In the Angel's Keeping
A Killian Kendall Expanded Universe Short Story
By Josh Aterovis
Copyright 2026
Blurb:
When Killian Kendall helps his family prepare a historic mansion for its new life as a bed-and-breakfast, he expects dust, paint, and sore muscles—not the chilling cries of an unseen infant or the mournful gaze of a ghost. Drawn into the tragic past of Amalie Marnien, the sea captain’s young wife who died more than a century ago, Killian must face the unsettling truth about his own supernatural gifts and uncover the secrets buried within the house’s walls. In the Angels’ Keeping is a haunting journey where the past refuses to rest until its story is told.
This story takes place between All Lost Things and The Truth of Yesterday.
Author Bio:
Josh Aterovis is the award-winning author of multiple LGBTQ+ novels blending mystery, romance, suspense, and the supernatural, including seven novels and multiple short stories in the acclaimed Killian Kendall Mysteries series. His work explores themes of identity, chosen family, grief, healing, and queer resilience, often centering flawed but deeply human characters navigating extraordinary circumstances. Known for emotionally grounded storytelling and vivid atmosphere, Josh’s books have earned a devoted readership among fans of queer fiction and genre-bending narratives.
In addition to his work as a novelist, Josh is an immersive theater creator and producer with Submersive Productions in Baltimore, Maryland, where he develops original, site-specific experiences that blur the line between audience and performer. His storytelling across both page and stage is driven by a passion for creating meaningful, transformative experiences that invite audiences to connect, reflect, and imagine new possibilities.
Chapter 1
“Where do you want this?” I asked.
“I’m a little busy here, Killian.” Steve said around a nail he was holding in his mouth. He was on a ladder in the parlor, carefully measuring to find the exact center of the wall over the fireplace. “You should ask Adam or Judy, anyway. I’m just doing what they tell me.”
I put down the heavy wooden side table I was carrying. “What’s going there?”
“Amalie’s portrait. I thought she deserved a place of honor.”
“You already named the place after her. Isn’t that enough?” The portrait creeped me out.
Steve marked the wall with a pencil, then quickly nailed a picture hanger into place. “If I’m calling the place Amalie’s house, it seems logical to hang her portrait over the fireplace. Maybe this is where it hung originally. It just feels right.”
Steve had bought the mansion, originally owned by Captain Marnien and his wife Amalie, a few months before with the intention of turning it into a bed and breakfast. The captain had built the enormous house for his young bride in the 1850s. Local legend claimed she died while he was out at sea. A few former owners claimed she never really left, claiming to have seen her spirit. I'd even had a few unnerving experiences of my own when Steve was first viewing the property.
I’d found Amalie’s portrait stored in a room full of junk on the second floor before Steve even bought the house. I’d also heard footsteps in the hall outside the room, but when I investigated, there was no one there. It may or may not have been Amalie herself — I didn’t stick around to find out. I'd been uneasy in the house ever since.
The upside was decades of ghost stories meant that Steve got a great bargain when he bought the place. Since then, he'd launched several months of extensive renovation and restoration. The grand opening was just two weeks away, and it was all hands on deck as we worked to get the place ready.
Adam, Steve’s partner and my surrogate father, and our family friend Judy, an interior designer, were calling the shots. The rest of us were just manual labor. Painters were still working on the second floor, and an electrician was finishing up some wiring for the new appliances in the kitchen. The house was bustling with activity, which helped put my nerves at ease.
Just then, Judy charged into the room carrying the portrait. “Don’t come down,” she ordered Steve. “I’m bringing you Amalie.”
She handed Steve the portrait, which he carefully placed on the newly installed hanger.
“The left side is a little high,” Judy advised, and Steve made a slight correction. “Perfect.” She turned to me. “That table is going in one of the guest rooms upstairs but they’re being painted. Why don’t you run it up to the third floor for now?”
“Oh sure, why not carry it up an extra flight of stairs?”
“That’s an antique,” she shot back. “I don’t want paint to get on it. Besides, climbing stairs is good exercise. Great for your glutes.”
“I don’t get any complaints about my glutes,” I muttered under my breath. It was pointless to argue, though, so I hefted the table and started up the stairs.
My arms were starting to burn by the time I reached the third floor, so I picked the closest room and stashed the table inside. The third floor wouldn't be open to guests. Eventually, it would be converted into an apartment for the family, but that was phase two of the renovation. Phase one was getting the B&B up and running.
I hadn’t taken two steps back toward the stairs before an eerie sound made me freeze. Somewhere in the distance, I heard what sounded like the faint cries of a distressed infant. The crying continued for perhaps a full minute before my fear released me. I took the stairs down to the second floor two at a time.
One of the painters came out of a room holding a paintbrush, a confused look on his face.
“Did you hear that?” I gasped.
“Hear what?”
“That sound, did you hear it?”
The other painter entered the hall. “Only thing I heard was a herd of water buffalo stampeding down the stairs.”
The first guy shrugged. “What did you hear?”
“It sounded like a baby crying.”
“Is there a baby in the house?”
“No.”
“It was probably just a cat,” the second guy offered. “Or a mockingbird. Those things can make some strange noises.”
I tried to force myself to accept his explanation. While it was infinitely more logical than an actual baby crying, somehow I couldn’t convince myself that what I’d heard had such a simple rationalization.
“You’re sure you didn’t hear it?” I asked again, just to be certain. Maybe the creepy old house was getting to me, playing tricks on me.
They both shook their heads. “Nope.”
I nodded and looked over my shoulder at the stairs, then continued down to the first floor.
Judy was in the front hall wrestling a hall tree into place. She glanced up at me and stopped. “What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“You look like you saw a ghost.”
I made a face at her choice of words. “Heard one maybe...”
Judy perked up. “What did you hear?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing, but when I was up on the third floor, I thought I heard a baby crying.”
“A baby crying? Is that part of the house’s lore?”
“Not that I know of. The painters said it was probably just a bird or something.” Even I could hear the doubt in my voice.
I shrugged it off and headed out to the moving truck packed with furniture for the house. There was too much to unload to worry about weird noises.
As I was coming back in with a dining room chair, the electrician was on the porch taking a cigarette break. He was an attractive, young guy — late twenties, black, well-built, with a well-groomed beard. He’d done all the electrical work for the renovation, and considering the age of the house, that had been quite a lot.
That gave me an idea.
I waited for him to finish lighting up, then approached him. “Hey, can I ask you a weird question?”
He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I guess.”
“You’ve been working in the house a lot, right?”
He gave me a look, as if to say, “You know I have,” then nodded.
“Have you...experienced anything weird while you’ve been here?”
“Weirder than this conversation?”
I blushed. “I mean like have you seen anything odd or heard strange sounds.”
He took another drag on his cigarette before answering. “It’s an old house. You hear stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Just things like footsteps when you think you’re alone in the house. Doors slamming upstairs. Nothing too out there. Just...a little creepy.”
“You never heard a baby crying upstairs?”
His eyes grew round. “No, and I wouldn’t still be working here if I did. A door slamming, that could be a breeze. Old houses are drafty, you know. But a ghost baby crying? Fuck that. Only white people hang around for that shit.”
I laughed. “Okay, thanks.”
“Hold up. Did you hear a baby crying?”
“It was probably just a bird,” I said over my shoulder.
We finished unloading the truck a little after dark. Eventually, my little brother Kane arrived with his best friend Ty and they gave us a hand, making the work go much quicker. By that time, we were all starving though.
“Who’s ready to go get some pizza,” Adam asked.
“Me!” Kane and Ty replied enthusiastically in unison. The rest of us were too tired to muster up much energy.
“Let’s stop at Naples Pizzeria on our way home.”
Kane and Ty left first to reserve grab a table while the rest of us finished up in the house. Steve was locking the front door when Judy realized she didn’t have her keys.
“Oh, for god’s sake,” she muttered, digging through her purse. “I was using the mini measuring tape on my keychain all day. I must have set them down somewhere.” She glanced up and smiled apologetically. “Sorry guys."
Steve opened the door back up, and we all filed back in. A quick search of the downstairs didn’t turn anything up. Adam suggested we all split up to search quicker. Being the youngest, I got assigned the upper floors.
Going upstairs alone was about the last thing I wanted to do, but I couldn’t very well say no. A quick search of the second floor revealed nothing. There weren’t many places to leave anything since the painters had been working there all day.
“Found them yet?” I called down before going up another flight.
“No, still looking,” she called back.
I sighed and headed for the third floor, turning lights on as I went. As soon as I stepped into the hallway, I noticed the door to the cupola was slightly ajar. Had it been open when I was up there earlier? I wasn’t sure. There was no reason for Judy to have gone in the cupola, so the keys couldn’t be there, but I remembered Steve realtor saying the door sometimes opened on its own.
Intending to close it, I took a few steps before a soft creak echoed from the cupola above. I froze, heart pounding, but quickly shook it off. I was being ridiculous. Old houses made noises all the time. Steeling myself, I squared my shoulders and strode purposefully down the hall.
I yanked the door open the rest of the way and looked up the narrow staircase. Nothing. Just shadows and silence.
Enough was enough — I was determined to put all this ghost nonsense to rest once and for all. I started up the stairs, but halfway up, a sudden wave of dizziness hit me. I stopped, bracing myself against the wall. The feeling passed as quickly as it came, but it was enough to make me take the rest of the climb slowly and carefully.
I paused just below the top, nerves jangling, then forced myself to peek over the edge. Relief flooded through me, and I almost laughed. The tiny room was empty, bathed in the silver light of an almost-full moon.
I climbed the last few steps and stepped inside, taking in the view. The property stretched out before me, beautiful and serene under the moonlit sky.
As I turned to leave, I glanced towards the foot of the stairs and froze.
A woman stood in the hallway, gazing up at me with an expression of deep sorrow etched into her features. She had once been beautiful—might still have been, if not for the heavy burden of sadness that seemed to age her. Her long, dark dress was plain and unadorned, and her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. Though she looked older and more worn than I remembered, I recognized her instantly. She was the woman from the portrait we’d hung over the fireplace earlier that day.
She was Amalie.
I stood paralyzed on the top step, staring down at a woman I knew had been dead for well over a hundred and fifty years. My entire body wanted to scream out in sheer terror, but somehow, as long as she held me in that mournful gaze, I couldn’t make a sound. If she could speak, she chose not to, but I could feel sadness emanating from her in almost palpable waves. My throat closed, whether from fear, sorrow, or a mixture of both, I wasn’t sure.
I don’t know how long we stood staring at one another before she reached a hand out toward me, almost as if she were trying to tell me something. Instinctively, I recoiled, even though there was an entire staircase between us. Her expression darkened, and her sadness became tinged with a deep, seething anger.
Fear twisted into raw terror. Was she going to hurt me? Could she hurt me? I wanted to run, but the only way out of the cupola was down the stairs, and she was standing at the bottom. Panic rose, tightening my throat, until I couldn’t hold it back any longer. I opened my mouth and screamed.
Immediately, Amalie vanished. Moments later, I heard what sounded like the entire combined U.S. Armed Forces storming up the stairs. I collapsed on the stairs, my heart pounding.
Adam, Steve, and Judy skidded to a halt in front of the door.
“Killian!” Adam yelled, fear in his voice at seeing me sprawled on the stairs. He took them two at a time to reach my side. “Are you hurt? Did you fall?”
I shook my head. “I, uh, slipped on the top step.”
I felt enormously stupid, but it was better than saying I’d seen a ghost.
“Are you hurt?” Adam asked again.
“No. I’m fine. It just...surprised me.”
Adam pulled me to my feet and helped me down the stairs.
“What were you doing up there anyway?” Judy asked in confusion. “We didn’t even go up into the cupola today.”
“The door was open, and I thought I heard something.”
That got Steve’s attention. His expression immediately went from concern to curiosity. “What did you hear?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure. It could have been anything.”
“Well, just be careful,” Adam chided gently. “Now come on. We still have to find Judy’s keys.”
Judy was eying me suspiciously, though she didn’t say anything. I had a feeling I’d hear from her later.
We finally found her keys on the kitchen counter hidden behind a paint can, so we all left in our respective vehicles to catch up to Kane and Ty at the local pizza parlor.
After dinner, everyone started piling into their vehicles again to head home. Judy caught my arm as I opened my car door. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Sure, if I can manage to stay awake that long,” I replied with a forced laugh. I had a feeling I knew what she wanted to talk about.
“What exactly happened in the cupola tonight?”
I tried to seem as nonchalant as possible. “What do you mean? I fell on the stairs.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Maybe Adam bought that because it’s what he wanted to believe, but you were as white as a ghost.”
I flinched. Why did she have to keep referencing ghosts?
“What exactly did you hear?” she pressed.
“It was just a creak. Old houses make noises. It doesn’t mean anything.”
She studied me carefully. “What happened, Killian?”
“Nothing, really.”
I don’t know why I didn’t just tell her about Amalie. Judy of all people would understand. She was the one who told me I have supernatural gifts, one of which seemed to be seeing dead people. Lucky me! Part of me just wanted to avoid talking about it at all, as if that would somehow make it more real. I was still deeply disturbed by the experience.
She frowned but shrugged. “Okay, but if you decide you want to talk about it, you know where to find me.” She gave me a hug and headed for her car.
I drove home and went up to the room I shared with Kane, who was already sleeping like a baby. I was jealous of his ability to fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. I, on the other hand, lay awake in the dark for over an hour staring at the ceiling thinking about Amalie and wondering if I should have told Judy.
After much internal debate, I decided that I needed to talk to someone about what had happened, and Judy was the obvious candidate. I resolved to talk to her the next day, and with that issue laid to rest, I was finally able to get some rest of my own.
The next morning, we were all out at the B&B again bright and early. As soon as Judy arrived, I pulled her aside. "Do you think we could talk for a minute?" I asked.
"Of course. What's wrong?"
I glanced around at the others. "Let's take a walk."
We went around the house into the backyard and walked along the stream that ran along one side of the property. "I wasn't completely honest last night."
"I know."
I gave her a sharp look. "Your gifts?"
"Sweetie, I didn't need my gifts to know you were full of shit. I figured you'd come to me when you were ready."
I took a deep breath. “I saw Amalie.”
Her eyes grew wide. “You actually saw her? When? Where? What did she look like? What did she do?”
"She looked just like her portrait, but...sadder and more haggard. She just sort of looked at me, like she wanted something."
"Do you have any idea what she wanted?"
"No."
"I can't believe you saw her. What was it like?"
"Terrifying."
I cast a nervous look at the house. The way the sun was glinting off the glass in the cupola, someone could have been up there watching us and I'd never know.
A chill ran down my spine.
“I wonder how she knew to seek you out?”
“I don’t know that she did. To be honest, she seemed almost as surprised as I was that I could see her.”
“Really? Then you must have particularly strong gifts, to see her when she isn’t trying to make herself visible.”
“Ghosts have to try?”
“From what little I understand — and remember, I’m not an expert — some do. By definition, ghosts are spiritual beings with no physical body. By the way, we use the term ghost pretty broadly. Some are spirits left behind from a sudden, often violent death. They’re confused and don’t fully realize they’re dead. Some seem to have unfinished business to attend to and can’t move on yet. Some are simply emotional impressions left behind after someone dies, echoes of a person often created by violent or intense circumstances.”
“Which of those do you think Amalie is?”
“I don’t really have enough information to say. Although, if she showed emotion and was surprised to see you, that sort of rules out an emotional impression. Do you know anything more about her?”
I recounted as much of the story the realtor had told us as I could remember. When I finished, Judy frowned. “That sounds romanticized to me. I’d like to hear the actual history of Amalie and her sea captain.”
As we were talking, we were approaching the edge of the lawn, where it butted up against an overgrown wooded area. Steve had asked the previous owners to clear the underbrush, but it was one of the few things they'd refused to do. It seemed they’d made some small effort, though. While the undergrowth was still heavy at ground level under the trees, they had mowed down most of the high weeds, small shrubs, and wild blackberry bushes that had made up a kind of thicket around the perimeter of the woods. As a result, we were able to get closer to the trees than I’d ever been before. We were skirting the edge of the woods when something caught my eye.
“What’s that?”
“What’s what?” Judy peered into the woods, trying to see what I was talking about.
“There.” I pointed to an oddly shaped lump covered in vines. “It looks like a statue or something.”
“I don’t see any— Oh, I see. Are you sure it's not just a tree stump?"
"I don't think so..." I found myself oddly drawn to the vine-entangled form.
"Do you think we can get to it?”
“I’m going to try.”
I started into the tangled mass of brambles that made it almost impossible to move under the trees. The thorny vines scratched and clawed at me with every step, pulling at my clothes and tearing at my skin. I ignored the scratches and cuts, disentangling myself as necessary, and kept pushing forward.
As I drew nearer, I could see my initial impression was right.
“It’s definitely some sort of statue,” I called back.
“Why on earth would there be a statue this far away from the house?” Judy wondered aloud. “Could it be an old formal garden, maybe?”
I didn’t answer. The question was rhetorical, and I was concentrating so hard on the statue that I wasn’t watching my step. Suddenly, I ran into something about knee high and found myself falling face first into the briars. I scrambled up to see what I had tripped over. It was a low grave marker — not a headstone, but the kind often used to mark the foot of a grave. A chill ran up my spine as I realized I wasn’t in a garden.
It was a cemetery.
Next Chapter
