hands trembled slightly. Since last night, his sensitivity felt like an open wound—the entity’s presence pressing against him at all times, waiting, mocking.
Room by room, Gandalf blessed the house. He murmured in low tones, pressing the crucifix against doors, sprinkling water into the corners. The boys and Dís had gone into town to escape the suffocating air, but Thorin refused to leave.
When Gandalf finished the upstairs, Thorin asked the question that had been gnawing at him. “What does it want from me?”
Bilbo’s head snapped up from where he sat. His eyes looked distant, as if he were hearing something Thorin could not. Slowly, his lips parted.
“Your soul.”
Thorin stiffened. “Why me?”
Bilbo swallowed hard, then spoke with quiet certainty. “Because it’s bound to you. To your blood. This isn’t a wandering spirit. This is older. A parasite. It marked your father before you, and it’ll do the same to you until it gets what it wants.”
Thorin’s chest tightened. Images of his father flashed—slumped in his armchair, glass clutched in hand, bitterness carved into his face. Had it been more than just grief and whiskey that hollowed him out?
Gandalf turned sharply to Bilbo. “Do you know its name?”
The room went cold. Bilbo’s breath hitched, his eyes unfocusing as though the world had shifted sideways. He pressed his hands against the table, knuckles white.
It was there. Right there. Breathing against his ear.
A voice like burning coals hissed into his mind:
“Smaug.”
Bilbo’s entire body jolted. He gasped as though struck, clutching his head. Thorin rushed to him, but Bilbo shook, eyes wide and wet.
“It—It told me,” he stammered. “It has a name. Smaug.”
The lightbulb above the table flickered violently. The crucifix Gandalf had set down rattled against the wood.
Bilbo’s voice dropped, raw. “It said… it will kill Thorin. The same way it killed his father.”
Thorin froze.
The lights went out in a snap, plunging the room into shadow. Bilbo staggered, clutching Thorin’s sleeve, his voice breaking.
“It wants me gone—it hates me. It hates that I can hear it.”
Then the whisper came again, loud enough for all of them to hear this time, a disembodied growl filling the room:
“He is mine. As his father was mine. Leave… or burn with him.”
The smoke from Gandalf’s incense coiled black, thickening unnaturally until it writhed like a living thing. Gandalf muttered prayers in a firm, booming voice, sprinkling holy water in a wide arc. The air shuddered.
Bilbo collapsed to his knees, tears streaking his face, whispering, “It’s inside these walls. It’s not a haunting—it’s a curse.”
Gandalf finally slammed the crucifix against the table, his voice sharp and commanding. The lights flickered back on. The smoke dissipated.
The silence that followed was worse than the noise.
Thorin stood still, fists clenched, chest heaving. He had no words. Only the weight of knowing now that his father’s ruin was not entirely his own—and that he might be next.
Gandalf’s voice was grim. “Then we know what we face. Not a ghost. A demon. And it will not let go of this bloodline without a fight.”
Bilbo raised his head, face pale and stricken. His voice shook.
“It’s waiting for tonight.”
﹏
Night fell heavy and suffocating. The Oakenshield house seemed to grow darker than the street outside, as if the very walls were swallowing light.
They gathered in the living room. Gandalf sat upright, the Bible open across his knees, murmuring scripture in a steady rhythm. Thorin paced restlessly, his broad frame tense with the memory of being suspended like a puppet in his own bed. Dís had tucked the boys in early, though none of them believed they would truly sleep.
Bilbo sat stiffly on the couch, arms wrapped around himself, every nerve raw. He could feel Smaug pressing against him like a stormcloud—restless, waiting.
It began with the crucifix.
The one Gandalf had fixed above the doorway gave a slow, deliberate creak. The metal rotated inch by inch until it hung upside down.
Thorin stopped pacing. “You see that?” His voice was low, and strained.
Gandalf did not falter in his prayer. “Do not give it power by naming it.”
But it wasn’t just the crucifix. Another, smaller cross on the mantle began to rattle against the wood. A third, upstairs, clattered to the floor with a sharp clang.
Bilbo flinched with every sound, his breath quickening. Then the smell hit: acrid, sulfurous. He looked toward the hallway where Gandalf had sprinkled holy water earlier.
The wallpaper was damp, dripping with moisture that hissed and steamed as though the water itself were boiling.
“Oh God,” Bilbo whispered. “It’s mocking you.”
Before Gandalf could answer, the pictures lining the wall began to shake violently. The frames rattled against the plaster, then flew outward, glass shattering as they smashed onto the floor. Thorin instinctively shielded Bilbo from the spray of shards.
“Enough!” Bilbo’s voice cracked as he stood, hands clenched, his small frame trembling. He faced the darkness directly, voice ringing with a defiance he didn’t feel. “Leave us alone! We are not afraid of you!”
The air thickened instantly.
Invisible hands clamped around his throat. Bilbo’s feet left the floor as he was wrenched upward, choking. His hands clawed at his neck though nothing was there. His face turned crimson, eyes wide in panic.
“Bilbo!” Thorin lunged, grasping at him, but he couldn’t pull him down. The smaller man thrashed in midair, his heels kicking desperately against empty space.
Gandalf’s voice rose in booming command, holy water flung in wide arcs. “By the blood of Christ, release him!”
Bilbo dropped hard to the ground, gasping and clutching his throat. His breath came in ragged sobs as Thorin dragged him close, one hand on his back.
And that’s when Thorin heard it.
A voice—not Bilbo’s, not Gandalf’s. A whisper curling into his ear, low and intimate.
“Your father begged. You will too.”
Thorin staggered, clutching at his temple. “It’s in my head—” His words broke into a growl. “I hear it.”
Smaug laughed. The sound reverberated through the house, rattling the walls, shaking the very floorboards. The remaining frames flew from the walls, glass shattering in a cascade.
Dís appeared at the top of the stairs, the boys behind her, all pale and trembling. “What’s happening?!” she cried.
“Stay upstairs!” Thorin barked, though his voice cracked with the strain.
The house groaned like a living thing. From the kitchen, cupboard doors slammed open and shut in rapid succession. Upstairs, a door banged over and over, shaking on its hinges. The crosses rattled in rhythm, their steady clatter building to a deafening crescendo.
Bilbo, still coughing, dragged himself upright, eyes wild. He fixed them on the corner of the room where the shadows pooled thickest. “You can’t have him!” he rasped, voice hoarse from the chokehold. “Not while I’m here!”
The shadows recoiled, as if stung—but then surged outward with renewed fury, sweeping across the room like smoke alive.
The lightbulbs above them popped one by one, plunging the house into flickering darkness.
And in that moment, everyone in the room heard it. Not just Bilbo. Not just Thorin.
A deep, guttural voice filling every inch of space:
“He. Is. Mine.”
The last bulb burst.
And the house went black.
﹏
The morning after the blackout was gray and wet, rain streaking the windows in uneven lines. The house looked ordinary again in the daylight—no rattling crosses, no shattered glass moving on its own. Just silence and the mess left behind.
Bilbo sat hunched at the kitchen table, a scarf wrapped around his bruised throat. His hands shook as he held a mug of tea, though whether from cold or memory, no one asked.
“I can’t stay here. Not right now.” His voice was raw, every word scraping his throat. “If I do, it’ll kill me before it kills him.”
Thorin frowned, his jaw tightening. “You mean to leave.”
“Only for a while,” Bilbo said quickly. His eyes flicked between them—Gandalf, Dís, Thorin. “A few days. I just… I need to breathe somewhere else. I can’t hear it out there. Only here.”
Thorin wanted to argue, but the sight of Bilbo’s trembling hands stopped him. Instead he nodded once, stiffly. “Then go. Rest. We’ll manage.”
Bilbo left that afternoon, retreating to a small hotel in town. His absence hollowed the house. Thorin would never admit it aloud, but even the boys noticed.
“Uncle,” Fíli said that evening as they unpacked more boxes, “he’ll come back, right?”
“He will,” Thorin said firmly. “He gave his word.”
That night, the house was quiet.
And the night after.
By the third night, the silence itself became unnerving. Thorin lay awake, waiting for the rattling, the shadows, the voice in his ear. None came.
By the end of the week, the family moved through the house almost normally again. They swept the broken glass, rehung the frames, repaired what they could. The boys laughed in the yard, Dís cooked dinner without flinching at every sound, and Thorin found himself sitting in their father’s old armchair without dread crawling up his spine.
One evening, he and Dís sat together in the dim light of the living room, the boys already in bed. The silence was companionable, the kind that came only after shared fear.
“Do you think it’s over?” Dís asked quietly.
Thorin studied the glass in his hand, the amber of the whiskey catching the light. He had avoided it since their father’s death, but tonight he let himself sip, just once. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I almost believe it might be.”
Dís’ gaze softened. “He wasn’t always a monster, you know. Father. He tried.”
Thorin nodded slowly. “I remember.” His voice thickened. “He sang to us when we were children. He carved that little boat for Fíli when he turned seven. And then…”
“And then he stopped trying,” Dís finished for him. Her hand found his, warm and steady. “Some things cannot be changed. He was weak. You are not.”
Thorin stared into the shadows at the edge of the room, where the firelight didn’t quite reach. “If it was this… curse… that hollowed him, then maybe he never stood a chance.”
Dís squeezed his hand. “Then you will stand where he fell. You’ll protect them. That’s who you are.”
﹏
Bilbo nearly didn’t answer the phone. He had been sitting in his small hotel room, staring at the ceiling, the rosary resting in his palm like an anchor. The silence was welcome, the first true silence he’d had in weeks.
Then the phone buzzed. The caller ID: Thorin Oakenshield.
He hesitated, thumb hovering. Then he picked up.
“Bilbo,” Thorin’s voice rumbled, low and hesitant. “Are you busy tonight?”
Bilbo sat up straighter, thrown. “No, not especially.”
“Come to dinner. With me. Somewhere that isn’t—” Thorin paused, as though the house itself might be listening. “Somewhere quiet.”
Bilbo’s chest tightened. “Is that… wise?”
“I think we both need reminding there’s a world beyond those walls.” A beat of silence. “Please.”
They met at a small Italian place on the edge of town, the kind with dim lighting and red-checkered tablecloths. The waitstaff left them alone after the first order, and for the first time in weeks, Bilbo felt almost normal.
Thorin seemed out of place in the booth, broad shoulders hunched, hands rough against the delicate glass of wine. He wore a dark button-down, sleeves rolled to the forearms, and Bilbo had to keep himself from staring too long.
They ordered wine, food neither of them really tasted, and for a while they spoke of nothing—traffic, the weather, the way the bread was far too salty.
It was Thorin who steered them deeper.
He leaned back in the booth, glass in hand, studying Bilbo with that piercing way of his. “Tell me something about your family.”
Bilbo blinked. “My family?”
“Yes. You know mine—too much of mine, perhaps. But I know nothing of yours.”
Bilbo hesitated, then huffed a laugh. “They all think I’m odd. Eccentric. Some say I was cursed with a too-vivid imagination. Others say I… never quite grew up.”
Thorin’s brows drew together. “Even your parents?”
Something in his tone—surprised, almost gentle—made Bilbo’s chest tighten. He looked down at the tablecloth, running his thumb over the rim of his glass.
“They never had the chance,” he said quietly. “My mother passed when I was eight. Illness. My father when I was sixteen. Heart gave out.” He gave a small, humorless smile. “After that, I stopped trying to explain what I saw. It was easier to let them all think me strange than to lose anyone else.”
Thorin didn’t speak right away. He only studied him, gaze dark and steady, until Bilbo felt exposed under it.
Finally, Thorin said, “And yet you still stand. Stronger than most would be.”
Bilbo glanced up, startled by the conviction in his voice. “You think so?”
“I know so,” Thorin said simply.
Silence stretched, but it was not uncomfortable.
Bilbo sipped his wine, then dared to turn the question back. “And you? You’ve told me pieces. But what was your father truly like?”
Thorin’s jaw flexed, his eyes lowering to the candle flame. “He was… both cruel and loving. Often in the same breath. He drank. Raged. But he also… he did care, in his way. He taught me to work, to fight, to endure. And I hated him for it, but I loved him too.” His voice dropped. “I fear I will always carry both of those things in me.”
“You’re not him,” Bilbo said firmly.
Thorin’s eyes flicked up, sharp, searching.
Bilbo held his gaze. “You fear becoming him, but you won’t. You’re different. I see it every time you look at your sister, your nephews. Every time you put yourself between them and what’s in that house.”
For a long moment, Thorin said nothing. But the tension in his shoulders eased, just slightly, and a ghost of something softer crossed his face.
“Thank you,” he murmured, as though the words were strange on his tongue.
Bilbo smiled faintly, warmth blooming despite himself. “You’re welcome.”
They walked back together afterward, the night cool and still.
“Will you come back?” Thorin asked quietly.
Bilbo’s heart clenched. “Yes. I will.”
And for the first time, Thorin allowed himself a smile—small, fleeting, but real.
“You’re quieter out here,” Bilbo said, glancing at him.
Thorin grunted. “I am always quiet.”
“Quiet is one thing. Brooding is another. You do both very well.”
That earned him a sharp look—but also, just faintly, a twitch at the corner of Thorin’s mouth. “And you,” Thorin said, “talk enough for both of us.”
“Someone has to fill the silence.” Bilbo gave him a sly smile. “Otherwise people might mistake you for a gargoyle.”
“A gargoyle?”
“Stone-faced. Watchful. Dangerous if you stare too long.”
This time, Thorin didn’t bother to hide his huff of laughter. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet here you are, walking me to my car like a gentleman.”
They reached the vehicle, streetlamp light falling gold across the pavement. Bilbo fumbled for his keys, but his hands stilled when he felt Thorin’s gaze linger.
The banter fell away, leaving a silence that hummed with everything unsaid.
Bilbo cleared his throat. “Well. Thank you for dinner. It was… surprisingly pleasant.”
“Surprisingly?” Thorin repeated, one brow arched.
“Don’t push your luck.”
Thorin stepped closer, his shadow falling over Bilbo, and for once his voice softened. “It was more than pleasant.”
Bilbo’s breath caught. He meant to answer, to brush it off with some quip—but Thorin leaned down, just enough, and their lips brushed. Brief, tentative, as if testing whether the world would allow it.
When Thorin pulled back, his expression was unreadable, save for the faintest warmth in his eyes.
Bilbo blinked up at him, heart racing, fingers tightening on his keys. “That was… unexpected.”
“Regrettable?” Thorin asked slowly.
Bilbo swallowed hard, then smiled faintly. “Not in the slightest.”
Thorin gave a small nod, as though satisfied with the answer. Then he stepped back, letting Bilbo breathe again.
“Goodnight, Bilbo.”
“Goodnight,” Bilbo whispered, watching him go, the ghost of the kiss still tingling on his lips.
﹏
Bilbo jolted awake in the dark of his hotel room, sweat dripping down his temples. His chest heaved, his sheets clinging damply to his body. At first, he thought it was just another nightmare.
Then he heard breathing.
Slow. Heavy. Wrong.
His heart stuttered. He turned his head—
—and saw his father sitting in the chair by the window.
“Dad?” Bilbo’s voice cracked, raw with disbelief. His father had been gone for years. The grief had dulled but never disappeared, and now here he was. Except… not quite.
there he was. His father sat in the chair across the room, pipe in hand, smiling that gentle smile Bilbo hadn’t seen since boyhood.
But the longer Bilbo stared, the more wrong it became. The eyes too dark. The smile too wide.
“You left me,” the figure said, voice low, accusing.
Bilbo shook his head, trembling. “No… no, you’re gone. Both of you are gone—”
“You let me die alone. You let her die alone. And now you cling to strangers as though they’ll fill the hole.”
Bilbo raised his rosary, arm shaking. “You’re not him.”
The figure tilted its head. “Oh, but I am. I know everything about you, Bilbo. Every fear. Every failure. And I’ll tell you this—” It leaned forward, grin wide and thin. “It’s time.”
Bilbo fumbled for his rosary on the nightstand, clutching it in his fist. “In the name of God—”
The words seared the air. The facade tore like paper.
His father’s face melted away, peeling back to reveal a twisted visage—skin warped, eyes pits of fire, teeth like broken glass. Its voice deepened, resonating through the walls, rattling the lamps.
“I warned you.”
The room shook once—then stilled. The chair was empty.
Bilbo staggered to his feet, nausea and dread roiling in his gut. He threw his satchel over his shoulder and ran, out of the hotel, into the cold night, his heart pounding one name.
Thorin.
﹏
The drive was a blur of rain-slick roads and red lights ignored. He didn’t even remember parking—only pounding on the Oakenshield front door until his knuckles bled. Dís appeared, hair mussed, eyes bleary.
“Bilbo? What on earth—”
He pushed past her without a word, racing upstairs. He already knew.
Thorin’s door would not open. He twisted the handle violently, throwing his shoulder against it. Nothing. Dís, suddenly wide awake, joined him, both slamming against the wood.
From inside came noises—low chanting in a voice that was Thorin’s but not Thorin’s. Latin.
The house erupted.
Every cross in the hall wrenched itself free, flying against the walls. Lightbulbs burst in rapid succession, glass raining down like sparks. Cupboards banged open and shut downstairs, the sound of dishes crashing filling the air. Doors slammed again and again, the house convulsing like it was alive.
Bilbo and Dís hit the door together with a final crash. The frame splintered, the lock gave, and they spilled inside.
Thorin stood perfectly still before the window, the curtains billowing though the glass was closed. His posture was rigid, hands clenched at his sides.
“Thorin,” Dís whispered, stepping forward.
Slowly, he turned.
His eyes were pits of black.
Dís staggered back with a sob. “No…”
Bilbo grabbed her arm, voice tight. “Call Gandalf. Now.”
Dís scrabbled for her phone, but it was destroyed—every wire outside torn like severed veins.
They rushed him, but the air hurled them back like dolls. Dís slammed against the wall, Bilbo against the dresser, pain splitting through his ribs.
Thorin’s body convulsed, arms jerking violently as guttural Latin poured from his mouth. His head snapped back, veins standing dark beneath his skin.
Bilbo’s stomach dropped. There was no time.
“Keep them out!” he shouted at Dís, voice raw. “Don’t let the boys see!”
She dragged her sons down the hall, covering their ears, tears streaming.
Bilbo tore through the shelves, fingers bleeding as books and boxes rained around him. At last, he found the Bible, its pages worn, and the vial of holy water Gandalf had left behind.
The moment he touched them, the air screamed.
Invisible claws ripped across his back, flinging him to the floor. His body arched in agony, but he forced himself up, clutching the Bible to his chest.
Thorin’s body lunged at him, strength unnatural, eyes wild. Bilbo was hurled into the wall, breath torn from his lungs.
Still he rose, lips moving. Latin verses spilled from his tongue, trembling but unbroken.
The Bible grew hot in his hands, searing his palms. Smoke curled from the pages.
Smaug’s voice bellowed, shaking the walls. “I warned you, seer.”
Bilbo’s tears ran hot down his cheeks. His voice cracked but held. “You cannot have him. You cannot have his soul.”
The crucifixes ripped from the walls, spinning in the air like blades. The bedframe split, wood splintering. The glass window shattered outward, wind howling through the room.
But Bilbo did not stop.
“I am not afraid of you,” he whispered, even as his body trembled.
The room shook, the walls groaning, glass shattering outward. The children screamed, clinging to Dís.
Bilbo’s voice rose to a scream. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit—be gone!”
The air tore open with a scream. Thorin’s body convulsed, lifted, then collapsed heavily onto the floor. A shadow peeled from his form, writhing, screaming, until it burst through the broken window and vanished into the night.
Silence.
Bilbo collapsed to the floor, the Bible smoking in his hands, his skin blistered but intact. His chest heaved, his throat raw, but the oppressive weight—the hatred, the fire—was gone.
Thorin fell limp onto the bed, breathing raggedly but alive.
Dís sobbed into her hands. The boys clung to her, trembling but safe.
Bilbo pressed the rosary to his forehead, shaking, tears streaming freely now.
“Thorin,” he rasped, crawling forward.
Thorin’s eyes fluttered open. This time, they were his. Blue, dazed, terrified.
Bilbo gathered him close without hesitation, clutching him as though the world might tear him away again. “It’s gone. It’s gone, I swear.”
Thorin clung to him weakly, forehead pressed to his shoulder. For the first time, his voice broke. “I thought—I thought it had me.”
Bilbo’s voice cracked, fierce through his sobs. “Never. Not while I breathe.”
They stayed like that until dawn seeped pale into the room.
But in the stillness that followed, the walls of the house seemed to listen.
And wait.
﹏
The house was silent. Not the tense, weighted silence of before—no pressure in the air, no unseen breath on their necks. Just quiet.
Thorin sat slumped on the couch, skin pale and bruised, shirt clinging to him with sweat. His chest rose and fell in heavy pulls, but his eyes were his own again. Exhausted, but his.
Bilbo sat beside him, trembling still, rosary tangled in his fist. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. “It’s gone.”
Thorin turned his head toward him, slow, as if afraid it might all break apart again. “You’re certain?”
Bilbo swallowed, nodding. “The weight… it’s lifted. I can feel the difference.”
For the first time in days, Thorin exhaled without a shudder. He leaned forward, pressing his elbows to his knees, hands dragging over his face. Then, with a rough sound, he turned and pulled Bilbo into a tight embrace.
Bilbo froze, startled—then sank into it. Thorin was solid, warm, alive. The smell of sweat, earth, and wine clung to him, grounding.
“Thank you,” Thorin murmured into his hair. “For saving me. For not leaving.”
Bilbo shut his eyes, chest aching. “I nearly did.”
“But you came back,” Thorin said, pulling back just enough to look at him. His gaze was raw, stripped bare. “That is what matters.”
Their foreheads brushed, just briefly, and in that moment, the house no longer felt like a grave.
The next morning, Gandalf returned, bearing holy water and incense. He walked the rooms, muttering in low Latin, blessing the corners, sprinkling thresholds until the air itself seemed to breathe easier.
When he finished, he found Bilbo in the kitchen, hunched over tea. He set a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done well, lad. Few could endure what you did.”
Bilbo gave a weak laugh. “I don’t feel as though I endured. I feel as though I was dragged through fire and only just crawled out.”
Gandalf smiled knowingly. “That, my dear Bilbo, is endurance.”
Kíli and Fíli bounded in then, throwing their arms around Bilbo’s waist, chattering their thanks. Dís kissed his cheek, eyes wet, murmuring gratitude that words could not cover.
When the fuss quieted, Fíli tugged at his sleeve. “Do you have to leave, Mister Bilbo?”
Kíli chimed in, voice small. “Can’t you stay here with us?”
Bilbo’s throat tightened. He crouched to their level, smoothing back Kíli’s hair. “I’m not taking any more cases. Not for a long while. I think I’ve had my fill of ghosts.”
“But will you stay here?” Fíli pressed.
Bilbo looked past them, to Thorin, who stood in the doorway, watching quietly. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes… his eyes were not.
“Yes,” Thorin said finally, voice steady. “Stay.”
The room fell still. Bilbo’s breath caught.
He rose slowly, the boys clinging to his hands, and met Thorin’s gaze across the kitchen. For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Then Bilbo gave the smallest nod.
“Yes,” he said softly. “I’ll stay.”
The boys cheered, Gandalf smiled into his beard, and Dís wiped at her eyes. But Bilbo saw only Thorin, and Thorin only him, as the weight of the house lifted at last, leaving them in the fragile, precious quiet of a new beginning.