Summary: Five strangers are connected by a curse that has plagued Beacon Hills for generations.

Prologue

"Hey."

Stiles Stilinski watched in surprise as a strawberry-blonde girl plopped herself down in the empty seat next to him. He was about to ask her why when she interrupted him.

"Got anything to eat? Gum? Mint? Cough drop?"

"No," he replied, glancing at her curiously. "I mean, I do. In my car."

The girl gave him a confused look, then looked around as if she hadn't heard him correctly. "You have a car?" she asked incredulously. "Why are you on the bus then?"

"Why are you sitting next to me?" Stiles looked at her, waiting for her answer, shifting in his seat slightly.

"Well, it's not like it's standing room only," she said, flipping her curls over one shoulder.

Was . . . she hitting on him?

"Well, when I got back on, I went to the back," she continued. "But the dude in row 26 was creeping me out. So, I tried sitting next to the driver, but he doesn't have any food and I'm starving."

Stiles wasn't sure what to say. He'd been the only one on the bus besides Stiles and the bus driver and he had made him extremely uncomfortable. Now that he thought about it, all this talk about food was making him hungry. "Sorry," he told her, apologetic. "I didn't pack a picnic. I wasn't expecting to be on this bus."

He really hadn't. He swore he was never going to leave Roscoe behind, but his Jeep had had something happen to the engine and he'd needed to get it fixed. Probably from the excessive amount of tape he'd put underneath the hood. He remembered the tow truck driver giving him a strange look before he went and towed his beauty away. As much as it pained him, he would have to wait at least a month to get it back and repaired properly.

"Yeah, me either. I had to change in Harrisburg. This freak on the last one was so annoying. Kept telling me that he looked like Ryan Gosling in certain light. And I'm like, 'Dude, carry that light with you, because in this light, you look like Shrek.'" The girl paused as if she realized that she was still talking. She blew out a long huff of air. "So, where are you headed?"

"Beacon Hills."

"Oh, cool. Me too. You got friends there?"

"No, um, family,' he said. "But I haven't met them . . . him . . . yet. I didn't even know my Uncle existed until like two weeks ago."

"Your parents never -"

"My mom . . . she's gone."

She was quiet for a moment. "Gone?"

"Dead."

Awkward silence ensued. Then the girl immediately tried to break the tension by drawing the attention of the guy in row 26, who was currently sitting all alone in the back of the bus.

"So, the creep in 26 fell asleep and he has a huge bag of chips. Do you think we can get away with stealing them?"

He stared at her, mouth opening and closing, unsure what to say. Finally, Stiles settled on saying, "Unless 60 people get on the next stop . . . I'd say we look pretty good for it."

She smiled. "Yeah." Her stomach growled at the mention of this. The girl glanced back at him before looking away. Stiles watched as she bit her lower lip.

"So, does he know you're coming?" the girl finally asked him, seeing through his lie. "Your Uncle?"

"Yeah, of course he does," Stiles scoffed, embarrassed that she had figured that out. "He's the only family I have."

Besides my dad, he thought.

"So, then, who're you living with now?"

"It's . . . complicated."

"Foster home?" she guessed calmly.

"You don't have to say it like that," he groaned. "You're not going to catch anything because we're sharing a seat."

"Hey, if there's something to catch, I've already got it. I've spent some time in a few of them myself."

Stiles noticed her avoiding eye contact with him. But he felt compelled to ask. "You running away?"

She turned her head to face him slowly, eyes lingering on his for a while before she leaned in, dropped her lips to his ears, whispering, "I'm stealing those chips."

She slowly rose from her seat, watching to see if the driver was paying attention as she headed toward the back. She slunk into the seat next to the sleeping man, waiting for a bit before grabbing a rolled-up newspaper from the floor. Quickly, she exchanged the bag of chips for the newspaper, tucking it under his arm. She walked back toward her seat beside Stiles, grinning triumphantly. They each popped a chip into their mouths, enjoying the taste.

Stiles knew it was wrong, but he didn't care, letting his appetite win him over. Hopefully, the guy would think he already ate the bag and threw it away.

One by one, the chips disappeared and the bag was empty. Stiles pulled out his phone from his jacket pocket, hoping to see any notifications that he'd received a new message.

Nothing.

Sighing, he pressed the familiar speed dial button with his thumb, placing it against his ear, hoping to receive an answer.

The voicemail responded instead.

"Malia, why aren't you answering your phone? Call me . . . please." He hung up, slipping it back into his jacket.

"Who's Malia?" the girl asked.

"My girlfriend."

"You . . . you guys have some kind of fight?"

Stiles sighed heavily, letting out a slow exhale as he wiped a hand down his face. "No, I'm . . ." he trailed off, then started up again. "I'm angry at myself because I let her go there."

She gave him a puzzled look. "Go where?"

"Beacon Hills."

"You worried that she's hooking up with someone else?"

He shook his head. He knew that wasn't it and that it wasn't the case. At least, he hoped. "No, that's not what I'm worried about."

"Well, hey, don't sweat it. If we both get kicked to the curb, we meet on the next bus out," she said. She caught herself for a moment before deciding to rush on with her next words. "Does your Uncle really know you're coming? Did you at least give him a heads up?"

Damn. Maybe he wasn't as good as he thought he was. "Why?" Stiles exclaimed in frustration. "So he could slam the door shut before he even opens it?"

"I just . . . he might want some . . ."

"Look, don't worry about me, okay?"

The strawberry-blonde gave him a look. "I have other places to go. Just worry about Malia." Then she groaned and put her head in her hands. "Look, I'm sorry. I was just asking about your Uncle because . . . I've been there. You crash into somebody's life like a cannonball, and there might be an explosion. I've got an Uncle, too, who turned out to be my father."

"Are you living with him now?"

She hesitated. " . . . No.," she admitted. "You know, and if that's what you're expecting, don't. Okay, get the picket fence and the bedroom with your own door out of your head."

"I'd settle for someone who wouldn't toss my laptop into a steaming bathtub."

"Were you in it?"

"No. Not that he would've noticed. He was the kind who opened a bottle of vodka and threw away the cap," he explained. His dad had been an alcoholic after his mom died. He had never been the same since. But then something had happened and his dad was back to normal, Stiles thought. "Well, then this was a good call. Maybe things'll work out. At least you know where you're going."

"Yeah. Back to Scranton. Rather deal with the devil I know." The girl stood up as the bus stuttered to a stop. Stiles got up and handed her her bag.

"Hey. Are you sure you wanna do this? I mean, you are closer to Beacon Hills . . ."

"Look, I gotta go. But have a nice life," she said quickly. She started to turn, but then glanced back again, shouldering her bag. "Um, what's your name?"

"Stiles."

"Lydia," she told him, giving him a small smile. "Bye."

Stiles watched her turn to leave as he sat back down, then saw her freeze upon seeing the creepy man from row 26 staring at her at the bus' door. They stared at each other, keeping uncomfortable eye contact until the man finally left.

Lydia stood there for a moment before spinning around. "On second thought," she murmured as she took her seat by Stiles once more.

_oOo_

"I've heard of whistling past the graveyard, but I didn't know you could bring a band," Lydia chuckled at this, turning her head to look at Stiles as they paused in front of the open gate to Beacon Hills Cemetery.

They had arrived in Beacon Hills only moments ago, it seemed, the bus stopping directly in front of the cemetery. Hell of a great bus stop, Lydia had thought to herself, glancing at the eerie sight in front of them. A chill seemed to roll through the air, brushing against Lydia's skin, making her shiver and hug her jacket closer to her body. She was sort of envious that Stiles was wearing a warmer jacket - a red hoodie.

An angel statue stood in the center, past the gate, dead leaves scattering about. Headstones and mausoleums were gracing the background of the angel statue, dark and weathered and quiet.

Lydia turned to Stiles, both of them sharing a knowing smile. The cemetery creeped him out, too, she guessed. "Go ahead, find your girlfriend. I'll be okay. You know, if you want, I can walk you to your uncle's house," Lydia told him. "The driver said that it was down that street."

"No, I can find it myself," Stiles insisted, gesturing behind him.

"You're late," she reminded him about Malia.

"To tell you the truth, I'd rather face him alone," Stiles said softly after a moment. He glanced into the cemetery before meeting her gaze. "How I'm used to doing things."

Lydia hesitated. It would seem wrong to let him go off alone like this, but why should she care? Stiles wasn't her boyfriend. He was literally a stranger she'd just met on the bus hours earlier. A stranger with whom she shared some deep stuff with. "Yeah, well, you have my number, so . . ."

"You've got mine."

"Let me know what happens."

"Yeah. Promise."

Lydia, for some reason, decided to reach out and touch Stiles' forehead with her index finger before lowering it, returning it back to her side.

Stiles gave her a bewildered look. "What was that?"

"Keeps evil spirits away," she explained.

Stiles nodded as if he knew what she was talking about. "Never heard that one."

"I just made it up," Lydia confessed, laughing.

Stiles chuckled. "See you 'round the bus stop."

"Right." Stiles shifted before nodding to her, before walking through the gate in search of his girlfriend. There was a local Founders Day Celebration party being held in the cemetery, where Malia said to meet her at.

Sighing, Lydia turns and began to walk down the sidewalk, whistling as she past the long fence. Minutes seem to fly by and she spotted a dusty mansion almost hiding in the shadows.

Without thinking, she let her feet drag her to the front door, surprise to find it unlocked. Hesitating, she slowly pushed it open, poking her head in. "Hello?" she called out. Maybe this was Stiles' Uncle's place.

She pushed herself in, shutting the door gently behind her, taking in the sights of everything all around her. Old antique photos lined the mantle beside her: a man and a woman standing beside each other, two children standing side by side presumingly siblings, a group of people sitting outside a Victorian-style porch, possibly from this same mansion. A mother sitting in a wicker chair, facing her two small children. All of them were donned in Nineteenth-Century attire. It was pretty fascinating.

As she explored further into the mansion, Lydia thought she could hear the faint cries of a woman and the sound of pounding. Curious, she followed it several more hallways twists and turns, leading directly to a room, which held a old-fashioned phone booth.

It was poorly-lit, Lydia realized, but she could still a silhouette of a girl in there. Maybe she was stuck. Lydia twisted the handle and pulled the flimsy door open. "Hello."

The girl in front of her looked shocked for a second before hesitating a reply. "Hi."

Lydia took notice of the girl's dress, seeing the detail and the beauty of it, the girl's short brown hair piled in ringlets on top of her head. Lydia nodded her head in approval and pursed her lips, wondering why the girl had been in the phone booth in the first place. Had she been wanting to make a call and had gotten herself locked in? That was the only logical explanation Lydia could think of.

That, or someone else had pushed her in and locked the door.

Lydia watched as the girl stepped out of the booth and began immediately strutting down the hallway in a frantic manner. She hurried up to catch up with the girl, determined not to get herself lost. And if she did, at least she'd have company.

"You live here?"

"Well, my friend's uncle does," Lydia said. "Or at least, I think he does."

"Who else lives in this house?" the girl continued as if she hadn't heard her.

"How should I know?" Lydia quipped back. The antique lights rimmed the hallway they were in, photos lining the walls underneath them.

"Well, there were people running in the hall. You must have seen them."

Lydia knew she hadn't ran into anybody else in the entire time she was in here. "The only person I've met in this house is you. And you are?"

"Why should I tell you?"

Lydia turned her head to stare at the girl in disbelief, stepping in front of her, crossing her arms over her chest. "Because I'm the one who let you out of the phone booth."

"How do I know you're not the one who locked me in the phone booth? You could be from here, maybe you're trying to kill me."

"If I was going to kill you, I'd use something better than a phone booth," Lydia retorted. And she could. She had read enough books and watched enough movies to know which part of a vein would bleed the most when punctured, how long she'd have to apply pressure to a certain point to cause pain and hell, even for fun, which one of her heels could do the most damage.

"My name's Malia," the girl finally answered.

"Malia. I'm Lydia." So this was Stiles' girlfriend. No doubt Stiles was probably wondering where she was right now.

"Okay," Malia exhaled deeply. "You do know how to get out of here, don't you? I mean, you got in, you came through a door."

Lydia looked apologetic. "I got a little lost," she admitted as they rounded a corner. "Can't we just get out the way you came in?"

"Not a good idea," Malia said, shaking her head.

"Well, I came this way," Lydia guessed, motioning her hand in front of her. "I think. You always dress like prom night on the Titanic?"

Malia pushed open a set of double doors, then stopped short, staring at whatever was in front of her. Lydia peered over her shoulder and saw that the room was filled was caskets. "What kind of business did you say your friend's Uncle was in?"

"I didn't."

Malia stepped inside with Lydia following behind, inspecting the open caskets. She watched as the girl picked up a card from the inside of one, reading it aloud. "Roden, O'Brien, and Hale."

"That's my friend's uncle," Lydia cut in. She wasn't exactly sure how she knew, but just went along with what her gut was trying to tell her, rolling along with it. "The last one, Hale."

She didn't know that Malia had turned to leave, her feet slowly dragging her across the room, to the two closed caskets in front of her.

"Come on. Lydia, come on. No window shopping." Malia's voice sounded distorted and off. Then, a memory plunged into her head.

She saw herself as a little girl, wearing a pair of ruby slippers on her feet. A man approached her from behind, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. She looked up toward him, seeing a pair of dark green eyes underneath bushy eyebrows.

"Don't try to understand, Lydia. Not now. Just know, you'll be safe. That's what your grandmother wanted. And, please, forgive me."

The memory cleared from her eyes and Lydia realized that she was crying, a hand on one of the closed caskets. She heard footsteps behind her and felt Malia's hand touch her gently.

"Hey. Are you okay?" Malia looked genuinely confused and worried.

"Yeah, I think so," she lied, furiously blinking away tears, holding her arms against herself. " I told people I wasn't at my grandmother's funeral because I didn't want to talk about it. I guess I said it so often, I started believing it myself." Lydia sniffed, absolutely embarrassed that she was opening open to a complete stranger. "But . . . I was there. And I remember a man. I think he was my friend's uncle. But if he was there, then why did he leave him?"

Malia shook her head, watching her warily. "I don't know. I'll tell you what, when we get out of here, and we find him, I'll hold him down while you ask him. And you and your friend can beat him up. Deal?"

Lydia smiled, wiping her tears away, a small laugh escaping her. "Yeah."

Malia patted her shoulder comfortably, then turned to lead them both out of the room. While leaving, Lydia noticed a pamphlet, eyes scanning it before tucking it into the inside of her jacket, hurrying to catch up with Malia. Finally, the two found the entrance and headed toward the cemetery, both of them hoping that Stiles would find them there.

And he did.

Lydia turned at the sound of footsteps approaching her and saw him. "Lydia."

She breathed out a sigh of relief, smiling gratefully toward him. "For a guy who's looking for somebody, you're not easy to find."

Stiles frowned. "I didn't know I needed to be. You okay?"

"Um, we can talk about me after. But right now I think your girl needs a hug." Lydia looked in the direction where Malia was standing, Stiles following her eyes.

He immediately went to her, both of them desperate to touch each other.

"I've been trying to call you," Stiles murmured, wrapping his arms around her. "Malia, is everything okay? What's going on?"

Malia explained the situation to Stiles. Apparently, she'd been exploring the cemetery and had come across a mausoleum, which contained a secret passageway. She had been excited, only to find that she had gotten locked inside and had somehow ended up in the mansion after wandering aimlessly when finding another door. Malia had led them back to the place, hoping to show them what she found.

"Okay, I know it doesn't look like it, but this is a door," Malia started. She began pushing on the statue bolted to the wall, struggling to move it. She noticed Stiles watching her and inclined her head to the statue. "Why am I doing this alone?"

Stiles rushed to help his girlfriend while Lydia began to survey the walls.

"Are you sure we're in the right place?" Stiles huffed as he pushed on the statue harder, but it still wouldn't budge.

"Yes!" Malia snapped back in frustration. After a few more minutes of pushing, they both gave up.

Lydia moved aside a vine, peering at the golden letters engraved in the stone wall in the moonlight, hoping, praying it was a mistake. After all, her name had be a common name, right?

"Lydia? Are you okay?" Malia asked,

Lydia looked toward her, at a loss for words, then turned her attention back to her name on the wall. She moved aside the vine above it, revealing a dusted, faded old black-and-white picture in an oval frame. She was looking at herself, but frozen forever in the Nineteenth Century.

Lydia stared. "That's me."

Once they had gotten outside, Lydia pulled out the pamphlet she'd taken from the mansion, showing it to Stiles, while Malia chatted on her phone, waiting for a response.

"I found this in your uncle's house," she explained.

He gave her a perplexed look as he read the paper. "There has to be some sort of explanation," he told her. "Like a brother, or something . . ."

"It said I had no other living relatives." Lydia was confused. Here it was, this man on the front cover, embolden in death as his picture stared back at them.

"So, my dad's coming to pick us up," Malia called to them as she stepped carefully over the headstones in the ground, picking up the folds of her dress, heading in their direction.

"Guys, I think I'll peel off here," Lydia announced, trailing behind Stiles and Malia as the three of them headed toward the cemetery entrance.

"No!" Malia said stubbornly."You don't have to stay here, you can come with us."

Lydia cocked an perfectly tweezed eyebrow. "You're allowed to bring home strays?"

"I've done it before." Malia shared a glance with Stiles, a warm smile spreading across her face before turning back to Lydia.

Lydia studied them before replying, "Thanks for the offer, but I can take care of myself. Been doing it for a long time."

"Stiles, help me out here," Malia pleaded, nudging Stiles' shoulder. "You can't let her go back in that house."

Lydia sighed, flipping her hair as Stiles stepped forward, a serious look on his face.

"Look, I know how it feels to want answers. And I hope you find the ones you're looking for."

"Come on, guys. Get out of here already."

Malia, realizing that Lydia wasn't going to change her mind, went and hugged the strawberry-blonde girl. If Lydia hadn't found her back in that mansion, she would still probably be stuck in there. "It's an open invitation," Malia told her when she pulled away. "You can always come to Beacon County."

"Thank you," Lydia replied. "Bye." She gave a small wave to them before they turned and walked away in the opposite direction.

"God, I really don't think we should let her stay here," Malia said, turning around to face Stiles.

"You heard her. It's not about wanting answers, it's about needing them."

Malia looked at her boyfriend with love in her eyes, stepping forward and giving him a passionate kiss.

"What was that for?"

The brown-haired girl shrugged her shoulders. "For being the kind of guy I can ask to stay here and take care of a girl that pretty."

Stiles looked past Malia's shoulder to see Lydia's retreating figure. "Are you sure?"

She smiled sadly. "Yeah. Help her. Then find me when you get home."

"I love you, Malia Tate."

He placed a kiss on her forehead, watching her as she climbed into her dad's car.

He found Lydia staring down at a grave, turning her head to look at him as he neared closer, looking partially confused.

"You're not leaving, are you?"

Stiles grinned at her. "Not tonight."

_oOo_

"Have you noticed how many kids are buried in this cemetery?" Stiles asked aloud. Whether it was to himself or to her, Lydia didn't know.

And yes, she had noticed. It was very disturbing. Was there some kind of teenager death plague going around this town?

It just so happened, in that moment, she chose to look down, her green eyes landing on a headstone. "Stiles?" she began carefully. "What's your last name?"

"Stilinski. Why?"

That's when Stiles looked down. That's when he thought his heart was going to stop, then jump out of his chest. His eyes widened. He went and stepped closer, bending down to get a good luck at the headstone in front of him. His name Stiles Stilinski, Beloved Son was engraved in golden block letters on it. There was a slide covering the picture frame above it. Slowly and hesitatingly, he reached a hand out, opening the slide to reveal the faded old-fashioned picture underneath it.

It was him, his hair slicked back, dressed in a black suit with a tie hanging around his neck,

Just like Lydia's.

Forever frozen in the Nineteenth Century.

It was official, Stiles and Lydia decided. They were going to stay in Beacon Hills.

They needed answers.