The candlelight in Clara's room flickered violently, though there was no draft. She sat cross-legged on the bed, staring at the old leather-bound book Evan had retrieved from the depths of the secret archive. Its pages smelled of dust and time, and the ink had faded into the yellowed parchment. But it wasn't the words that unsettled her—it was the spaces between them, as if some truths had been deliberately erased.
Evan sat nearby, his hands tense on his knees. He hadn't spoken much since their return from the hidden tunnel beneath the manor. His eyes, usually filled with a fierce determination, now looked… haunted.
"Clara," he said finally, voice low. "Before you read any further, you need to understand—this book wasn't meant to survive. My father… the others… they tried to destroy every copy."
Clara's heart thudded against her ribs. She flipped to a page where a family tree sprawled across the sheet. Her finger traced the delicate lines until it stopped at her own name, written in fresh ink.
"But why?" she whispered.
Evan hesitated. Then he stood and began pacing, the shadows thrown by the candlelight making him seem even taller, almost distorted.
"There's a pact," he said. "A silent one. Passed down through generations of the Bennett bloodline. It's older than the well, older than this house. It's the reason your family prospered while others around them fell into ruin."
Clara's throat felt dry. "What kind of pact?"
Evan glanced at her with an expression of deep sadness.
"With something… not human."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Before Clara could ask further, there came a soft knock at her door. Both she and Evan froze. A second knock followed, slower, deliberate.
Clara closed the book instinctively, hiding it under the bed. She stepped lightly toward the door and opened it a crack.
Standing there was a girl—a few years younger than Clara, dressed in an old-fashioned lace dress, her hair braided tightly against her scalp. But it was her eyes that struck Clara: they were completely black, like polished obsidian.
The girl smiled.
"They're waiting for you, Clara Bennett," she said in a voice like a music box wound too tightly. "The Pact must be honored."
Before Clara could respond, the girl turned and vanished down the hallway, her footsteps making no sound.
Clara slammed the door shut, heart hammering.
"Who was that?" Evan demanded.
"I—I don't know," Clara stammered. "But she said they're waiting for me."
Evan's face paled.
"It's starting earlier than I thought."
They needed answers, and fast. Clara grabbed the book again, flipping frantically through the pages. At the very center, there was a single loose sheet, different from the others: a letter, written in a shaky hand.
"To the last of the bloodline,Should you find this, know that the pact cannot be broken, only delayed. One must pay the price, lest all fall into the well's embrace."
Clara's fingers trembled.
"What price?" she whispered.
There was no answer. Only silence. The kind that felt alive, pressing against the windows, seeping through the cracks in the floorboards.
Suddenly, the candle blew out, plunging the room into darkness.
A voice—deep, ancient, and coming from everywhere at once—rumbled in her ears.
"Choose, Clara Bennett."
When she opened her eyes again, she was no longer in her bedroom.
She stood in a vast, empty field under a sky roiling with black clouds. In the distance, silhouetted against the lightning, was the well—the cursed heart of her family's estate. And surrounding it were figures, hundreds of them, faces obscured by hoods, chanting in a language she could not comprehend.
At the center of the circle stood the little girl, her black eyes glowing.
"You must offer something precious," the girl called out.
"What happens if I don't?" Clara shouted back, her voice swallowed by the storm.
The girl smiled, and in that smile, Clara saw her own face reflected—a future version of herself, hollow and empty.
"The well will take what it wants," the girl said simply.
And the chanting grew louder.
Clara jolted awake, gasping for air. She was back in her bedroom, the candle still extinguished, Evan shaking her roughly.
"You were screaming," he said. "Clara, what happened?"
Clara clutched the book to her chest.
"They're coming for me," she whispered. "The pact… it's real."
Evan's jaw tightened.
"Then we'll find a way to fight back."
But even as he said it, Clara saw the doubt in his eyes.
Outside the manor, the wind began to howl—a warning that time was running out.
The next day, Clara found herself summoned by the elders—the secret council that still governed the affairs of the Bennett lineage from behind closed doors. She had heard rumors about them: that some were over a hundred years old, kept alive by dark bargains made centuries ago.
The meeting was held in the oldest part of the manor, a stone chamber buried deep underground. Torches lined the walls, casting a flickering light on the council members' gaunt faces.
At the head of the table sat Matriarch Elowen Bennett, her skin stretched taut over her bones, her eyes sharp as knives.
"You have seen her," Elowen said without preamble. "The harbinger."
Clara nodded, unable to lie.
"Then you know what must be done."
Clara clenched her fists. "I won't make any sacrifices."
Murmurs ran around the room.
Elowen leaned forward, her voice like a blade slicing through the heavy air.
"You mistake your choices, child. There are none."
And with that, the council began to chant in unison, their voices rising to a fevered pitch. The floor beneath Clara's feet trembled, and from the shadows of the chamber, something massive began to stir.
Clara's heart thundered in her chest.
This was only the beginning.