The town of Elderglen was quiet by day and haunted by fear at night. As the sun set, a heavy stillness would crawl through the streets, and by 9 PM, not a single soul dared to remain outside. Everyone knew the rule: stay indoors or face a death that no one could explain, only whisper about.
In the center of town stood a small park, once full of laughter and children's voices. Now it was just Rachael, gently swinging back and forth, the rusted chains creaking with every movement. The swing beneath her made a crackling sound as it moved, breaking the silence of the cold, windy night.
Her breath formed small clouds in the air as she pushed herself forward, lost in thought. That's when she saw it-a deer, standing still by the edge of the woods. Its eyes glowed an unnatural blue, locked on hers. Rachael froze.
In a blink, the deer vanished.
She gasped and looked around. No sound, no rustle-nothing. Then, as if awakened from a trance, she heard the sudden bustle around her. Shopkeepers slamming shutters, people shouting last-minute goodbyes, the scuffle of hurried footsteps. The town was racing against time.
She checked her watch. Only ten minutes to nine.
Rachael leapt from the swing, her boots crunching against the gravel as she ran through the winding streets. Her home was just a few blocks away, but every second now felt like a countdown to something sinister.
She reached the wooden gate just as the church bell began to chime. Nine sharp tolls.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
She pounded on the door. "Mom! It's me-Rachael!"
On the other side, her mother's voice trembled. "Who's there?"
"Mom, please! It's me!"
Through the eye piece, her mother's frightened eyes appeared. A moment later, she flung open the door halfway, reached out, and pulled Rachael in. She quickly bolted the door shut and returned the broom to its place beside the chimney.
"You came home late again," her mother scolded, voice tight with fear. "Do you want to end up like the shopkeeper? Or the miller's son?"
Her mother was a tall, graceful woman of forty-five, with pale skin and black hair tied neatly in a bun. Her apron was dusted with flour; the smell of freshly baked pie still lingered in the air.
Rachael, nineteen, with short black hair and striking blue eyes, wore a handwoven sweater and cap over her black top and jeans. She peeled them off and dropped them on a chair before sitting at the dining table.
Dinner was already served-steaming bowls of chicken corn soup and warm shepherd's pie. The kitchen was small and cozy, the dining table placed opposite the kitchen slab. On the left, by the chimney, two chairs and a soft blue ottoman faced the crackling fire.
They ate quietly, the tension still lingering in the room like a shadow.
After dinner, Rachael helped wash the dishes and packed away the leftovers. Her mother kissed her forehead and reminded her to lock her window before bed.
Upstairs, Rachael's small room was just the way she liked it. A single wooden bed, cream-colored bedsheets, and a cupboard at the foot of the bed overflowing with fantasy novels. Her little escape from a world that often felt too grim.
She opened her curtains and stood by the window, gazing out into the empty town. Beyond the trees and the dead silence stood the abandoned castle-its towers silhouetted against the moonlit sky.
Rachael stared.
And somewhere deep in the dark, it stared back.
Eventually, the tension of the house wore her down. Exhausted from the constant sense of being watched, she curled up on the dusty old bed. The fabric smelled like time-stale, forgotten. Still, sleep found her quickly, pulling her under like a tide.
And then, the dream began.
She was standing in a vast, stone hallway. A cold wind whipped through narrow windows, fluttering ancient red drapes. Her footsteps echoed too loud on the marble floor, as if the castle itself was listening.
It was beautiful-gothic and towering-but wrong. The walls pulsed faintly, like they were alive. Paintings of long-forgotten nobles stared down at her with eyes that seemed to move when she wasn't looking.
She walked forward, drawn toward a grand door at the end of the hall. The moment her hand touched the iron handle, the temperature dropped again. The same feeling from the house crept back-watchful, possessive.
Suddenly, the castle shifted.
Stone turned to splintered wood. Chandeliers flickered and groaned. The red drapes burned away into cobwebs. It wasn't a castle anymore.
It was the house.
It was always the house.
And now, it was inside her dream.