The countryside seemed to stretch forever—gray skies bleeding into fog-draped fields, skeletal trees clawing at the horizon. Lyra sat alone in the back of the cab, her forehead resting against the cold window, watching the world grow stranger the farther they drove from the city.
No signs. No towns. Just silence.
The letter had arrived two weeks ago in a wax-sealed envelope that looked like it had time-traveled from another century. No return address. No explanation—only a name:
Lyra Vale
Sole Heir to the Everrest Estate
She didn't know the name Everrest. Not from family stories, not from the sparse details her mother ever gave her about their bloodline. But when the lawyer confirmed its legitimacy—and that the place was real—she packed her bag and left. She didn't know what she was hoping to find. A fresh start? Closure?
Or maybe just an escape.
The car slowed as they reached the edge of a forest. The road thinned into gravel, then into dirt. Moss and vines crept along the trees like veins. Mist curled low over the ground.
The driver shifted uncomfortably. "This is as far as I go."
Lyra blinked. "You're not taking me up to the house?"
He avoided her eyes. "No one goes near that place. Not anymore."
She stepped out into the chill and slammed the door before he could say anything else.
---
The path to Everrest twisted like a wound through the woods. Her boots sank slightly in the damp earth as she followed the trail, heart hammering a little harder with every step.
And then, through the fog—it appeared.
The house.
It rose from the earth like a forgotten monument, stone walls overgrown with ivy, turrets curled in shadow, windows black and hollow like vacant eyes. A broken iron gate leaned open, creaking faintly in the wind.
Lyra stood frozen at the threshold.
This is yours, the letter had said. By blood and by right.
But nothing about it felt welcoming. It felt like stepping into someone else's memory.
Or someone else's nightmare.
She pushed open the gate and walked toward the door. Each step felt heavier than the last. The house watched her, silent and waiting.
She found the key in her coat pocket—cold, ancient, its teeth uneven and sharp. When she pressed it into the lock, the door clicked open with an exhale of dust and air that hadn't been touched in decades.
She stepped inside.
---
The air was thick with the scent of mildew, wood rot, and something floral—sweet but overripe. The foyer stretched upward into darkness, its ceiling barely visible. A grand staircase curled into shadow, and every wall was lined with portraits—stern faces, eyes too lifelike, all watching her.
The silence was unnatural.
No hum of electricity. No echo of distant pipes or creaking floorboards. Just the sound of her breath, and the faint scratch of wind against the windows.
She wandered through the front rooms, lighting candles where she found them. Each space was stranger than the last—a music room filled with covered furniture and a cracked harp; a conservatory where dead vines clawed at broken glass; a hallway of mirrors, where each reflection seemed just slightly… off.
In one mirror, her eyes were different.
In another, she wasn't there at all.
She turned away quickly.
---
Later, she found the library.
Circular. Towering. A domed ceiling painted with constellations. Shelves crammed with books so old the titles had faded from their spines. She pulled one at random.
It opened to a withered black flower, pressed flat between pages. Beneath it, a single line in slanted script:
"The soul always returns."
She froze.
The candlelight flickered. The room shifted. Something moved behind her.
She turned—
—and the mirror was there.
She hadn't seen it before. But now it stood tall in the corner, its surface dark and rippling like water. She stepped closer.
Her reflection was gone.
In its place stood a boy.
Pale, barefoot, clothes centuries old. His eyes met hers with chilling stillness.
And then—
He smiled.