Blurb
When a quiet town hides a coffin that should never open, a girl's blood becomes the key—and the thing inside begins to remember what it means to burn.
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Night fell too early in Eldenmere.
The sun sank behind the ridge before six, yet the streets stayed bright with amber lamps and the low hum of tires on wet asphalt. Aira Vale pressed her hood tighter against the drizzle as she crossed the bridge toward the forest. She wasn't supposed to be there, not after what happened at the school.
The fire had started in the chemistry lab that morning. Two students hurt, one in shock. They said an old gas pipe burst, but Aira had seen something else—light, silver-white, crawling under the floor like veins of lightning. When it touched her, it didn't burn. It sang.
Now the song whispered again, pulling her through the rain.
She stopped at the edge of the woods. The air smelled of iron and pine sap. Behind the fence stood the ruins of an abandoned church, half-collapsed, wrapped in vines thick as ropes. The locals called it Saint Corvin's. No one prayed there anymore.
Aira climbed the fence.
Her boots sank into the wet leaves as she walked between the gravestones. The drizzle faded; even the wind seemed to hold its breath. The silence pressed around her until her phone screen felt too bright to look at. She turned it off.
A single ray of moonlight slid through the clouds and struck the church's broken doorway. The ground shimmered—just for a heartbeat—revealing a faint pattern carved into the stone. Circles within circles. Symbols older than Latin.
She knelt, tracing the marks with her fingers. Cold. Too perfect to be random. At the center lay a metal plate the size of a coin, tarnished black.
Her thumb brushed it.
The earth shuddered.
Aira fell back, gasping as dust poured from the walls. Beneath the cracked altar, a seam of light split the floor open. The sound wasn't like stone breaking—it was like breathing.
She scrambled up, ready to run, but her feet refused. Something beneath the church pulled at her, the same call that had sung through her skin in the fire.
Down below, gears shifted. Chains rattled. Then a thud—slow, heavy, deliberate.
Someone—or something—was waking.
The ground gave another sigh, long and hollow, and a crack split the altar clean in two. Dust spiraled upward like breath on a cold morning. Beneath the broken stone was a staircase, narrow and winding, its steps slick with age.
Aira stared into it. The dark below seemed alive—thick, pulsing, whispering her name in a voice she couldn't quite hear.
She should have turned around. She should have gone home. But curiosity and fear blended into one sharp need: find out.
She took a step down.
The air changed with every pace. The scent of earth grew damp, then metallic. The drizzle outside faded until all she could hear was her heartbeat and the drip of unseen water. Her phone's flashlight trembled in her hand, catching glints of runes carved along the walls. Each symbol pulsed faintly, as if responding to her presence.
Halfway down, the steps widened into a circular chamber.
Chains crossed the ceiling like spiderwebs. Rusted hooks dangled from the beams, some holding fragments of old wood and bone. In the center of the room lay a stone platform shaped like a coffin. Its surface was black—no, darker than black, a shade that swallowed light whole. The metal clasps looked newer than everything else, humming with faint energy.
Aira lifted the phone closer. Runes shimmered across the lid, similar to the ones upstairs but sharper, angrier. In the reflection of her screen, she thought she saw them moving.
A sudden gust burst from nowhere, slamming the chamber door shut. Her light flickered out. Panic clawed at her chest. She hit the flashlight again—dead battery.
She wasn't alone anymore.
Something scraped behind her, slow and deliberate, like a hand dragging across stone. The temperature dropped. Frost began to crawl over the coffin's lid.
Aira stumbled backward until her shoulder hit the wall. "Who's there?" Her voice came out thin, almost swallowed by the air.
No answer. Only the rhythmic thud—deep, steady, like a distant drum.
She forced herself to breathe, counting the beats. Then the thud came again, louder this time.
Not a drum. A heartbeat.
The realization froze her blood. Whatever lay inside that coffin was alive.
She reached for the runes again, desperate to make sense of them, to stop whatever was happening. But the moment her fingers brushed the symbols, light flared beneath her skin. The mark that had appeared on her wrist after the fire—she'd hidden it all day—now burned through the fabric of her sleeve, glowing white-hot.
The same glow bled into the carvings on the coffin. They blazed in answer, line after line igniting like wildfire.
Aira fell to her knees, clutching her arm. Her pulse and the heartbeat inside the coffin began to synchronize, each echoing the other. The air shook. Dust cascaded from the ceiling. Somewhere above, thunder rolled across the valley.
Her mind screamed to run, but her body refused.
The heartbeat quickened. The light around her wrist dimmed, leaving only the sound—the awful, beautiful rhythm of something ancient remembering how to live.
Then the first crack appeared down the coffin's side.
A hiss of air escaped, carrying the scent of ash and roses long dead.
Aira's breath caught.
The coffin trembled once, twice. The chains overhead rattled violently, sparks leaping where they scraped the stone. A whisper slid through the chamber, too soft to be words, yet every syllable felt like it had been waiting centuries to be heard.
Her flashlight flickered back to life for one final second.
A pale hand pressed against the inside of the coffin lid.
The light died again.
Silence. Then another heartbeat—slow, powerful, awake.
Aira stumbled backward toward the stairs, but the door above refused to open. The ground beneath her shifted. Stone split like glass. A storm roared somewhere beyond the walls, lightning flashing through the cracks.
She turned back toward the coffin just in time to see the lid move. Not much—just an inch. Enough to let out a sigh that wasn't air but memory. The scent of rain, blood, and eternity flooded the room.
Aira's scream never made it out.
The darkness swallowed her whole.