I frowned. How had I missed this? I'd walked down this street a dozen times. The building looked ancient, almost like it didn't belong in this timeline.
The kind of place you'd expect to see in a gothic novel or some fantasy series.
And naturally — because I'm apparently incapable of making good life choices — I pushed the door open.
A tiny bell above the door gave a single, hollow chime, though I didn't see any bell.
The inside was dimly lit, the smell of aged paper and herbs filling the air. Shelves lined with old leather-bound books and dusty scrolls towered above me, their titles written in languages I couldn't recognize.
I took a cautious step inside.
"Hello?" I called.
No answer.
The only sound was the soft creak of the wooden floor under my feet and a grandfather clock ticking somewhere in the shadows.
Something tugged at me then.
A strange, undeniable pull. Like an invisible thread wrapped itself around my wrist and was guiding me deeper into the store.
I followed it.
But it only led me to an end wall. At that point I didn't know what else to do than to go home.
The pictures in the hallway were really old as if hiding a secret whatsoever.
As I turned to go, I tripped and my head hit the hard wooden cracked floor.
Dizzy I stood and with shaking fingers traced my forehead and I felt warm liquid dripping down my forehead.
The pain wasn't that much as I cleaned my head with a handkerchief.
Suddenly the ground started to quake only for me to turn back and saw that the wall wasn't just a wall.
But a secret passage. Wow.
Torches lined the passage down so obviously with zero survival instinct and curiosity I went in.
At the end of the passage did I become bewildered at the sight in front of me.
Rows and rows, shelves upon shelves stretched out before me — stacked high with old leather-bound books, brittle scrolls, and dusty glass jars filled with things I couldn't name. Some floated in thick, cloudy liquid, their shapes distorted and unrecognizable. The air was heavy with the scent of aged paper, dried herbs, and something faintly metallic, like rusted iron.
A gentle, muted light filtered in from somewhere — perhaps from high, dust-clogged windows or cracks in the ancient walls — bathing the room in a golden, almost unreal glow. It made the dust motes in the air shimmer like tiny spirits.
The room felt impossibly vast, ancient, and alive — like it had been waiting centuries for someone to walk inside.
Past shelves labeled Occult Lore, Lycanthropy Legends, and Halewoods Local Myths. My heart thudded faster the farther I went.
And then — it stopped.
Right in front of an old, worn-out book resting alone on a velvet pedestal.
The book's cover was midnight black, its title engraved in silver:
"Bloodbond Chronicles."
My fingers hovered over it, hesitant.
Should I?
I don't know why — but I reached out and touched it.
The instant my skin brushed the leather, a jolt of something — like electricity mixed with ice water — shot up my arm, straight to my chest. The room around me blurred and warped like melting wax.
And then I heard it.
A voice, faint yet familiar.
"Soon, little one. Everything you are… everything you've lost… it's time you remember."
I yanked my hand back, heart hammering, breath coming in shallow gulps.
The book snapped shut by itself.
I staggered a step back, and for the first time, I noticed a figure standing in the corner of the room — deep within the shadows. Watching me. Eyes gleaming an unnatural shade of silver.
"Who's there?!" I demanded, my voice trembling.
The figure stepped forward slightly, though the shadows still clung to his features.
And in a voice smooth as silk, laced with an edge of danger, he spoke:
"We've been waiting for you, Freya."
Wait — how did he know my name?
I stumbled back toward the door, fumbling for the handle.
But when I looked again — the figure was gone. Vanished.
The book. The room. The smell of herbs. Everything.
But when I looked again — the figure was gone. Vanished.
The book. The room. The smell of herbs. Everything.
I found myself standing on the empty street again, heart racing, the sun now sitting higher in the sky like nothing had happened.
No Hollow Archive.
No ancient book.
No silver-eyed stranger.
Nothing.
I checked my phone — 10:34 AM.
Had I imagined it?
But as I turned to head back home, my gaze dropped to my wrist.
A faint mark, like a silver burn in the shape of a crescent moon, glimmered there.
What. The. Hell.
---
I stared at the mark.
It shimmered faintly in the sunlight — a thin, silver crescent moon etched into my skin like it had always been there. But it hadn't. I was sure of it. I ran a thumb over it, half expecting it to be just a smudge of dirt or an illusion from the sun's glare.
It wasn't.
The skin was smooth, cool to the touch. The burn didn't hurt, but it throbbed with a strange, pulsing warmth that sent tiny sparks racing up my arm.
I took a shaky breath, looking around the street.
Same cracked sidewalks. Same faded shop signs. Same old cat lounging lazily in the sun across the road. No eerie ancient bookstore. No crumbling walls or secret passages.
Nothing.
Had I finally lost my mind?
I started walking — fast. My shoes scuffed against the uneven pavement as my thoughts tangled themselves into knots.
'We've been waiting for you, Freya.'
Who the hell was 'we'?
And how did he know my name? I didn't recognize the voice, but there was something in the way he'd said it… like he knew me. Like he'd known me my whole life.
I swallowed hard.
Maybe it was a dream. A hallucination. A random burst of overworked teenage paranoia.
Except… dreams don't leave marks.
And definitely not ones that glowed like liquid silver under the sun.
I made it home in record time. Slamming the door behind me, I leaned against it for a moment, my chest heaving.
The house was quiet.
The stillness of it only made my pulse pound harder in my ears.
I dropped my bag on the floor and rushed to the bathroom.
Flicking on the light, I stared at my reflection. Pale, wide-eyed, my dark hair is a mess around my face. But it was my wrist that held my attention.
The crescent moon mark was still there.
Clear. Sharp. Unmistakable.
I grabbed the edge of the sink, heart hammering.
"Okay, Freya," I muttered to myself. "You're fine. You're okay. You probably hit your head harder than you thought. That's all. No creepy bookstores. No magic books. No shadowy creepers calling your name."
I splashed cold water on my face, watching the droplets trail down my cheeks. When I straightened, my gaze flicked to the mirror again.
And froze.
For a split second — a heartbeat, no more — there was a figure standing behind me in the mirror. Tall. Lean. Cloaked in darkness. Those same silver eyes gleaming like twin moons.
I spun around.
Nothing.
The bathroom was empty.
I backed away slowly, grabbing my phone with trembling hands. I didn't know who I was about to call — but I needed someone.
I opened my messages.
And froze again.
A new text blinked at the top of my screen.
Unknown Number: "Soon, little one."
My stomach dropped.
I didn't remember giving my number to any ancient-bookshop-owning secret cult members lately.
I hit delete so fast my thumb stung.
But the damage was done. My whole body buzzed with an icy awareness.
This wasn't over. Whatever I'd stepped into back in that street… it had followed me home.
Somewhere deep down, I knew it had been waiting.
And now it had found me.
I let out a shaky laugh — the kind you make when you realize you might be genuinely screwed — and leaned my head back against the cool bathroom tile.
"What the hell is happening to me?" I whispered.
The mark on my wrist shimmered again, faintly pulsing like it was answering.
Soon.
The word echoed in my head like a promise.
Or a warning.
And somewhere far off — or maybe
not so far — a clock chimed noon.
The sound sent a chill skittering down my spine.
Because for the first time in my life, I could feel it.
Something was watching.
And it was watching my every move.