Mary Louise Emerson

Seven Weeks Ago. After the funeral, Alaura didn’t know why she came back here. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was out of grief or unfinished business. Either way, she stood at the edge of the woods, staring up at a house that never truly felt like home.

The crisp autumn air nipped at her skin, slipping through the gaps in her coat, carrying the rich petrichor that lingered after the rain. Colored in gold and rust, the town of Viremont was drenched in the hues of fall. The wind rustled through the trees, their bare branches scratching against the sky, sending brittle leaves skittering across the ground.

Clinging to her frame was a black dress meant for mourning, a sophisticated sheath of cotton fabric—long-sleeved, high-necked, severe in its simplicity. A black wool coat draped over her shoulders, left unbuttoned as if she couldn’t quite commit to its warmth. The silk of her stockings began to chill against her legs, heels sinking into the damp dirt beneath her. Even her gloves, thin and delicate, could not keep the cold from seeping in as she clutched her keys.

Her mother’s house was old, worn down in places, the wooden steps creaking under her weight as she climbed them. Unlocking the door and stepping inside, the place still smelled like her mother—lavender and lemon polish, the same scents that reminded her of childhood. But now, it was fading. Just like everything else.

She let her eyes drift over the familiar space as she dropped the keys onto the small wooden table in the entryway. It was nothing like the mansion they used to live in—the one with crystal chandeliers, marble floors, and rooms so large they swallowed her whole. This house was small, a log cabin tucked away in the middle of nowhere, like her mother wanted to disappear from the world after her father died.

Alaura was sixteen when he passed. One moment, he was laughing, warm and full of life. The next, gone—ripped away in a car crash that shattered their perfect world. Her mother was never the same. Grief hollowed her out, left her distant and closed off. Despite still being a child, she was forced to raise herself.

As she wandered into the living room, she let her fingers trail along the back of the old, worn-out couch. The knitted blanket still draped over the arm, the one her mother wrapped around herself when the cold chilled her down to her bones. A book lay open on the coffee table—The Nightingale. Her mother tried reading it again and again but never finished.

She was here when it happened—when her mother’s body became too weak, when the cancer took its final toll. The house was quiet then, too, but in a different way. Filled with the sound of shallow breaths, whispered apologies, and the unbearable weight of knowing they were running out of time.

Alaura did everything she could. Made her mother tea when the nausea wasn’t too bad, combed her thinning hair, lay beside her in bed when the nights stretched too long. Hugged her when the pain got worse, when the doctors said the treatments were no longer working.

And then, one morning, her mother couldn’t get out of bed. Knowing deep down it was already too late, Alaura called the ambulance anyway. She held her mother’s hand in the hospital, felt the weak squeeze of her fingers just before they went still.

Now, the house was just a house. It was too empty, too calm.

Moving into the kitchen, her gaze landed on the mug of tea still sitting by the sink. She should’ve washed it. Had meant to, but there were too many other things to focus on—medications, doctor’s calls, making sure her mother wasn’t alone in those final moments.

She swallowed hard, gripping the counter as a pain crept in her chest.

This house was never meant to be a home. It was always a retreat, a place to run to after everything fell apart. Her mother chose this life of isolation, dragging Alaura with her, forcing her to figure out the rest on her own. And yet, despite it all, the distance, the loneliness, she was still the only mother Alaura ever knew, even though they were not blood.

The cold wind howled outside, rattling the windows, and for a second, she could almost hear her mother’s voice—soft, tired, but still hers.

“Breathe, baby. You’re okay.”

But she wasn’t. And she didn’t know if she ever would be. She was now truly alone in this world and lost.

Alaura wasn’t sure how long she stood there, gripping the counter, before her body moved on its own. Her feet carried her down the hallway, past the framed photos she couldn’t bring herself to look at, past the guest room that was hers since they moved here. She stopped at the last door on the right—her mother’s room.

As she pushed open the door, it creaked softly. Lavender and lemon polish was still heavy in the air. The bed was neatly made, the blankets tucked just the way her mother used to do them, even when she was too weak to stand for long. Beside the bed, the lamp was still turned on from the last time she read to her mother in hush tones.

Stepping through the doorway, her fingers brushed over the dresser, the delicate silver brush set, the old jewelry box with a cracked hinge.

She moved toward the closet, opening the door. The scent was stronger here—warmer and familiar, like the embrace she craved for so long but never truly got after her father died. Her mother’s clothes hung neatly, organized in a way that spoke of routine, of someone trying to hold onto control in a world that kept slipping away.

Alaura reached out and ran her hands along the threads of a deep blue sweater, the one her mother wore on chilly mornings, when she would sit on the porch with a cup of tea. She pulled it close, nuzzling her face against the fabric, inhaling deeply. It still smelled like her. For a moment, she closed her eyes, allowing herself to pretend that if she turned around, her mother would be standing there, telling her everything was going to be okay.

But that was just a fantasy.

Taking a step back, the floor beneath her creaked—not like the normal groan of old wood, but something hollow. Slowly kneeling down, she pressed a palm to the floor and knocked lightly with the other hand. A distinct, empty sound echoed back. There was something beneath the panel.

Her heart pounded as she dug her nails between the seams, pulling at the loose board until it gave way. Dust swirled as she peeled back another board, revealing a large wooden box hidden in the space.

Before reaching in, Alaura examined it. The wood smooth with age, as if it was placed there a long time ago, waiting. On top of the box sat a folded note, her mother’s handwriting instantly recognizable.

“May the items in this box help with all your questions and journey in life. Please know everything we did was to protect you and to give you the choice.”

Alaura’s breath faltered.

“All your questions.”

“To protect you.”

What did that mean?

She lifted the box, fingers trembling. Whatever was inside—whatever secrets her mother kept—were meant for her knowing she’d find it.

Reading the note again, the words felt heavy, not just with emotions but weighted with meaning. As if her mother wished she could tell her all this in person but ran out of time. All your questions. To protect you.

The implications curled in her stomach with unease, whispering that this was more than just sentimental keepsakes. This box was a final message, something bigger.

Her fingers hovered over the lid for a moment, inches from revealing whatever truth was buried here. She let out a slow breath and shook her head. Not here. Not now.

Alaura stood, brushing the dust off her hands, then carried the box to the living room. She placed it on top of the others, blending in with the rest of the packed-up fragments of her mother’s life.

The house was nearly empty now, stripped of anything genuinely hers. Their family estate would be sending people soon to take what was left, to clean it all out, to put a price tag on what was once someone’s memories. She had no interest in fighting for a place that was more of a ghost than a comfort.

Taking one last walk through the house, Alaura chose carefully. She pulled her mother’s favorite sweater from the closet and held it close before placing it in her duffel bag. The silver brush set, the cracked jewelry box, the book her mother never finished—they all went with her. Little things, but things that mattered. Things that were hers to keep.

The rest could go.

She picked up a box, then headed out the door. Her eyes were met with the setting sun casting the treeline in a deep orange. The brisk air filled her lungs with the scent of pine and soil as she loaded the last of the boxes into her mid-size grey SUV. Sliding the mysterious box onto the passenger seat for reasons she couldn’t answer.

After she wiped her hands with a wet wipe, she climbed into the driver’s seat. With one last glance at the house in the rearview mirror, she started the engine and pulled out of the driveway.

As Alaura drove down the long, winding road away from the cabin, the tires crunched against the loose dirt. Headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the thick trees that lined the road like silent barriers to the woods beyond. The house was now long behind her, swallowed by the night.

Her hands were wrapped tight around the wheel, mind still swimming in it all—the funeral, the house, the box she hadn’t opened. It all felt like too much, like a pressure against her chest, making it hard to breathe.

Ahead, the road twisted, trees growing denser, their bare branches reaching toward the sky like skeletal fingers. The house always felt eerie, but at night, it was like something forgotten.

Suddenly, from the darkness—a figure stepped into the road.

Alaura barely had time to react.

She gasped, instinct taking over as she jerked the wheel to the side. The tires screeched against the gravel as the car swerved, spinning out. The back end fishtailed, and before she could regain control, the car twisted sideways, skidding to a stop—taking up both lanes of the two-way road.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she turned her head, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

A man stood on the pavement where she nearly hit him, his silhouette sharply cut against the hazy beam of her headlights. He didn’t balk, didn’t move like a normal person would after nearly getting run over. Instead, he just… watched her, head cocked sideways.

And then, the figure stalked towards her car.

Breath now caught in her throat, every instinct inside screamed at her to drive, to hit the gas and get the hell out of there. The way he moved—it was unnatural. His body glided rather than walked.

She fumbled for the gearshift, trying to put the car in reverse, but before she could pull down on it, he was already there.

The driver’s side window shattered. A sound exploded around her as shards of glass rained down in a glittering spray. She barely had time to flinch before a powerful hand shot through the opening, latching onto her arm.

Alaura screamed, twisting, fighting against his grip, but he was impossibly strong. His fingers dug into her skin as he yanked her toward him, her body lurching hard against the restraint of her seatbelt. The strap bit into her ribs, locking her in place, but it was the only thing keeping her from being dragged out of the car.

Panic surged through her veins as she fought against him, clawing at his hand, his wrist, anything to break free.

That’s when she saw his face.

Her world stopped.

His eyes were pitch black. No whites, no pupils, just endless darkness consuming everything. Black veins webbed beneath them, stretching out like cracks in stone, pulsing against his pale skin. His lips curled back in a snarl, revealing fangs.

Alaura’s heart stuttered, missing a beat before slamming back into motion.

This wasn’t a man. This was something else. Something wrong. And it was trying to take her. The creature wasn’t just attacking her. It had been waiting for her.

Now realizing the sensation of unseen eyes, the prickle at the back of her neck as she loaded the last of the boxes into her car. Since sunset, she had the feeling something was watching her, just beyond the tree line of her mother’s house. She chalked it up to exhaustion, to grief playing tricks on her.

But it wasn’t in her head.

He had been out there. Waiting. Watching.

And now, he was here—ripping her from her car like she was nothing.

Clawing at anything in reach, Alaura’s free hand scrambled over the passenger seat, desperate for something—anything—to help her. Papers, boxes—nothing.

Her hand found its way to the strange box. Alaura’s heart pounded as she shoved it inside, fingers fumbling through its contents until she felt something metal and sharp. Almost as if she was drawn to it.

With a ragged gasp, Alaura gripped the hilt and in one desperate, instinct-driven motion, thrusted it forward. The blade sank into the creature’s chest. His body jerked violently causing his grip to loosen.

Alaura sucked in air as the creature stumbled back, the movement removing the blade from its chest. His blackened eyes were filled with something between rage and shock. Black liquid sprayed from the wound as he clutched the hole.

His lips parted as if he wanted to speak, but all that came out was a strangled, guttural exhale. The black veins beneath his skin pulsed wildly before going still, his body convulsed then crumpled to the ground beside her car.

Chest heaving, Alaura sat frozen, vision blurring at the edges. She looked down at her hand to see black blood dripping from her fingers, thick and inky, coating her skin like oil.

Her gaze flicked to the weapon she still clutched in her grip.

A dagger. But not just any dagger. The blade was like obsidian, dark and jagged, pulsing with an energy through her fingertips. It didn’t look like any thing she’s seen before—something about it felt ancient, powerful.

Why did her mother leave this for her? Alaura’s eyes flashed with realization. Had her mother known this would happen? Had she been protecting her from this? The pieces weren’t fitting together but now was not the time to figure it out. Her instincts screamed at her.

Move.

Throwing the dagger back into the box, she wiped her shaking hands against her coat, then shoved the car into drive. The tires screeched as she tore down the road, leaving the body—and the nightmare behind her.

But in the rearview mirror, in the faint glow of her taillights, she swore she saw something. An unnatural movement shifting in the trees. She was no longer running from what had just happened. She was running from whatever else was still waiting out there.

Alaura didn’t stop driving until she reached the city limits. Barely remembering the highway, the turns, the stretch of dark roads that blurred past her. Her hands were still shaking when she pulled into the alley behind her building, shutting off the engine.

For a moment, she just sat there, gripping the wheel, trying to calm her breathing. Her heart was still hammering in her chest, her stomach. Muscles tense from the adrenaline still coursing through her.

Turning, her gaze landed on the box in the passenger seat. The box that saved her life. Something spoke to her to grab it, so she did.

She held it tight against her chest as she shoved open the door and climbed out. The street was quiet—too quiet. The stillness made her skin crawl. Was someone watching her? Did another creature follow her here?

Not taking any chances, she decided against going to her apartment. She sprinted up the three flights of stairs to the next best place she could think of. Across the hall from her apartment was Riley’s place.

Fumbling in her pocket, she pulled out her keychain that included the spare key Riley gave her months ago. Her neighbor worked night shifts at the hospital, and Alaura agreed to check in on her cat when she was away at work. It was a simple arrangement—one she never really thought much about, until now. Riley’s empty apartment wasn’t just a favor—it was a safe house.

She shoved the key into the lock, twisting it open as fast as she could. The moment she stepped inside, she locked the door behind her, bolting it for good measure.

Riley’s apartment was dark, the only light coming from the diffused glow of the city beyond the windows. The air carried the soft scent of vanilla candles interwoven with the sterile sharpness of faint antiseptic. But she barely noticed. Her senses were dulled, attention turned inward, away from the room’s quiet offerings.

Alaura set the box down on the kitchen counter and made a beeline for the sink. Turning the faucet on full blast, she shoved her hands under the hot water, scrubbing.

The sink turned black as thick, grease-like blood swirled down the drain. No matter how hard she scrubbed, she could still feel it—the texture of it on her skin, the moment she plunged the dagger into that thing’s chest.

It was the first time she ever killed.

Her hands trembled as she squeezed them into a fist, nails digging into her palms. That dagger was hidden for a reason. That thing in the woods was waiting for a reason. Somehow, she was at the center of something she didn’t understand.

Slowly, she unfurled her fist, extremities stiff and reluctant to let go of the tension. The water ran for another moment before she turned the faucet off with a quiet click, the sudden silence was sharp in comparison. Droplets clung to her fingertips, trailing down her wrists as she braced herself against the edge of the counter.

Tilting her head back, she closed her eyes as she drew in a breath, trying to organize her thoughts. There was nowhere she could claim as her own without wondering what might crawl out from the dark. Not at her mother’s house. Not at her apartment.

Tonight, all she could do was sleep, try and hold herself together. Tomorrow, she would have to face the truth. Tomorrow, she would have to open that box.