Chapter One: The House on Windmere Cliff
The fog rolled in thick and fast, swallowing the road behind Maya Ellison like a secret. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, the headlights slicing through the haze with little success. Windmere Cliff hadn't changed much in twenty years—still remote, still haunting, still impossible to escape from once you were there.
The GPS announced she had arrived, but Maya already knew. The house loomed ahead like a relic out of time—weather-worn wood, shuttered windows, ivy crawling up its sides like fingers reaching for air. Her childhood home. And her mother's grave mistake.
She parked the car and sat there for a long moment, staring. The house looked smaller than she remembered, yet somehow more menacing. It had been ten years since she last spoke to her mother. Longer since she stepped foot inside. Now, she was here to bury what was left—memories, regrets, and the woman who'd never been quite whole.
Maya pushed open the car door. Cold, damp air wrapped around her immediately, the salty bite of the sea laced with something else—decay. The gravel crunched under her boots as she approached the front door. She hesitated before sliding the old brass key into the lock.
The door creaked open like it hadn't been used in decades. Inside, the air was stale, thick with the scent of mothballs and forgotten time. Dust floated in sunbeams like ashes. Her suitcase thudded against the entryway as she stepped inside.
Silence. No welcome. No echo of her mother's voice. Just the sound of the wind pressing against the windows.
She walked into the living room. The furniture was covered in sheets, like ghosts frozen in place. A family portrait hung above the fireplace—her mother, younger, vibrant, smiling. A lie captured in color.
A soft creak came from upstairs.
Maya froze.
Probably just the house settling, she told herself. But her heartbeat didn't listen.
She should've gone to a hotel. Signed the documents, handed the keys over to the lawyer, and left. But something held her here. Maybe it was the unread letters her mother had sent over the years—each one unopened, collecting dust in her New York apartment. Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe, deep down, she needed answers.
Another sound—this time, a whisper. Faint, almost childlike. It floated down the staircase like a breath. Maya turned, scanning the shadows.
"Hello?" she called out.
Nothing.
The fog outside thickened, pressing against the glass like a living thing.
She walked slowly to the base of the stairs. Her mother had died up there—in the old bedroom, they said. Peacefully, the coroner reported. No signs of struggle. But that didn't explain the fear etched into her eyes in the last photograph taken.
Maya placed a hand on the banister.
She was going to find out the truth.
No matter what it cost.