3:00 AM. The Supernatural Hour. The human world calls it nonsense. Seraphina calls it Wednesday
It was supposed to be quiet.
It was always quiet at 3:00 AM. Even the mould in the walls went to sleep at 3:00 AM. Seraphina sat in the dark, cradling her chipped rose teacup like it was an old lover with commitment issues. The tea was lukewarm, as usual some horrid brand called "Chamomile Night" that tasted like despair and forgotten herbs. But it was hers. And it was Tuesday, which meant cursed things were statistically probable.
She had just reached the part in her book where the heroine an assassin nun with a scythe addiction stabbed someone for eating her cinnamon roll when she heard it.
Not a thump. Not a crash.
Voices.
Whispers.
Sharp. Panicked. Human. Alive.
Then her aunt.
Her voice cracked down the hallway like a spell half-cast, half-prayer: "Stay quiet. Don't make a sound. Try not to breathe. And whatever you do, Seraphina don't come out, okay?"
Seraphina blinked. Her fingers clenched the teacup.
Did Petunia just… say her name like it mattered?
"I'm sorry," Petunia continued, voice low and tight like a noose. "For all the hateful times. If tonight makes up for it even a little, I'm glad."
Seraphina didn't know what offended her more: the apology, or the realization that she might actually mean it.
Then Vernon's voice rang out, panicked and puffing like the steam engine of regret he always was. "Something's here. I I don't think it's human. It's dangerous. It's hungry."
Seraphina froze.
Not in fear. In recognition.
Because hunger was a word she understood. It didn't always mean teeth. Sometimes it meant prophecy. Sometimes it meant lies with skin.
Then Dudley screamed.
It was a wet scream, full of snot and shit and the kind of fear only teenagers who've spent seventeen years being safe can afford to feel. "MUMMY! DAD! HELP ME! PLEASE, I DON'T WANNA DIE!"
It would've been hilarious if it wasn't real.
"Dudley!" Vernon bellowed. "I'm coming!"
There was the sound of running. Then a thwack baseball bat, most likely, Vernon's chosen implement for pretending he was useful.
Then nothing.
Nothing.
Silence so thick it walked into the room before the smoke.
Petunia was crying now.
Real crying.
It sounded ugly and honest.
Footsteps.
Not hers.
A voice, deep and oiled with filth, seeped into the room like rot in velvet. "Where is the girl?"
"There's no one here," Petunia said, standing her ground, voice shaking like cheap china in an earthquake. "You've destroyed my family."
"She is here," the voice replied. "I see everything."
Pause.
Then Petunia Dursley, suburban tyrant turned last-stand warrior snapped.
"If I'm going down, you're going with me. You're not touching that girl."
A soft pop. A hiss. A roar.
Bang.
The explosion wasn't dramatic. It was intimate the kind of boom you hear when someone takes a bomb and whispers it into a fireplace. The hallway screamed. The living room cracked open like a rotted egg. Upstairs, something collapsed.
And Seraphina? She came out.
Not slowly. Not stupidly.
She came out like a ghost rising from a grave with murder in its eyes.
The house was ruined.
Not broken obliterated. The walls sagged. Smoke clawed the wallpaper into ash. The smell of blood was thick metallic, wet, familiar. Upstairs, the banister dangled like a noose, broken beams hissing dust into the hallway.
She found them there.
What was left of them.
Her uncle… or at least his torso... had landed against the bathroom door. Dudley was everywhere. Literally. Everywhere. There was a part of him in the laundry basket. Another part in the sink. His mouth was still moving.
She didn't cry.
She didn't cheer either.
Just… looked.
They died afraid. In pain. And while Seraphina despised them, no one deserved that.
She went back down.
Smoke curled around her like a promise.
Petunia was on the ground, slumped near the entryway. The front door was gone—incinerated. So was half the living room.
A black smear on the wall suggested the intruder hadn't left. He'd exploded.
Petunia was still breathing. Barely. Her side was shredded like something had taken a bite out of her and regretted it halfway through.
"Come here," she rasped.
Seraphina dropped to her knees beside her aunt, stunned, unsure whether to help or curse her name one last time.
"I'm… so sorry," Petunia whispered. "I was cruel. I know that. I hated what you were because I didn't understand it. I still don't."
Seraphina said nothing. What was there to say?
"In my purse…" Petunia coughed, blood bubbling. "You'll find… money. Deeds. A flat. I was going to give it to you. For your birthday. Happy birthday, Seraphina."
Her eyes fluttered.
Closed.
Didn't open again.
Seraphina stared at her for a long time. Then slowly reached for the purse.
The fire was spreading.
Smoke alarms were losing their minds.
Outside, sirens howled. Blue and red lights strobed across the walls like guilt.
Seraphina didn't run.
She could've. She thought about it. But if she ran, they'd say she did it. She'd be the killer. The freak. The cursed girl who exploded her family and fled.
She wasn't about to give them that story.
She sat on the steps what was left of them with her teacup in one hand, Petunia's purse in the other, and her snake slithering across her shoulder like a pissed-off scarf.
Vespera hissed. "It's about time this house burned."
"You're not wrong," Seraphina muttered, sipping the last of her tea. Still lukewarm.
Still terrible.
She looked at the purse.
She looked at the flames.
And for the first time in seventeen years, she felt something like freedom.
Maybe not happiness.
But something close.
Maybe this was the end of the horror show.
Maybe it was just the trailer.