The candle had died long ago, and Elara hadn't noticed. Shadows folded over one another, smothering what little warmth had once flickered through the nursery. Moonlight strained through the ash-veiled window, dim and distant, barely enough to show the shapes clinging to the walls.
Her eyes darted to the corner where the puppet had been. Gone.
A cold rush pierced her spine.
She stood frozen, breath shallow. A windless silence fell over the room, too complete to be natural. Even the floor seemed to hold its breath.
Then—a sound. Faint. A creak.
Elara turned slowly.
The toy chest sat open.
No. Not open—shattered. As if something had burst from within.
Her bare feet slipped slightly against the wooden floor as she stepped closer. Shards of carved wood and bits of thread lay scattered across the ground. In the center, a trail of small wooden prints—tiny, sharp—led away from the wreckage, vanishing into the darkness by the armoire.
Her stomach turned. This isn't real. It can't be.
A whisper rose. Not a voice—a breath. From behind her.
She spun, heart hammering.
Nothing.
The mirror on the far wall was fogged, though the air was cold. Her own reflection stared back at her, eyes wide, lips pale. But something was wrong—off by a breath.
Her reflection blinked a second too late.
Elara stumbled backward, hand flying to her mouth.
The mirror rippled. Slowly, like the surface of a pond.
And then she saw it. Standing just behind her reflection.
A wooden figure, tall and hunched. Whittled from dark bark, its joints bound by sinew. Its face was that of a snarling wolf, mouth agape, rows of carved teeth stained deep red.
Its eyes glowed—no, burned—with a cruel amber light.
Run.
She couldn't move.
The figure raised one clawed hand and reached toward the glass. Its touch cracked the surface, lines spidering outward.
Elara gasped, the sound breaking the spell. She turned and fled.
The hallway stretched endlessly ahead, pulsing with shadows that shifted as she ran. Behind her, footsteps—not quite touching the ground—followed, tapping in a rhythm too precise, too deliberate.
Her feet hit the cold tiles of the main corridor. At the far end, moonlight poured through the stained glass, painting fractured colors across the floor.
She ran toward the light, toward the one door she knew would be open.
Her sanctuary.
The library.
Just as her hand touched the brass handle, she felt it—a presence just behind her.
Close enough to breathe her name.
"Elara."
But the voice was hers.
She wrenched open the door and slammed it shut behind her.
Darkness again.
But not silence.
From the far corner of the library, behind the tallest shelf, something was breathing.
Steady. Waiting.
⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋱
See you in the shadows…
⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋱