Opal loved the feel of the crisp, autumn air as she twirled through the ancient forest behind the estate. The leaves whispered secrets underfoot, brittle and brown, and her translucent dress spun around her, catching the wind like a spider’s web. As she danced beneath the arching branches, her voice rose into a haunting melody that threaded through the trees like fog. Her song floated through the woods, a haunting melody carried by the crisp October air, weaving itself into the very fabric of the forest.
“The days are long,
and the sun is bright,
The earth does clean all nature’s slights,
My heart is strong, and my magic is quick…” Opal sang.
The forest behind the Melanson estate was alive with whispers, its towering maples and elms arching like cathedral ceilings over the loamy earth. Her song floated through the woods, a haunting melody carried by the crisp October air, weaving itself into the very fabric of the forest. Every word was a thread of intention, her voice rising and falling like the wind through the trees. The forest seemed to respond, the leaves trembling and the air growing thick with the scent of moss, damp wood, and the faint tang of iron. Opal’s magic didn’t just linger—it transformed the world around her, leaving behind a trace of something ancient and unexplainable.
Opal wasn’t always a cat. She was something between what the Melansons believed and what the world allowed. Hex cats were rare, born of magic and bound by it, their lives tied to the fate of those they chose. Opal’s arrival at the estate was a story told in hushed tones, her appearance just as much a part of Melanson family lore as it was a mystery to them.
It was 30 years ago, on a night much like this one, when the wind howled through the valley, rattling the loose shutters and tugging at the ivy-choked stones of the Melanson mansion. The storm was fierce and unrelenting, the rain falling in sheets that made the world beyond the windows an indistinct blur. Ethel Melanson, George’s grandmother, had been awake in her study, the faint glow of her candle illuminating shelves of weathered tomes and jars filled with things too strange to name. She was the family matriarch, the keeper of its magic, and the one who first saw the cat appear.
The Melanson home was an architectural oddity, its steep gables and crooked chimneys giving it an almost fairytale-like charm. But the most curious feature was the witch window—a slanted, narrow pane on the topmost floor, tilted just so, said to ward off malevolent spirits who might try to enter the house. It had been there for as long as anyone could remember, its glass etched with faint, swirling runes that seemed to shift in the moonlight.
That night, as the storm raged, a single bolt of lightning struck near the mansion, illuminating the world for one blinding second. When the light faded, there was Opal—a tiny, bedraggled kitten, crouched on the windowsill, her fur plastered against her small frame. Her eyes, impossibly large for her face, glowed a deep, unsettling green, and when Ethel opened the window to bring her inside, the runes on the glass flared briefly, a soft golden light that faded as quickly as it came.
From that moment, Opal was more than just a cat. She was a protector, a conduit for the Melanson magic, and a keeper of secrets too dangerous to speak aloud. Her bond with George had been forged the night he was born, his first breath weak and tentative, as though the world wasn’t sure it would keep him. But it did, and so did Opal, her presence an unspoken promise that he would always be safe—though at what cost, no one knew.
*******
The last notes trailed off as she tilted her head to the darkening sky, and the damp scent of rain teased her senses. A few heavy droplets fell from the thick, pewter clouds overhead, landing with faint taps on her skin like icy fingers. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, relishing the forest’s raw, earthy aromas.
But then, faintly over the rise and fall of the wind, a voice called out from somewhere beyond the trees.
“Opal!” The voice was warm and familiar, a beacon in the chilly evening air. “Come in before the rain gets heavy!”
It was George, waiting for her as he always did, grounded and steady like an old oak tree in the autumn storm. She smiled to herself, savoring the sound of his voice. With one final glance at the forest’s towering trees, she began to weave her way back, her form shifting with a grace that was nearly ethereal. Her delicate figure dwindled as she moved, shrinking into the lithe, graceful form of a white cat, her golden collar glinting faintly against the deepening twilight.
As Opal padded closer to the house, her feline nose caught the familiar scent of the Melanson estate. The home, a Victorian mansion with steep gables and ivy-covered stone, loomed over her, its windows dark against the gloomy sky. She could smell the damp wood of the porch and the sweet, smoky remnants of the wood-burning stove that had been burning since morning. George was on the porch, his broad figure outlined in the low glow of the kitchen light behind him, his face softening as he caught sight of her.
By the time she reached the porch, George was waiting, his broad frame silhouetted against the warm light spilling from the kitchen. He was holding a mug of tea, the steam curling upward and carrying the faint aroma of chamomile and honey. His eyes softened as he saw her approach, but there was a tension in his posture, a weight in his gaze that told her something wasn’t right.
“Long walk?” he asked, his voice steady but low, as though afraid to speak too loudly.
Opal leapt gracefully onto the porch, her emerald eyes locking with his. She didn’t need words to communicate; her presence was enough to tell him what he already knew. Something was coming, something old and powerful, and it wasn’t just the storm.
But just as she reached the steps, the familiar bark of Pippa, Mira’s dachshund, pierced the stillness. Pippa burst through the trees with a joyful bound, her small paws flinging clumps of mud with every step as she raced toward Opal. The wet, earthen smell of her paw prints mixed with the rain as she tore across the clearing, her playful energy in stark contrast to Opal’s serene presence.
“Pippa, no!” Mira’s voice echoed from behind, breathless with laughter as she chased her dog. The rain was starting to fall in earnest now, a steady patter that darkened the forest floor and left a gleaming sheen on the stones leading up to the house. Mira was soaked through, her hair clinging to her cheeks as she ran, her steps loud and clumsy against the soft, muddy ground. She skidded to a stop at the porch, her shoes slipping on the slick wood as she tried to scoop up Pippa, who darted past her and bolted inside.
“Pippa, come back!” she called, but the dog was already trotting toward Opal, tail wagging as she approached her elegant, white counterpart.
Opal gave Pippa a bemused glance, sitting regally by the door, her emerald eyes flashing with what could almost be described as amusement. The dachshund circled her, her muddy paws leaving small prints around Opal, who remained perfectly still, dignified and unperturbed by the chaos. George watched the scene with a faint smile, his eyes warm, though his posture remained unusually tense, as if he were holding something back.
Mira scrambled up the steps, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her damp skin prickling as she caught sight of George. She smiled at him, feeling an unexpected flutter in her chest. But as she took a step forward, her foot caught on the threshold, and she stumbled, her hands flailing as she pitched forward. In one swift motion, George’s hands caught her, pulling her upright before she could fall, his grip steady and surprisingly warm in the chill.
““Thank you,” she murmured, looking up at him, and for a moment, the rain seemed to fade, the world narrowing to the soft, shared space between them.
But then, something changed as Mira crossed over the threshold into the mansion. The air around them grew colder, the sounds of the forest seeming to recede, leaving an eerie silence in its wake. Mira shivered, a prickling sensation crawling up her spine as the faint scent of something metallic and sharp, like blood or iron, seemed to linger in the air. The darkness in the hall beyond the door deepened, the shadows pooling and shifting in ways that defied the dim light from the kitchen.
She glanced past George’s shoulder, peering into the house, where strange, shadowy shapes seemed to flit across the walls, moving in and out of sight with unsettling fluidity. She felt an urge to turn away, to break free of the unseen pull that seemed to draw her inside toward the darkened hall. But George’s hand tightened gently on her shoulder, keeping her in place, his expression unreadable as he looked down at her.
*******
Inside, Mira was drying off Pippa, her cheeks flushed from the cold. The dachshund wriggled in her arms, her small paws leaving muddy streaks on the floorboards. Mira looked up as George entered, her expression brightening briefly before she caught sight of Opal. The cat’s sleek fur shimmered faintly, and for a moment, Mira could have sworn she saw the faint outline of a woman’s form, her features delicate and otherworldly, superimposed over the feline figure. But when she blinked, it was gone, and Opal was just a cat again, staring at her with an unsettling intensity.
“Are you all right?” George asked, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of something she couldn’t place—something ancient, something that felt out of time.
Before Mira could respond, a faint whisper, barely audible, seemed to echo from somewhere deep within the house. It was an odd, hissing sound, like wind passing through a cracked window, or voices murmuring in a language she didn’t understand. She looked at George, her eyes widening as the whispering grew louder, though he didn’t seem alarmed. His face was calm, his gaze steady, as if he’d heard these voices all his life.
“What’s wrong?” Mira asked, her voice tinged with nervous laughter. “We are both acting like we’ve seen a ghost.”
George didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he crossed to the window, staring out into the darkness where the trees swayed violently in the wind. The witch window reflected faintly in the glass, its etched runes glowing softly, as though reacting to something unseen.
She shook her head, stepping closer, her curiosity piqued despite the growing unease in her chest.
“The witch window?”George softened the serious look on his face and turned to look in the same direction as Mira. They say it’s a portal,” George continued, his eyes never leaving the glass. “A doorway between worlds, but only for those who know how to use it. It’s supposed to keep things out—things that don’t belong here. But sometimes, when the magic isn’t strong enough…” He trailed off, his expression darkening.
“What happens?” Mira pressed, her voice barely above a whisper. George turned to face her, his gaze piercing. “Sometimes, it lets things in.”
Before Mira could respond, a faint whisper, barely audible, seemed to echo from somewhere deep within the house. It was an odd, hissing sound, like wind passing through a cracked window, or voices murmuring in a language she didn’t understand. She looked at George, her eyes widening as the whispering grew louder, though he didn’t seem alarmed. His face was calm, his gaze steady, as if he’d heard these voices all his life.
The shadows on the walls took on strange forms, swirling in and out of shapes—figures, faces, and symbols she couldn’t recognize. Her heart pounded as she backed away, but George’s expression didn’t change. He only watched her, his gaze intense and piercing, like he was seeing through her, as though he knew something she didn’t.
At that moment, the house seemed to shudder, the shadows deepening as a low, almost imperceptible hum filled the air. Opal let out a low growl, her fur bristling as she turned toward the window. Outside, the storm raged on, but inside, it felt as though time had stopped, the air heavy with anticipation.
“All things are connected,” Opal’s voice echoed in George’s mind, her presence a steady anchor against the encroaching dark.
And as the witch window’s runes flared brighter, casting strange, flickering patterns across the walls, it became clear that whatever had been kept at bay for so long was no longer content to stay on the other side.
“I should go now”, Mira said as she slowly turned to exit. The rain starts to pour, and visibility out the windows goes dark except for the lightning setting the sky a glow. George walks over and comforts her with a soft embrace, and holds Miras shoulders as he takes a moment to look into her hazel eyes that are golden today.
“You shouldn’t go now,” George said softly, releasing her shoulder. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried a strange finality, a weight that filled the silence between them. The storm is raging.
Mira took a shaky step back, her breath misting in the suddenly cold air as she turned away, the faint, unsettling laughter of Opal’s emerald gaze following her into the storm.
“Okay” said Mira reluctantly.
“I will make us dinner, and if the storm doesn't let up. You can sleep in the butterfly room.
Mira hesitated, her hand resting on the edge of the table for support. “Butterfly room?” she asked, her voice uneven. She forced a laugh, though it faltered. “That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”
George didn’t smile. “It’s just a room,” he said, his tone distant. “But it’s the safest place in the house.”
The whispering gr
ew louder again, more distinct now, like words half-formed and incomplete, weaving through the air. Mira’s eyes darted to Opal, who had perched on the windowsill, her tail twitching as she stared intently at the witch window. The etched runes seemed to pulse with a rhythm that matched the storm outside.
“Dinner,” Mira repeated, more to herself than to George, her voice shaky. She busied herself untying her damp scarf, trying to ignore the sense of something unseen shifting around her.
George stepped closer, his presence both reassuring and disquieting. “Mira,” he said, his voice low and calm. “You have to trust me tonight. Whatever you hear, whatever you see, stay in the butterfly room. Don’t open the door unless I come for you.”
A flash of lightning illuminated the room, casting sharp shadows across George’s face, making him look older, almost unfamiliar. Mira’s mouth went dry. “You’re scaring me.”
“I know.” George’s gaze lingered on hers, steady and unwavering. “But fear can keep you safe.”
Mira glanced back at Opal. The cat’s emerald eyes gleamed as another rumble of thunder shook the house. The strange hissing sound was joined by a faint scratching now, coming from somewhere near the witch window. Mira’s pulse quickened.
“I’ll help with dinner,” Mira said, her voice trembling as she moved toward the kitchen, desperate for normalcy.
But before she could pass George, he reached out, catching her wrist. “Promise me, Mira,” he said, his tone fierce, almost desperate. “No matter what happens tonight, you’ll stay in the butterfly room.”
The house seemed to hold its breath. Outside, the storm raged, and the witch window flared with light, illuminating the runes in sharp relief. Mira nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I promise.”
George released her wrist, and Mira stepped away, her mind racing. As she turned toward the kitchen, the scratching at the window stopped, replaced by a low, guttural sound that didn’t belong to the wind. She didn’t dare look back, didn’t dare meet George’s eyes again.
But as she reached the kitchen doorway, Opal’s voice, soft and sharp, whispered in her mind: “It’s already here.”
And in that moment, Mira knew the butterfly room might not be enough.
