The figure was gone.
By the time Chizzy opened the door and stepped outside, there was only wind and fog. The trees swayed, whispering to each other, their bare branches reaching like claws against the sky. She scanned the treeline, heart pounding. But nothing moved.
Nothing visible, at least.
She shut the door behind her, sliding the bolt across with trembling hands. She told herself it was just her imagination, worn thin by the journal, by the creaking house and the strange villagers. But deep down, she knew better. Someone—or something—had been watching.
She lit a candle in the living room, unwilling to rely on the flickering overhead bulb. The house felt colder now, even though the fire in the hearth hadn't died. Shadows gathered in the corners like silent witnesses.
On instinct, she returned to the staircase in the pantry.
The red key still sat in her coat pocket, warm now, as if it had a pulse of its own. The iron door at the bottom of the stone steps stood open, just a crack. She hadn't remembered leaving it that way.
Chizzy paused on the threshold. "I'm not afraid of you," she whispered, though her voice quivered.
She pushed the door open.
The room beyond was small and circular, walls made of ancient stone, laced with black moss. Strange markings were carved into the floor—circles within circles, symbols she didn't recognize. In the center lay a single object.
A mirror.
It was oval, framed in tarnished silver, tall enough to reflect her full image. But when she stepped closer, her reflection didn't mimic her movements. It stood perfectly still, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, as though mid-scream.
Chizzy staggered back, heart hammering. Her reflection didn't move.
Then, slowly, the image raised one hand and pointed directly behind her.
She spun around. The room was empty.
The reflection in the mirror smiled.
Chizzy slammed the door shut and locked it, heart galloping in her chest. She didn't descend those stairs again that night.
Back upstairs, she collapsed into bed, the red key clenched in her fist.
That night, she dreamed of fire. Of screaming. And of a voice, whispering from the trees outside her window:
"You're almost ready, Chizzy."