Snow crunched beneath Sophia's boots as she hurried down the narrow road, breath fogging in frantic bursts. The cold was brutal at this hour, slicing through her coat like a blade. But she barely noticed it. The terror still curling in her stomach was far worse than any winter wind.
Every few steps, she glanced behind her.
The woods stretched to her right like a wall of shadows—silent, black, impenetrable. The same woods where the cry had come from. The same woods where the thing — whatever it was — had imitated her mother's voice.
A shiver rippled down her spine at the memory.
"Sophia… let me in."
She tightened her arms around her chest and forced her legs to move faster.
The road twisted left, then dipped slightly downhill. Lantern posts lined part of the path, though only a few still glowed with dim, flickering bulbs. Most were dark — dead eyes watching her as she passed. Muntenia seemed even emptier than the previous day, its houses shuttered, its windows dark. No one was awake at this hour. No one would help her.
Except, hopefully, one man.
The house with the blue lantern came into view at the far end of the road — a faint sapphire glow hanging above the porch, like a lighthouse guiding her through a storm. Relief washed through her. The glow, though small, cut through the darkness and gave her something tangible to run toward.
She climbed the steps two at a time and knocked hard.
No answer.
She knocked again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
"Mr. Ilie!" she called, voice cracking. "Please, I need to talk to you. It's important!"
The dog barked once from inside — a deep, resonant sound. Then she heard footsteps. Slow, deliberate, as if the man inside wasn't sure whether to open the door at all.
Finally, the door creaked open by a few inches. A tired, stern eye peered out at her through the gap.
"It's the middle of the night," Mr. Ilie muttered. "Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to be out right now?"
Sophia pushed the door wider and stepped inside without waiting for permission.
"I heard it again," she whispered. "The thing you warned me about. It came to my window."
That got his attention. He shut the door fast, bolting it with three metal locks she hadn't noticed earlier.
Lupin, the dog, trotted over and sniffed her boots, then growled low — not at her, but at the door behind her, as if something still lingered outside.
Mr. Ilie gestured her toward the living room. "Sit. Tell me exactly what happened."
Sophia obeyed, sinking into the edge of his worn-out sofa. Her hands shook uncontrollably, so she clenched them together until her knuckles went white. The man sat across from her, elbows on his knees, gaze sharp.
"It started with the cry again," she began. "Then footsteps… right up to my window." Her voice trembled. "And then it knocked."
Ilie swore under his breath.
"It called my name," she continued. "But the voice— it sounded like my mother. Not exactly. But close. Close enough to—" She swallowed hard, unable to finish the sentence.
Ilie leaned back, running a hand over his face. "You're lucky you didn't open the window."
"Why would anyone open the window for something like that?"
His jaw tightened. "Because it knows what voice will make you open it."
Sophia blinked at him. "What does that even mean? What is it?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he stood and walked to the fireplace, tossing another log onto the flames. The light flickered across the room, casting long shadows against the walls. Lupin settled by Sophia's feet, resting his heavy head on her knees as if trying to calm her.
Only after several long moments did Ilie finally speak.
"You're not from here, so you don't know the stories," he said. "The people of Muntenia don't talk about the forest at night. Ever. They don't go near the tree line after sunset. They don't whistle after dark. And they don't answer voices outside their windows."
"That's superstition," Sophia whispered.
"No," Ilie said flatly. "Superstition is when people carry garlic to ward off illness. What's in our forest is older than that. Smarter."
She felt a coldness in her stomach. "Please. Just tell me."
Ilie nodded slowly, as though resigning himself.
"There's something in those woods we call The Caller."
The room seemed to shrink around her.
"It doesn't have a shape — not one we understand," he continued. "Sometimes it looks human. Sometimes it doesn't. But the worst part is its voice."
Sophia's breath hitched.
"It mimics," Ilie said. "Perfectly. Not just the tone — the emotion, the cadence, the breath behind every word. Whatever you fear losing… whatever you long for most… that's the voice it chooses."
Sophia felt her heartbeat spike, sharp and painful.
Her mother had been gone for thirteen years.
Seeing her face twisted in grief made Ilie soften his tone slightly. "I'm sorry," he said. "But it uses memories. It listens. It learns."
Her voice broke. "Why me? Why my window?"
Ilie exhaled heavily. "Because you're new. The Caller targets those it thinks it can confuse. And you arrived alone. Vulnerable." He paused. "It tests you first. Checks the boundaries of your fear."
Sophia looked at the floor, trying not to let tears fall. "It sounded so real."
"That's how it gets close enough to kill."
Lupin growled at the mention of the word kill.
Sophia's eyes snapped up. "You mean someone… someone here died because of it?"
Ilie hesitated for just a second — and that second was enough.
"Who?" she asked. "Tell me."
He sighed, rubbing his temples. "No one likes to talk about it, but yes. Last winter, a man named Florin heard a child crying in the woods. He went out to help. Never came back."
Sophia swallowed. "Did they find him?"
"Pieces of him," Ilie answered. "Frozen into the roots of a pine tree."
Sophia's stomach lurched.
"It happens every so often," he said. "Someone thinks they hear a loved one. Someone thinks they see a person who shouldn't be out at night. And they go looking."
"Why doesn't the town warn people?"
"They do. Just not openly. Fear spreads faster than truth. And newcomers rarely believe us anyway."
Sophia pressed her hands to her eyes. "I'm not staying there tonight. I can't."
"You're not going back," Ilie said. "Not until dawn."
"Do you really think I'm in danger?"
He gave her a long, unreadable look. "If it knocked on your window, it already marked you."
Her heartbeat thudded. "Marked me?"
"For attention. For curiosity. For whatever it wants this time."
She felt faint.
But Ilie wasn't finished.
"Some believe The Caller doesn't just mimic voices," he continued. "They think it feeds on something more subtle. Memories. Regret. Grief. It learns you — the same way a hunter learns its prey."
Sophia shivered violently. "I need to leave Muntenia."
"You can't leave," Ilie said. "Not yet."
"And why not?"
"Because The Caller follows what interests it."
Sophia's skin went cold.
"It doesn't care about the town," Ilie said. "It cares about the one it speaks to. If you run, it will follow, and it will be harder to stop."
She gripped the sofa edge so tightly her fingers ached. "There has to be a way—"
"There is," Ilie said quietly. "But you won't like it."
The room fell silent except for the crackling fire.
"What do I have to do?" she whispered.
"You stay here tonight," Ilie said. "In this house. Near the lantern."
"What does the lantern do?"
"It wards it off." He gestured to the blue glow outside. "Superstition, maybe. But I've kept it lit for thirty years, and I've never heard The Caller at my door."
Sophia forced herself to breathe slowly.
"And tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," Ilie said, "we visit someone who knows more about The Caller than anyone else alive."
"Who?"
He hesitated. "Her name is Mirela. Most people call her The Veilkeeper. She lives past the village, near the cliffs."
Sophia frowned. "Is she… like a witch?"
Ilie gave a humorless smirk. "No. Just old. Old in a way people don't get to be anymore. And she's the only one who's faced The Caller and survived."
Sophia felt a jolt of surprise. "She saw it?"
"Not just saw it," Ilie said. "She spoke to it."
Her blood froze.
"How did she survive?"
Ilie stared into the fire. "That's what we need to ask her."
Night in the Lantern House
Ilie gave her a blanket and let her sleep on the sofa while he sat in an armchair with a cup of tea and Lupin at his feet, keeping guard. The house was warm, the fire bright, and the blue lantern outside cast a faint glow through the curtains.
Yet Sophia could not relax.
Every sound made her flinch — the pop of firewood, the creak of old floorboards, the whisper of wind against the house.
She finally drifted into a restless sleep.
But the forest was waiting for her there.
She dreamed of the pine trees, stretching endlessly around her. Snow fell slowly, like ash. She stood barefoot in the center of a clearing. Her breath came out in frantic puffs, visible in the cold.
Then she heard it.
"Sophia…"
Her mother's voice again, soft, warm, familiar.
She turned — and saw the silhouette of a woman standing between the trees. Her heart lurched. The woman stepped forward.
Her mother's face emerged from the darkness.
But the eyes were wrong.
Black. Hollow. Bottomless.
"Sophia," the figure whispered, tilting its head. "Come home."
The voice split — multiple voices layered over each other, like a chorus speaking through one throat.
"Come home."
The shadows behind the figure shifted. Something tall, pale, and faceless crawled out from behind a tree. It moved on limbs that bent the wrong way, jerking forward in unnatural motions.
It whispered her name again — not with sound, but in her mind.
Sophia jolted awake with a gasp.
The fire was still burning.
Ilie looked up from his chair. "Nightmare?"
She nodded, wiping sweat from her brow.
"Try to rest," he said. "The night is long."
But resting was impossible.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw those black, hollow eyes staring back at her.
Before Dawn
Sophia didn't remember falling asleep again, but she woke to the smell of coffee and the faint blue tint of morning creeping through the curtains.
Ilie stood in the kitchen, preparing two mugs.
"You didn't sleep much," he said, handing her one.
"Neither did you."
He grunted. "Didn't plan to."
Sophia wrapped her hands around the warm mug. "We're going to see Mirela now?"
"As soon as the sun rises fully," he said. "We don't take risks."
"What will she tell us?"
Ilie hesitated. "Hopefully what it wants. Or what it's trying to make you do."
Sophia felt sick. "And if she doesn't know?"
Ilie's gaze hardened.
"Then we prepare for the worst."
Sophia swallowed. "What's the worst?"
"That it's not mimicking your mother because it wants you afraid," he said. "It's mimicking her because it wants you to follow it."
Sophia's heart stopped.
Follow it.
Into the woods.
Into the darkness.
Where Florin had died.
Before she could respond, Lupin suddenly lifted his head and growled — ears flat, body stiff.
Ilie froze.
Sophia felt her skin crawl.
Something tapped on the window.
Once.Twice.Three times.
A voice came through the glass — soft, coaxing, unbearably familiar.
"Sophia… let me in."
She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the scream.
Ilie grabbed a hunting knife and moved toward the window, eyes blazing.
But the voice changed abruptly — deepening, distorting.
"Sssso-phia…"
Lupin barked viciously.
Ilie whispered, "It shouldn't be here at dawn."
"What does that mean?" Sophia whispered back.
"Something's changed."
The tapping grew louder.
The voice grew sharper.
"COME HOME."
Sophia backed away, heart pounding in her throat.
Ilie turned to her, face pale. "We leave. Now."
"But it's outside—"
"That's why we leave now," he said. "Before it realizes we're not afraid."
Sophia's pulse hammered. "I am afraid."
Ilie grabbed her arm. "Then learn to hide it. If it senses fear this close, it will break in."
She swallowed her terror.
He shoved open the back door — the one farthest from the window — and pulled her outside into the freezing morning air.
The forest loomed ahead.
And something inside it whispered her name.