I clutched the bracelet so tightly that its jagged edges dug into my palm.
Mom's bracelet.
The one she never took off.
Liam stood beside me, breath fogging in the chilled air. The backyard was quiet—too quiet, like the world was holding its breath.
"She's here," I whispered.
I didn't mean it metaphorically. I knew. I could feel it in my bones. The earth was humming beneath my feet, like it was trying to speak, to scream.
We followed the trail toward the edge of the forest. Trees towered ahead, their branches like twisted fingers pointing to nowhere. We walked in silence until we reached the old path—the one I'd sworn never to return to.
But of course, the forest wasn't done with me.
We passed the bent willow, the half-buried birdhouse, and finally came to that thing—the witch's hand. The gnarled tree that looked like a frozen claw rising from the earth.
I hadn't seen it since that night with Peter and Chloe. But even now, months later, it looked exactly the same. Dry. Dead. Ancient.
I stared at it, unease crawling under my skin like ants.
And that's when we heard it.
A crack of a twig behind us.
We turned.
And my heart shattered.
"Mom?"
She stood just beyond the tree line.
Her blue cardigan was stained and torn. Her hair clung to her cheeks, damp with sweat—or something worse. And her face…
She was smiling.
But it wasn't her smile.
It was hollow. Wide. Wrong.
Her head tilted—once to the left, then to the right. Slowly. Jerking. Like a doll someone was playing with.
"Hello, sweetheart," she cooed. Her voice was sing-song, childlike. "Dinner is ready."
I stepped forward instinctively.
But Liam yanked me back. "Emma—no. Look at her hand."
I did.
She held a long kitchen knife, dripping with something dark and thick. My breath caught in my throat.
"Mom," I choked. "Please—put that down. Just talk to me."
But she didn't.
Her smile widened. She took one step forward.
Liam moved between us. "Stay back."
"Liam, she's not—she's not her right now. That's not her."
I didn't know how I knew it. But I did.
There was something inside her. Something puppeteering her body. Something old and cruel and watching.
Then—suddenly—she plunged the knife toward herself.
I screamed.
She staggered.
And then—again. A second time. A third.
"No!" I cried out, trying to run to her, but Liam held me firmly.
"Emma—wait!"
Mom didn't stop.
She raised the blade again, and again.
And with each motion, her smile stayed perfectly still.
She wasn't feeling this. She wasn't there.
And yet—her body stood. Bloodied, broken—and still standing. It was as if invisible hands held her upright. As if the possession itself refused to let go.
Finally—finally—her arms dropped.
The knife slipped from her hand.
And then—she collapsed. Right into my arms.
I caught her, falling to the ground with her full weight in my lap.
"Mom," I whispered. "Please—please—don't do this."
Her eyes flickered for a second. Her smile was gone. Her face, now pale and quiet, seemed free—just for that second.
Liam crouched beside me. His hands were shaking as he pressed fingers to her wrist.
Nothing.
He didn't say it. He didn't have to.
I shook my head. "No. She's fine. We can still help her. Call someone. Get help. Please."
"Emma…"
"No! Don't say it. Just help me. She's not gone. She can't be."
I was sobbing now, my tears hot and wild. My hands pressed against her blood-warmed shirt, willing her to breathe.
I didn't care if it was irrational. I didn't care if we were too late.
Because losing her like this…
Like this…
Was too much.
Too cruel.
Too permanent.
And in that moment—my chest ached, not just with grief—but with the chilling realization that Amelia had orchestrated this. She'd used my mother as a message. As a symbol.
And I had no idea what was coming next..
I didn't scream.
I didn't cry.
I didn't even blink.
I sat there, holding her, staring at the blood seeping through her clothes like it was just… paint. Red. Wet. Wrong. But paint.
"We should take her to the hospital," I said flatly. My voice didn't sound like mine. It was hollow. Like I was reading a line someone else had written for me.
Liam was crouched beside me, eyes wild, hands shaking. "Emma, she—she's gone."
"No." I looked straight ahead. "She's not. She's still warm. We have to go. We have to try."
He looked at me—heartbreak swimming in his eyes—and I hated it. I hated that he was feeling anything, because I wasn't. I wasn't feeling anything.
"Help me lift her."
"Emma, please."
"Help me!" I shouted. My voice cracked. My chest burned.
And then it went silent again.
Together, we lifted her—my mother, her body—and carried her through the forest. The birds didn't sing. The wind didn't move. The world was… paused.
I stared straight ahead the whole time.
When we reached the car, I climbed into the backseat and pulled her into my lap. Liam didn't ask questions. He just drove.
I didn't look out the window. I didn't look at the blood on my hands. I just rocked her gently, whispering nonsense.
"It's okay. Just hold on. I've got you. You'll be fine."
But I didn't believe it.
Not for one second.
...
Flashing lights. Rushed voices. A wheelchair. The scent of antiseptic. Blue gloves. White coats.
They pulled her from my arms.
I didn't move.
"Ma'am, can you step back?"
I stood in place, blood on my jeans, blood on my face.
"She needs a doctor," I said.
"She's with the team now, okay?" one of the nurses said gently.
But I saw the way they looked at each other.
The shake of the head.
The slowness.
They weren't rushing anymore.
She was already gone.
---
Observation Room – Hours Later
I sat on the small hospital bed, knees pulled to my chest, wrapped in one of Liam's jackets.
I didn't remember when he gave it to me.
I didn't remember how long we'd been here.
I didn't remember if I blinked.
My fingers were cold. Still stained. I didn't want to wash them.
Peter came into the room first.
He looked like he'd run all the way from school.
He said something—my name, maybe—but I didn't respond. I just stared at the floor tiles.
He crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of me.
"Emma…"
I met his eyes.
His lip trembled.
I think that broke me more than anything.
Because if Peter was crying, then this was real.
Then it had actually happened.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered.
I nodded slowly.
"I should've—if I had known—"
"There's nothing you could've done," I muttered. "She was already gone before I got there."
A pause.
Then: "Did you see it?"
I hesitated.
The image hit me like a train.
That smile. That voice. That moment.
"Yes."
He nodded, jaw clenched. I could see the pain in his eyes.
Then Chloe burst into the room.
"Emma—"
She ran straight to me, wrapping her arms around me. That finally cracked the shell.
I broke down.
Not loud.
Not wild.
Just silent, gasping sobs into her hoodie.
Liam stayed at the door, not saying anything.
Until Peter turned to him.
"You were there?"
Liam nodded. "She called me. I was closest."
Chloe sat beside me, holding my hand.
Liam stayed in the doorway.
And I?
I just stared at the dried blood on my wrist and whispered
"She smiled at me, My mom. But it wasn't her."