EPISODE 2: THE VEIL OF MIDNIGHT

The night drips with dread as she awakens inside the life of a murdered bride. The ring still clings to her trembling hand, and blood stains her gown. Every creak of the old house presses the countdown tighter—she has until midnight to uncover the truth. Each voice she hears, each memory that isn’t hers, spins a thread between love and betrayal. But shadows linger in the corridors, and someone is watching her steps. With the veil of death heavy on her, she begins the desperate search for answers. Yet the deeper she goes, the closer the killer moves.

LIA'S POV

The mirror’s surface quivered with candlelight.

I stared into it, breath shallow, and the woman staring back was both me and not me. Pale cheeks, smeared lipstick, a crown of wilting flowers tangled in raven-black hair. Her throat bore a faint bruise, the ghost of fingers pressed too hard. My hands—her hands—shook as I reached toward the reflection.

It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a hallucination.

This was the second time.

I swallowed, the silk veil brushing my face like a whisper from the grave.

The grandfather clock downstairs groaned and struck again. Ten o’clock. Two hours left.

I turned away from the mirror and forced myself to breathe. The air reeked faintly of roses and iron. My stomach clenched—blood had soaked into the hem of the gown, stiff against my legs. Whoever she was, however she had died, I had inherited her ending.

And if I failed, it would become mine.

---

The room around me was lavish but suffocating. Velvet curtains drawn shut, lace sheets scattered across a bed that looked untouched by rest. A half-finished glass of champagne sat on the vanity, the bubbles long gone. Wedding photos, hastily framed, leaned against the wall. In each, the bride—this body—smiled with a brightness that already felt fake.

I picked one up.

The groom’s arm was heavy on her shoulders. He was handsome, dark-haired, eyes gleaming with pride, but there was something… hollow. His smile never touched his eyes.

I traced the glass frame, my pulse quickening. Was he the reason she had died?

A sharp creak split the silence.

My head snapped toward the door. It was ajar—just slightly—but I hadn’t left it that way. My heart stumbled in my chest. Someone had been here. Someone might still be.

“Hello?” My voice trembled, softer than I meant.

No answer.

The silence pressed heavier.

I set the photo back carefully, forcing my fingers not to shake, and moved closer to the door. Every step made the floor groan, betraying me. I paused at the crack and peered through. The hallway stretched long and dark, lit only by faint wall lamps. Shadows clung to corners.

“Two hours,” I whispered.

I stepped into the corridor.

---

The house was old, the kind that breathed with age. Every wall whispered secrets, every painting watched me with painted eyes. I moved cautiously, fingertips brushing the wood paneling, my ears tuned to the faintest sound.

Downstairs, laughter.

I froze.

It wasn’t joyous. It was low, muffled, like someone trying to bury it behind closed lips.

I followed it, the hem of the gown dragging like a corpse behind me. The stairs groaned as I descended.

The laughter died.

The living room was empty, though a gramophone sat in the corner, its needle spinning in silence. No music. No laughter. Only the tick of the clock above the fireplace.

But I wasn’t alone.

The hairs on my neck rose. I felt it—eyes on me.

I turned sharply.

A figure stood in the doorway.

---

It was a woman, perhaps in her forties, dressed in mourning black. Her eyes, shadowed with fatigue, flicked over me with recognition… and sorrow.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.

My heart thudded. “Who are you?”

Her lips trembled. She stepped closer, wringing her hands. “I told her this would happen. I told her he wasn’t safe.”

The words sliced through me. “Her? You mean the bride?”

She blinked, confusion flaring. “…Aren’t you—?”

I shook my head quickly. “No. I’m not who you think.”

Her face went pale, her body stiffening like she’d seen a ghost. Maybe she had.

Before I could press further, the clock struck again. The sound jolted both of us. Ten-thirty. Ninety minutes left.

The woman backed away, eyes wide. “You shouldn’t linger. He doesn’t like disobedience.”

“Who?” I demanded.

But she was already retreating into the shadows, her voice breaking. “Don’t trust him. Don’t trust any of them.”

Then she was gone.

---

My breath rattled in my throat.

Don’t trust him. Don’t trust any of them.

I clutched the wall to steady myself. Was she a servant? A relative? Or another ghost bound to this house of death?

I turned, footsteps echoing faintly behind me.

I spun around.

No one.

But the footsteps persisted, following, light and deliberate.

I bolted.

---

The kitchen reeked of candle wax and spoiled wine. Silver platters lay overturned, slices of cake smashed on the floor. I stumbled in, chest heaving, and pressed my back to the wall.

The footsteps stopped.

Silence.

I dared a glance around the doorway.

Nothing.

My eyes caught on the counter. A letter, sealed with crimson wax, lay there. My trembling fingers reached for it.

The seal cracked. Inside was a note, written in hurried, jagged script:

“She should never have worn the dress. She should never have said yes. Now she pays the price.”

My stomach dropped.

The letter fluttered from my hands.

Someone wanted her dead.

Someone had planned it.

And unless I uncovered who, that same hand would claim me before the clock struck twelve.