THOR - Chapter 1: The broken circle
The town of Merry was misnamed. Its name suggested cheer, but the valley it occupied was a hollow of fog and silence. The mist clung to the trees like a damp shroud, and the streets seemed to echo only with the sound of routine: the shuffle of shoes on cracked sidewalks, the hum of fluorescent lights in the grocery store, the occasional bark of a dog that quickly fell quiet. Merry was not a place of joy; it was a place where shadows lingered longer than they should, and where silence often felt heavier than noise.
For the Finch family, Merry was both home and prison. Logan Finch, a man whose shoulders had grown stooped from years of lifting crates and tallying receipts at the local grocery store, carried the weariness of responsibility in every line of his face. His wife, Martha, moved through their modest suburban home with anxious devotion, polishing surfaces that never seemed to shine and cooking meals that cooled before anyone ate them. They tried, in their own way, to provide a "normal" life for their daughters. But for Maria Finch, fifteen years old and scarred by fate, "normal" was a cruel joke.
Maria's face bore the mark of a rare deformity: deep, irregular ridges of skin carved across the left side of her visage. She hid behind a curtain of dark hair, but the world always found a way to look. Her younger sister, Samantha, thirteen, was everything Maria wished she could be—bright-eyed, clear-skinned, and effortlessly adored. At Merry International High School, Maria was not a student; she was a target.
The morning began as it always did. Maria walked down the linoleum hallways, her backpack heavy, her head bowed. Whispers followed her like a foul scent. "The Phantom is back," one boy snickered, his voice sharp enough to cut. Maria's heart hammered against her ribs. She had told her parents about the bullying dozens of times. Logan would sigh, Martha would hug her, and the advice was always the same: Just ignore them, Maria. They only do it because they want a reaction.
But ignoring a fire does not stop it from burning you.
In History class, the cruelty escalated. As the bell rang, Maria moved to take her seat. Marcus, a boy with a grin that promised malice, kicked the chair out from under her. She hit the floor with a bone-jarring thud. The classroom erupted in laughter. Tears pricked her eyes—not from pain, but from humiliation. She didn't wait for the teacher to intervene. She grabbed her bag and bolted, the sound of their laughter echoing in her ears like the screams of demons.
She fled to the old wing of the school, a place of dust and forgotten lockers. There, her two friends—Anni and Hanna—found her sobbing against a radiator.
"They're going to pay, Maria," Anni said, her voice unusually cold. Anni had always been different. She collected books on the occult, spoke of rituals as if they were recipes, and wore her fascination with shadows like a badge. Today, her eyes held a sharp, dark intensity. "We don't have to take this anymore. There are ways to shift the balance of power."
Hanna looked nervous. "Anni, you aren't talking about that book again, are you?"
"I'm talking about a ritual," Anni whispered, leaning in. "A way to bind their cruelty and give them a taste of their own medicine. It's called The Unseen Mirror. If we do it right, they'll feel every bit of pain they've caused you."
Maria wiped her eyes. The anger inside her, usually a dull ache, sharpened into a blade. "Tell me what to do."
They retreated to the "Dead Room"—an old storage closet in the basement that students avoided. Anni produced three black candles and a jagged piece of obsidian. She laid them out in a triangle.
"Rules are simple, but absolute," Anni warned, her face flickering in the matchlight as she lit the candles. "Once we begin, we join hands. You must not break the circle. And you must not open your eyes, no matter what you hear. If the circle breaks before the words are finished, what we call out won't go to Marcus. It will stay here. With us."
Maria and Hanna nodded, though Maria felt a prickle of doubt. This felt like a game—a way to feel powerful in a world where she was powerless. They joined hands. The air grew unnaturally cold, the scent of ozone and rotting lilies filling the space.
Anni began to chant in a language that sounded like grinding stones.
Suddenly, a loud bang echoed from the hallway outside. It sounded like someone—or something—had thrown a heavy desk against the door.
"Is that Marcus?" Hanna squeaked, her hand trembling in Maria's.
"Don't open your eyes!" Anni hissed.
Another bang. Then, a whisper drifted through the room, though it didn't come from any of them. Maria... look at me... It sounded like her mother's voice, distorted, as if heard underwater.
Terrified and convinced it was a prank, Maria snapped her eyes open. At the same moment, Hanna let go of Maria's hand to cover her ears.
The candles flickered out instantly. The room plunged into a darkness so thick it felt like wool in their lungs.
"You broke it," Anni whispered, her voice trembling with genuine fear. "The circle is open."
"It's just a joke, Anni," Maria snapped, though her heart was racing. "There's nothing here. Let's just go home."
The girls hurried out, Maria and Hanna laughing off the tension to hide their nerves. Anni remained silent, staring back at the dark doorway of the Dead Room.
When Maria got home, the house felt different. The air was heavy, the light through the windows sickly and grey. Martha was in the kitchen. "You girls are home early. Go get fresh, dinner will be ready soon."
Maria went upstairs to the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face, avoiding the mirror as she always did. As she reached for a towel, she glanced at the small frosted window above the tub.
A face was pressed against the glass.
It wasn't human. Pale, elongated, with eyes like pits of wet tar. It stared at her, its jaw unhinging unnaturally. Maria froze, her breath hitching. She blinked, and the window was empty. Only the grey afternoon sky stared back.
"Just a shadow," she whispered. "Just a trick of the light."
But the feeling of being watched followed her to her bedroom. Exhausted, she collapsed onto her bed.
The dream came instantly.
She was in the local park, the sun bright and beautiful. She was running, her face healed, feeling the wind on her skin. But then, the sun turned the color of dried blood. From behind an oak tree, a woman emerged. She wore a tattered funeral veil, her skin cracked like parched earth. Her fingers ended in long, blackened needles.
The woman lunged.
Maria turned to run, her heart hammering. She tripped over a jagged stone, the pain in her knee sharp and real. As she fell, the veiled woman loomed over her, the blackened needles reaching for her throat.
"Mine," the woman hissed.
Maria shrieked and sat bolt upright in her bed.
The door flew open. Logan rushed in, pale with worry. "Maria! What happened? I heard you from downstairs!"
"Just a dream, Dad," Maria gasped, clutching her chest. "Just a horrible dream."
Logan sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to comfort her, but froze. His eyes widened as he looked at her forearm.
Maria followed his gaze. Sliced into her skin, as if carved by a scalpel, were four deep, red welts. They were fresh, beads of blood welling up in the exact spot where the woman in the dream had grabbed her.
Downstairs, a heavy porcelain vase shattered into a thousand pieces. From the hallway, the sound of a woman's mocking laughter drifted up the stairs, though Martha was still in the kitchen.
The ritual wasn't a joke. And whatever Maria had let in was no longer outside the window. It was in the house.