The closer I drove, the more the air seemed to thicken. The road stretched endlessly ahead, coiling between the trees like a vein feeding some long-forgotten heart. The radio had died three towns back, leaving only the hum of the engine and the sound of rain skittering against the windshield.
The book sat on the passenger seat beside me, bound in brittle leather that creaked with every bump in the road. Its title had faded almost completely—"The Mirror of Echoes"—but the words inside were still sharp. I'd been reading it since the night I met Dr. Keene.
Or maybe he found me.
Dr. Keene had that kind of gaze that made you feel examined, cataloged, filed away somewhere under "unstable but curious." She'd listened as I told him about the things I couldn't explain—the voices, the smell of smoke, the glimpses of red flickering at the edge of vision.
She'd leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "You said she appears mostly at night?"
"Yes. Sometimes in reflections."
"And you feel she's not… gone?"
I'd hesitated. "I don't feel it. I know it."
She'd nodded, as if confirming a theory. "You might be what we call a persistence case."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning your mind refuses to accept finality. The book I gave you—it's about those who walk between memory and haunting. They see what they've buried."
I remembered his tone—gentle, almost sympathetic. But there'd been something else beneath it too. A hint of curiosity. Like I wasn't a patient to him, but a puzzle.
She'd said something then that I can't forget:
"Sometimes the dead don't follow us. We follow them."
Now, miles from that conversation, I couldn't shake the words.
The forest outside the car window grew darker, thicker. The branches leaned over the road like they were listening. Each gust of wind made them tremble, whispering in a language I almost understood.
I passed a sign half-swallowed by vines.
Marlowe Hollow – 6 Miles.
My chest tightened. That was where the house waited.
Emma's house. Our house.
The one I hadn't seen since that night.
The rain worsened, a relentless tapping against glass, as though something wanted in. Every now and then, headlights swept through the trees—though I never saw another car. Just light without source.
The closer I came, the louder it got—not just the rain, but the noise inside my head.
Whispers.
Breath.
Soft laughter that sounded too much like hers.
"You shouldn't have left me, Nathan."
My grip on the steering wheel tightened.
"I didn't," I muttered. "I tried to save you."
A flash of red swept through the trees—something darting across the road. I slammed on the brakes. The car skidded, heart pounding in my ears.
When I looked again, there was nothing. Just mist and the vague outline of the woods.
But on the road, where the figure had been, lay a glove.
Red.
I got out slowly, rain soaking through my clothes. I crouched to pick it up—same shade, same stitching. Emma's.
Or an exact copy of it.
When I turned it over, something black and faintly oily smeared my fingers.
Ink.
Like the ink from the book.
Back in the car, the smell of smoke grew stronger. Not the kind that burns wood, but something more bitter—like burning paper. The edges of the book seemed darker than before, as though singed.
I opened it, fingers trembling. The page that caught my eye was one I didn't remember reading.
"When the mind fractures under guilt, memory fills the gaps with ghosts. The more one approaches truth, the more the lie defends itself."
I read the line again and again, my reflection wavering faintly in the glass. For a moment, it didn't look like me at all.
The road wound uphill now, a thin scar through the forest. And with every turn, the memories pressed harder.
Flashes.
Her laughter echoing off the lake.
Her saying my name, a tremor in her voice.
Then fire.
Always fire.
But what came before it—what really happened—was a blur, like trying to remember a dream right after waking.
Dr. Keene had said selective amnesia wasn't uncommon after trauma. The brain protected itself. It built new walls when old ones crumbled.
He'd looked at me carefully when he said that.
"Are you sure," he'd asked, "you want to remember what's behind them?"
At the time, I'd thought I did.
Now, as the road narrowed and the fog thickened, I wasn't so certain.
Somewhere between the third and fourth mile, I started hearing her hum again.
It came from nowhere—soft, almost tender. The same tune she used to hum while painting.
I glanced in the rearview mirror.
For half a second, I saw her sitting there—hair damp, red gloves resting in her lap, eyes bright and alive.
Then she was gone.
I pulled over, chest heaving, and sat there with my head against the steering wheel.
"Get a grip," I whispered. "She's gone. You buried her."
But another voice whispered back, Did you?
The forest shifted as if in answer. The mist moved like something breathing.
And then I saw it—the faint outline of a house through the trees.
Home.
My stomach twisted. Every part of me screamed to turn around. The air felt wrong here, heavier, as if the world bent differently near this place.
The engine sputtered once, then died.
When I stepped out, the silence was absolute. Not even the rain touched this part of the woods.
Only stillness.
And the faint smell of ash.
The glove in my pocket felt warm against my palm.
I took a step toward the house. Then another.
Each one felt harder than the last—like wading into something thick and unseen.
And then I heard her again.
Closer this time.
"Remember the red, not the fire."
Her voice trembled on the air, so close I almost reached out.
But when I did, my hand brushed against something wet.
The walls of the house were streaked in red.
Not paint.
Not blood.
Something in between.
And beneath it, faintly etched into the wood, a single phrase I recognized from the book:
"Those who follow ghosts do not return alone."
A chill ran through me.
The door creaked open by itself.
And as I stepped over the threshold, I realized something else—something that made my skin crawl:
This place didn't feel like I was entering it.
It felt like it had been waiting to let me back in.