*"Not all childhood games are harmless. Some summon things that never forget."*
The next morning, the fog clung to the Vale property like fingers. Ashmoor hadn't seen sunlight in days, and Eira wasn't sure it ever would again.
She found herself staring at the edge of the woods behind her house—the place they used to sneak off to, long before they knew what consequences looked like. And nestled in the shadows just beyond the first tree line sat their old hideaway.
*The treehouse.*
They used to call it the *Pact Room*.
It had been built by Soren's older brother, meant to be a sanctuary for games and secrets. But what they'd done there had twisted it into something else entirely.
Eira hadn't set foot in it since the night everything changed.
She grabbed a flashlight and a small crowbar—nerves prickling—and crossed the boundary into the forest.
---
The treehouse loomed larger in her memory than in reality. Now, it looked like a skeleton of childhood, its boards weather-worn, rope ladder fraying with age.
She climbed.
Each step creaked like a whisper from the past.
The door was half-rotten, but it gave way with a push. Dust swirled in the beam of her flashlight, revealing the faded chalk circle still scrawled on the floor.
She stepped inside.
The air was colder here. Still. And watching.
The walls were lined with old carvings—names, symbols, childish runes. In the center of the circle, something new had been etched: a *handprint*, darker than dried blood, pressed into the wood.
Eira crouched beside it, touching the edge.
Flash—
A memory slammed into her.
Five children, hand in hand, chanting in unison:
**"Bound by blood, in shadow and name.
Forget us not, nor bear us shame.
If one shall break, the others call,
To bind us back, or let us fall."**
Soren's voice had led them. Always the brave one. Always the fool.
They had made the pact during an eclipse. A dare turned ritual.
Only they hadn't been alone.
In the memory, behind them… something had been watching. Just outside the circle.
A *tall figure*, draped in shadow, with no face—only void.
Eira gasped and fell back, blinking.
The handprint was gone.
In its place lay an *old key*.
She didn't remember it being there before.
Attached to the key was a tag with two words scrawled in hurried script:
*"Do Not Forget."*
---
Back at the house, Eira examined the journal again.
More pages had changed.
Another entry—this one not in her handwriting.
*"The Pact was not just a game. One of you lied. One of you asked it for something."*
She snapped the book shut.
Something was rewriting the past. Or maybe unlocking it.
Her phone buzzed—an unknown number.
She answered.
Static.
Then a whisper: *"Circle. Salt. Mirror. Midnight."*
The call ended.
She stared at the screen, pulse racing.
A ritual.
---
That night, Eira drew the chalk circle in her living room.
She surrounded it with salt. Lit three candles. And stood before an old mirror she'd found in the attic.
Midnight struck.
Nothing happened.
Until the mirror began to fog—*from the inside*.
A shape took form.
A figure.
And a voice, not hers, not human, whispered from beyond the glass:
*"You never stopped it. You only closed your eyes."*
The reflection grinned with a mouth that wasn't hers.
Then the mirror cracked—splintering down the middle.
The candles went out.
And in the reflection, just before it disappeared…
Soren was standing behind her.
---