Mira burst through the front door, her heart pounding, her breath ragged. Her hands fumbled with the key, slick with the thick puss and ash that clung to her skin from the cursed gourds. The moment she was inside, her dachshund, Pippa, darted toward her, tail wagging, but stopped short, sensing something wasn’t right. Mira barely acknowledged her, staggering up the creaking staircase, leaving a trail of blackened,
powdery footprints behind.
Her Victorian home stood eerily silent, the heavy air pressing down on her like the weight of unseen eyes. Her family wouldn’t be home for hours. It gave her time to think—but what could she think about, except Evan? His face, his wild eyes, the horrible truth he’d revealed.
Mira stumbled into the bathroom, desperate to wash the filth off. She ran the bath, the sound of rushing water echoing off the tiles, grounding her for a moment. The clawfoot tub, original to the house, filled with steaming water as Mira stripped off her clothes and sank into it, shivering.
As the warmth enveloped her, her mind began to drift, the pounding in her chest slowing. She closed her eyes. And then it began.
Lucid dreams—flashes of something both familiar and terrifying.
She stood in the middle of a field, the moon hanging heavy in the night sky. Her bare feet sank into cold, soft earth. A shadow loomed in front of her, but when she blinked, it was gone. The scent of decaying pumpkins filled her nose, sour and rotten.
She tried to turn, but found herself rooted to the ground, her body unresponsive. The field became a forest. Dark trees stretched toward her, their twisted branches like skeletal fingers reaching out to pull her in.
"Wake up", she told herself. "It’s just a dream."
Suddenly, the journal appeared in her hands, its cracked leather cover slick with ash. When she opened it, the pages were blank, but her fingers began to bleed as though slashed by invisible knives. The blood seeped into the pages, and names appeared in the crimson ink: "Ethelbert, Ulric, Melanson."
She gasped and dropped the journal. The ground beneath her split open, revealing rows of gnarled roots that twisted upward, wrapping around her legs, pulling her down, down into the earth. She struggled, but the soil swallowed her whole.
Mira jerked awake, her heart hammering, the water in the tub sloshing. She blinked, looking around the bathroom, her breath coming in shallow gasps. But something was wrong.
She wasn’t in the bathroom.
She was in the manor—her ancestor’s home, but decades earlier. The wallpaper was fresh, the floorboards polished. Candles flickered in sconces on the walls, casting long, dancing shadows. A woman stood in front of her—Eleanor Ethelbert. Mira knew it was her without question. The resemblance was uncanny. Eleanor’s pale face turned toward Mira, her eyes empty, but her lips parted, speaking a warning Mira couldn’t hear.
Suddenly, the scene shifted, and Mira was in a large, dimly lit room—a grand ballroom, the air thick with incense and candle smoke. Around her were faces she recognized from old portraits in her family’s attic—Alpheus, Victor Ulric, and a figure in the shadows—George Melanson.
The air grew cold, and Mira could hear whispers—a chant, dark and rhythmic. The sound pressed in on her from all directions.
“We are all connected,” the voices murmured in unison, echoing Evan’s words. “All connected…”
Mira bolted upright in the tub, water splashing onto the floor. Her chest heaved as she looked around, but this time, she was awake. She could feel it. She was back in the bathroom—the tub, the water, the soft light filtering through the window. Pippa barked softly downstairs.
Mira rubbed her eyes, trying to steady her breath, but the terror wouldn’t release its grip. She leaned her head against the edge of the tub, closing her eyes, trying to center herself. But a presence lingered in the room. She could feel it, thick and heavy in the air.
She didn’t need to open her eyes to know.
Evan.
His words, like a haunting whisper in her ear, "We are all connected." They echoed again and again in her mind, threading through every thought until they were the only thing she could focus on.
Mira’s pulse quickened. She knew what she had to do. There was no escaping the pull of her bloodline, no ignoring the twisted bond that linked her to Evan, to the journal, and to the horrific truth buried beneath their family histories.
She had to find Evan. She had to get answers. Whatever nightmare they were both bound to, it wasn’t over.
And Mira had the sinking feeling that it had only just begun.
