The rain hadn’t stopped in three days. It hadn’t slowed. It didn’t waver. It fell like judgment. The sky above East Hollow had turned a shade darker than black, not the color of night, but the color of rot—something decayed beyond recognition. Black clouds hung heavy, thick and slow, bleeding shadows over crumbling rooftops and the twisted iron skeletons of forgotten streetlamps. Fog licked the pavement like breath from a dying beast.

At the top of Hollow Hill, where the road fractured into gravel and memory, the Pendleton Estate loomed like a wound stitched into the side of the earth—ancient, bleeding history through every crack in its stone skin. Ivy curled like veins up its façade. Gargoyles watched from the roof, not ornamental. Not anymore.

The cab stopped without a word. The driver didn’t look at her, didn’t wait for payment. As though he’d been told, long before today, never to return once the door closed behind her.

Adira Vale stepped out, black heels slicing through rain-slicked stone. Her trench coat clung to her, soaked through despite the umbrella she didn’t bother to open. Her fingers trembled—not from cold, but from the envelope in her hand. Off-white. Thick paper. Unsealed. No return address. No name.

Just hers.

Adira Vale

Written in her mother’s handwriting.

Her dead mother.

The estate gates had opened for her before she arrived. No keys. No creaking iron. Just… open. The house waited. It breathed. The silence was louder than the rain.

Inside, the scent hit her. Violets. And rot. Like perfume buried in a coffin, blooming through the fabric of time. The air was still, unmoving, thick with memories that didn’t belong to her. Shadows moved before she did. And the portraits—lining the high hallway—watched her. Their eyes followed. Not metaphorically.

Not anymore.

The lEtter had arrived two nights ago, dropped at her doorstep like a curse dressed as correspondence. Her grandmother, Claudia Pendleton, had died last week. No will. No lawyer. No announcement. Just the letter.

She hadn’t even known her grandmother was alive.

And now the manor was hers.

Adira stepped into the parlor. Velvet curtains swayed though the windows were sealed shut. A clock ticked in the corner—an old grandfather with no hands. The letter in her hand felt heavier.

She opened it, the seal snapping like bone.

“You are the last. Do not trust him. He knows your name now. He knows you’ve come. Do not read the other letters.”

Other letters?

The handwriting was unmistakable. It belonged to her mother, Elena Vale—dead thirteen years. Cremated. No grave.

A breath grazed the shell of her ear.

She froze.

It was not hers.

She turned sharply.

He was already there.

A figure stood at the base of the grand staircase. Not a ghost. Not a man. Something in between. Half-swallowed by shadow, half-dressed like grief incarnate. Black coat. Black gloves. White shirt that looked blood-stained in the low light. And eyes like obsidian—no light, no depth. Just void.

Tall. Composed. A predator drawn in charcoal and elegance.

“You shouldn’t be here alone,” he said, voice like silk dragged across broken glass.

Adira didn’t speak. She didn’t scream. Something deeper than fear took root inside her. Something like knowing. Like recognition.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“I go by many names,” he said. “Tonight, it’s Elias.”

She stepped back, the floor groaning beneath her weight.

“Do you live here?” she asked.

He tilted his head. Slowly. Almost curious.

“No. I haunt it.”

He moved toward her. No sound. No breath. Just movement. Closer than before.

She held up the letter. “Did you send this?”

“No,” Elias said. “But I’ve read it.”

“You expect me to believe a ghost reads mail?”

He smiled then. Not kindly.

“Ghosts don’t haunt houses, Adira. They haunt people.”

She gripped the edge of the nearest table, nails digging into old wood.

“What do you want?”

“Want?” he echoed. “Want is for the living.”

His hand reached toward her, gloved fingers brushing her coat. She jerked away, but not fast enough. He had touched her. It wasn’t a hallucination.

“You’re not safe,” Elias said, voice lower now. “Not from me. And especially not from him.”

“Who?”

“The one who writes letters in dead women’s hands.”

Before she could speak again, thunder cracked across the sky like a scream. A portrait fell from the wall—glass shattering, canvas tearing. Her grandmother’s face split down the middle. And Elias—

Gone.

No footsteps. No doors. No shadow left behind.

She was alone again.

But not truly.

Because in that moment, something crawled beneath her skin. Not fear. Not shock.

Recognition.

She had felt this before.

When her mother vanished. When the police stopped looking. When the dreams started—her mother screaming, holding a letter, and someone watching from behind a mirror. The dreams weren’t dreams anymore.

She knew it.

There were other letters.

And one of them still had her mother’s blood on it.

The storm didn’t pass. It shifted.

Wind screamed through the cracks in the old manor like it remembered how the house used to breathe—louder, heavier, alive with madness. Adira stood frozen in the parlor, staring at the place where Elias had vanished, where only a whisper of warmth remained in the air like the ghost of a handprint.

The shattered portrait lay at her feet.

Her grandmother's face—half torn, one eye still staring through cracked glass—seemed more honest in ruin than it ever had in paint. The expression frozen in oil was one of dread, not dignity. Not legacy. Claudia Pendleton had known what waited in this house. She’d lived with it.

And now she had passed it on.

Adira crouched and touched the broken canvas. Beneath it, she found something tucked inside the frame. Old paper. Another letter.

Unfolded, the words clawed at her.

“If you find this, it means the house has opened its mouth. The mirror room knows. Burn this letter. Do not follow it. But if you do… do not look too long.”

No signature. But the ink had bled into the edges of the paper, the way water does with old blood.

Adira looked up.

The storm outside twisted the air, but something colder moved inside her skin. A compulsion. Not a decision.

The mirror room.

She didn’t know how she knew it was real, but she did. She had dreamt of it before—an endless hall of silver reflections, none of which were hers. A room that showed versions of her that had never lived.

She gripped the banister of the grand staircase and began to climb.

Every step sounded wrong. As though the house wasn’t echoing her footsteps, but matching them. Mimicking them half a second too late.

Portraits lined the staircase wall—women mostly. All with the same eyes. Sharp, intelligent, broken. Pendleton women. Wives and daughters. Some had been mothers. Some hadn’t survived long enough.

At the top of the stairs, the hallway opened into a corridor of blackwood doors. Most were shut, sealed like mausoleums. But one door stood slightly ajar. Light flickered behind it—not from electricity, but from candles. Unmoving. As though they were painted flame.

Adira pushed it open.

It was colder in that room. Not in temperature—something else. Like memory had thinned the air.

Mirrors lined the walls. Dozens of them. Floor to ceiling. Some antique, some baroque, others modern. Every frame different. But none of them showed her reflection.

Not one.

She stepped in.

And the door closed behind her.

At first, there was silence. Then a hum. Faint. Metallic. Almost like breathing trapped in glass.

She stood before the largest mirror—a towering frame of blackened gold, cracked at the edges. Her heart pounded. Still no reflection.

Then the mirror shifted.

It didn’t ripple. It didn’t move. It replaced itself.

The surface showed a room identical to hers, but wrong. Dirtier. Older. Like it had been left untouched for decades. And standing in that version of the room, her back turned to the glass, was her.

Another Adira.

Hair longer. Skin paler. Clothes not hers.

The doppelgänger turned around slowly.

Its eyes were bleeding.

Adira stumbled back, hitting another mirror behind her. This one cracked instantly—and as it shattered, she saw something else move behind her.

Elias.

Not in the mirror. In the room.

“Why did you follow the letter?” he asked.

“I didn’t—”

“You always follow the letter,” he said. “That’s what brings you back.”

She shook her head. “Back? I’ve never been here before.”

“You say that every time.”

Adira stared at him. His face was still unreadable. Still beautiful in a way that made her stomach knot. But his expression had changed—subtly. Not pity. Not anger. Grief.

“I don’t understand.”

“You will.”

Elias moved toward one of the mirrors, the same one that had shown her twin. He reached forward and pressed a hand to the surface. It shimmered briefly—liquid under his touch—and then opened.

A passage.

The mirror became a door.

He looked at her.

“Come.”

Adira hesitated.

“Where does it go?”

“To memory. To what was taken. And what waits.”

He stepped through without another word.

Alone again.

She stared at the mirror-door. At the reflection beyond—an endless hallway, lined with doors made of flesh and eyes instead of wood. Something in her chest screamed to turn back.

But her hands were already reaching.

The moment she passed through the mirror, time fractured.

The hallway inside was cold. Lit by something not of this world. The walls breathed slightly, in and out, as if the house were alive from the inside. Whispers tickled her ears, never forming words.

Doors lined both sides.

Some bled beneath the cracks.

Some pulsed.

She walked slowly. Carefully.

Elias was nowhere in sight.

Then—halfway down the corridor—she saw a door marked with a single word burned into wood.

ADELINE

She stopped. She didn’t know the name. But the pain that followed it hit her like a hammer. Something in her bones remembered. A cry that didn’t belong to her echoed in her skull.

She opened the door.

Inside was a nursery.

Walls lined with wilted roses. A crib with broken slats. A rocking horse that moved on its own. Dust so thick it muted the color of everything.

And a woman.

Not real. Not alive. Not anymore.

She sat in the corner, rocking back and forth, holding nothing in her arms. Her face was obscured by hair. Her dress was stained.

As Adira stepped closer, the woman stopped rocking.

Her head snapped up.

It was Adira.

No. Not quite.

This version was hollowed out. Eyes sunken. Skin gray. Mouth bleeding.

“You left me,” the woman said. “You let him take her.”

“I don’t know who—”

“She’s gone.”

The woman stood. The crib behind her exploded in splinters. Wind howled inside the room. A scream filled the air—not from the woman, but from everywhere.

“Who is Adeline?” Adira shouted.

But the answer didn’t come.

Elias appeared behind her, grabbed her arm, and yanked her out.

The door slammed shut.

They were in the hallway again.

She gasped, clutching her chest. Her heart beat wrong.

“Was that—was that real?”

Elias didn’t answer. His eyes were dark with something unreadable.

“She’s you,” he said. “One of them.”

“One of what?”

“Versions. Lives. Ghosts of choices.”

Adira backed away. “You said I’ve done this before. What does that mean?”

“It means the house isn’t haunted the way people think,” he said. “It remembers what you forget. It keeps what you leave behind.”

“I’ve never—”

“Yes, you have,” Elias said. “You come back every time she dies.”

“Who?”

He looked at her.

“Adeline.”

A child’s name.

A grave she’d never seen.

Something inside her snapped—like glass finally catching the right pitch to shatter.

Images flooded her.

A child’s laugh.

A swing in the Pendleton garden.

Blood on stairs.

A man’s voice saying her name in the dark, saying it like a promise, or a warning.

She dropped to her knees.

“I had a daughter.”

“You have a daughter,” Elias said. “But you’ve lost her more times than you can count. And each time, the house brings you back here. To remember. To choose again.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You were meant to inherit more than this place. You were meant to break it. To end him.”

“Him who?” she snapped.

“The one who writes the letters,” Elias said. “The one who gave her name to the darkness. The one who owns this house.”

Elias knelt beside her. His hand—cold and impossibly gentle—touched her cheek.

“But every time you remember, he takes her again. And every time, you let him.”

Adira’s voice cracked. “Why would I let him?”

Elias’s eyes were full of sorrow.

“Because he looks like love. And you keep forgetting that love isn’t supposed to hurt like this.”

She looked up at him, tears finally breaking.

“Who are you, really?”

“I was the man sent to protect you,” he whispered. “But I fell in love instead. And now I’m bound here, like you.”

A moment passed between them.

It was not warm.

It was not soft.

It was recognition.

Like pain greeting pain.

Elias stood. “Come. He’ll know you’re awake now. And the house will turn on us.”

She followed, knees weak but heart suddenly sharp. The memory had cracked her open.

And something inside wanted vengeance.