I've seen this village before.
Not in photos. Not in dreams. Just… inside. The shapes of the roofs, the tilt of the hills, the way the fog hugs the grass like it's shy.
I've never been here. But I remember it.
The car rocks as we take the final bend in the mountain road. Renzo's half-asleep in the back seat, his camcorder dangling from one hand like a broken limb. Lilith's driving, both hands tight on the wheel, eyes fixed ahead.
She hasn't spoken in ten minutes.
"Still good?" I ask her.
She nods, but doesn't answer.
The trees lean in on either side of the road. Pine trunks—tall, dark, too narrow—huddled like they're whispering.
When the fog parts, the village appears.
Kenzora.
It's nestled in a shallow valley, wood-built houses lining a crooked main road. The roofs are sharply peaked, like the tips are always pointing at something behind you. There's no movement at first. No people. Just buildings, slouched in place like they're pretending to sleep.
Lilith slows as we enter. A thin ribbon of copper bells strung over the road chimes without wind.
"I thought you left this place when you were ten," I say.
She blinks, like she hadn't expected the sound of my voice. "Yeah. It hasn't changed."
Her voice is flat. Almost wrong.
Renzo groans behind us. "Feels like we're pulling into a horror movie. Ten bucks says someone offers us tea before telling us we're part of the harvest."
"Shut up," she says automatically.
We park in front of a stone building with warped stairs. A small wooden sign hangs above the door: "Welcome." The letters curve slightly inward, almost apologetically.
A man is already there, standing by the entrance. Thin. Pale. Wearing a wool coat with brass buttons. His face is expressionless—but his eyes crinkle like he's smiling, even though his mouth never moves.
"You're early," he says.
Lilith hesitates. "We didn't send word ahead."
"I know," the man replies. "You're expected."
He doesn't blink. His voice is smooth, practiced—like he's reciting from a script he's said a hundred times.
Renzo nudges me. "Okay, weird hospitality aside, do you see the angle of that window?"
He's pointing at the second story. I glance. He's right. The window isn't straight. It's tilted—just a few degrees, but unmistakably wrong. Like the house is leaning in to listen.
Lilith ignores us and steps forward. "I'm Lilith Hwan. This is Damian. And that's Renzo."
The man nods. "Welcome home, Miss Hwan."
Her spine stiffens.
"We're not staying long," she says. "Just here for research."
"Of course," the man replies, still smiling without smiling. "But first, rest. The festival is tomorrow night. You'll want to be fresh."
Renzo perks up. "Festival?"
"The Fire Festival," Lilith says, without looking at him. "They hold it every year."
"It holds us," the man corrects gently. "This way."
—
The room smells like pine tar and old sugar.
Inside the guesthouse, the furniture is clean but too smooth, too symmetrical. The wood has been sanded down into curves. No corners. No right angles. Even the chairs seem like they're bending inward slightly, like they're listening.
Renzo films everything. He spins in a circle. "This place is aesthetic. Creepy, but aesthetic."
I sit on the bed. It creaks softly. The mattress isn't soft, but it dips in the center—like someone's been lying here a long time and never got up.
Lilith hasn't sat down. She stands by the window, staring out at the street. A group of children run past, wearing paper masks.
Each child wears the same mask.
"I think they're playing," I say.
"No," she says quietly. "They're practicing."
I wait for her to explain. She doesn't.
Outside, the bells chime again.
—
Later, when Renzo's out filming and Lilith's gone silent again, I explore the hallway.
There are paintings on the walls. Soft colors. Pastel landscapes—misty trees, winding roads, mountains in the distance.
But each painting has a small detail in common.
A spiral. Somewhere hidden. Carved into a tree. Etched in the clouds. Woven into a woman's braid.
I didn't notice it at first. But now I can't unsee it.
I find one near the end of the hall. A painting of a hill at dusk. The spiral is in the sky. Subtle, like someone scratched it into the paint with a needle.
Something hums behind me.
I turn.
No one there.
But the hum continues. Soft, vibrating the floorboards. It's not mechanical. It's not musical. It's… pleased.
I back away.
There's a mirror on the wall beside me. I catch my reflection.
For a moment, just one, I think I'm smiling.
But my mouth is closed.
—
That night, I dream of fire.
A wooden effigy in the center of a plaza. Masks. Music. Something moving under the floor.
I wake up gasping.
The air is heavy.
There's something on my hands.
I sit up, turn on the bedside lamp. Rub my palms together.
Ash.
Fine, gray-black dust, stuck to my skin like it's grown from inside me.
And across the wall—where there had been only smooth plaster—
A single spiral.
Drawn in ash.
Still warm.