Clara
The point where the tracker stopped was at an area wide enough for a car, and the path there certainly looked like it could be reached by a vehicle. I check my phone again, but the location ends right here. No signal, no service, just the dead silence of the forest. The kind that makes you feel like you're being watched, even when you know no one's around.
I'm not afraid of being alone in a dark forest, although I admit the mosquitoes and insects have been a real bother. I've hiked on this mountain 10 times since childhood. But this is an unknown path.
I pull down my hood and grip the flashlight tighter, the beam cutting through the darkness, slicing the night into jagged pieces. It doesn't help much. The path was unknown, swallowed by the indistinguishable trees and rocks. I pulled chalk from my bag, marking an 'X' on a nearby trunk, a habit ingrained since childhood mistakes in these very woods.
I was eleven when my father finally allowed me to come along on a hunting trip, thanks to my uncle taking my side.
I remember the rabbit.
How I raised my rifle at it as its ear twitched and the others watched. My father stood behind me, arms crossed, waiting. It was my moment. But I hesitated, and the bullet missed.
"Useless," he muttered under his breath, turning away.
The shame was unbearable, but I refused to let him see me cry.
I sneaked off deeper into the forest then, determined to find another bigger animal.
There was a fox. My hands shook as I lifted the rifle, remembering the things my father had taught Daniel. But a small baby fox trotting into view nuzzled the larger one.
My heart dropped, and I couldn't do it. I turned back, ready to return to my father and admit failure. But the trees all looked the same. The trail I had followed was gone.
I was lost. I screamed for my father, over and over, until my throat burned. But he never came.
The sky darkened. The cold crept in. And then, finally, I heard footsteps.
It was my uncle. I threw myself into his arms, sobbing and asking for my dad.
"He drove back hours ago," he said, the words that are forever embedded in me "Told me to find you before it gets too dark."
Being lost had been terrifying. But realizing that my father had left me behind had hurt even more.
I shake my head, forcing myself to stay in the present.
As I walk, the silence is broken only by the sound of my footsteps and the occasional hooting of an owl. I shine my light around me, trying to take in as much of my surroundings as possible. I remember every turn and twist. Now I just need to retrace my steps in reverse.
I take a deep breath, telling myself to calm down. I adjust the strap on my bag, feeling the reassuring weight of my gun inside.
Then I see it.
A faint shape where there should only be trees. A roof, sagging slightly in the middle. Wooden boards faded to gray. The branches above cast shifting shadows across the structure, making it look like it's breathing with the forest.
The cabin. I've found it!
My walk turns into a jog, then a sprint. I stumble to a stop in front of the door, chest heaving. I reach for it and grab the doorknob, trying to turn it. But, as expected, the door doesn't budge.
Of course it's locked.
The lock is old-fashioned, with a large keyhole staring back at me like an empty eye socket. It looks like it wouldn't be hard to lockpick.
"Too easy." I smirk as I place my bag down and take out a bobby pin from my hair.
It's the digital locks that are the trickiest. Ordinary locks like this don't even require me to use a lockpicking kit.
Zach's home has a digital lock on it. Not to mention a camera that faces the street. But if you find the right blind spot and the perfect position on the willow tree outside the house, you can get a clear view of his room from his window.
I know that sounds like I'm stalking him and I want to break into his house, but that's not it. It was a coincidence when I came to his house on a Tuesday for something, saw him through the window, and wanted to get a better look. And about my skill at lockpicking, well, I have my hunger and my mother to thank for that, as her favorite hobby is locking me up without food for hours.
After a few moments of careful prodding, the door unlocks and I push it open. The only light comes from the moon filtering through the grimy windows, casting an eerie glow over the space.
I notice a light switch on the wall and flip it open. The cabin was suddenly bathed in a yellow glow, illuminating dusty, worn furniture and a small kitchen in one corner.
Two doors beckoned.
The first, leading to the basement, wafted a musty scent. This is where he kept me. The mere thought and memory of the event where my life hung in the balance sends shivers down my spine. I dare not go down there again. at least not until I've checked everything else.
The second door was a surprisingly clean bathroom, devoid of any struggle or bloodstains.
Something is odd. Why can't I find anything here? I was sure this could be the place where he brings in his victims before killing them.
I glance around the room and notice something...peculiar.
The interior seems smaller than I initially thought. The walls appear closer, and the furniture seems more cramped. I frown, trying to make sense of it. I walk out of the cabin and gaze up at the structure, taking in its exterior. And that's when I realize the cabin looks bigger from the outside.
I circle the building and focus on my surroundings, taking in the details. I notice that there are four windows in total. Two large ones are situated at the front of the building. One on the left side of the cabin next to the small kitchen and another one, which appears to be the bathroom window.
But, it turns out there's another one at the back, facing the forest. I try to look through it, but it's just darkness. Strange, since I had left the lights on.
Quickly moving on my feet, I rush back inside and stare at the back wall of the cabin. Placing my bag on the couch, I walk closer to inspect it. My eyes fixed intently on the massive bookshelf packed with dusty books that dominates the space. It's the only thing next to the wall, along with some decorative lamps.
I try searching for any sign that this might be more than just a simple shelf. I've seen enough movies to know that sometimes, secret doors and hidden passages can be concealed behind seemingly innocuous objects like bookshelves.
However, as I push on the shelf, I realize that it's not attached to the wall and can be moved. I push the shelf to the side, and it groans as it scrapes against the floor. As the shelf moves, I see that there's a door behind it.
Well...that was easy.
As expected, it's locked. But even though this is also a simple one, it looks newer than the one before.
After unlocking it with my bobby pin, I stand up and slowly push the door open, its hinges creaking in protest. A musty wave of air escapes the darkness beyond, thick with the smell of mold and mildew. I raise my flashlight and step inside. The room is cloaked in shadow, and dust hangs like fog in the narrow beam of my light.
My heart almost stops as my eyes fall to the glass enclosure in the center of the room. Inside it—of all things—is a mannequin. It's dressed in an old trench coat, long and withered with age. It looks like it hasn't been touched in years.
What is this…?" I murmur to myself.
My light drifts around the rest of the room. There's a small bed, tucked into the shadows. The mattress is sunken in the middle and littered with dead leaves and dust. Beside it sits a plain wooden dresser. Against the opposite wall stands a tall wardrobe. I hesitate, then pull the door open—only to instantly recoil. A spider the size of my thumb scurries deeper inside, vanishing into the shadows. I slam it shut with a grimace.
That's it?
Looking around, I feel a wave of disappointment settle heavy in my chest. No blood-stained evidence. No photos, no journals, no trophies from his victims. This whole damn trip was supposed to mean something. I was supposed to find proof. Something to shove in his face. Why haven't I found anything worthy yet?
Just then, I spot something on the wall. A paper drawing. It's aged, the edges frayed and yellowed. It depicts a scrawny-looking child with messy dark hair. He is drawn with a big smile that matches the one on the person next to him. A woman with white hair reaching till her shoulders. Both look unsettlingly happy.
I swallow hard, the realization slowly crawling its way up my spine. The kid in the drawing—his dark hair, his wide eyes—it's Alister. Was he as cruel and arrogant as he is now? Or was he just a regular innocent child who never thought about murder?
And... who is this woman?
I jump as soon as my phone starts ringing from the main room. The shrill sound sliced through the silence like a scream.
Perhaps it's because I'm on higher ground that there's a signal.
I quickly step out of the bedroom and dig my phone out of my bag.
Alister.
My first instinct is fear. Why is he calling me? Now, of all times? Does he know I'm here? Did he follow me? Is he watching me—right now—seeing what I'm doing? Did I trip some silent alarm without even realizing?
But I take a breath.
No.
I'm not going to let myself get spooked. He doesn't get to do that to me. He doesn't get to hold that kind of power over me—not after what he did.
I glance at my arm, where now two prominent burn marks stain my skin underneath the sleeve.
"What do you want?" I answer.
There's a beat of silence on the other end.
"…Hey." His voice is unexpectedly soft—like he's speaking to a wild animal he doesn't want to spook. "I was hoping you'd pick up."
My jaw tightens. As if he has ever answered my calls or replied to my texts. As if he didn't—
"I know this is probably the last thing you want, but… After what we saw today, it's clear the curse is getting worse. Way worse. And I've been thinking—maybe it's time we stop fighting. Actually set our differences aside and work together. I mean it this time. No games."
Something in me snaps like a dry twig.
I start pacing the room as my hand tightens around the phone. He always does this. Hits me where it hurts and mocks me when I think about retaliating. That we should focus on bigger problems, making me feel foolish for getting sidetracked and thinking about petty revenge.
"You mean it this time?" I laugh bitterly. "This time?"
He stays silent for a second. "Clara—"
"Shut up!" The word cuts sharper than I intend, but I don't care. It doesn't matter he said my name. It doesn't matter how much I wanted to hear it from him. I'm so angry; I'm glad he isn't in infront of me right now. I'd have shot his legs. And then if this cabin wasn't in the middle of a forest, I'd have burned it to the ground.
"I held you." I insist, my voice already trembling with restrained fury, making him recall it, making him realize no matter how much he tries to ignore it, him being vulnerable in front of me, it happened. "I didn't walk away. I didn't mock you. I was there. If it ever happened again I would have done the same. But apparently it wasn't enough to make you hate me any less."
I pause. "You knew what they'd do to me. You knew. And you still sent it. I helped you, and all the while, you were already finding a way to hurt me."
"Listen to me, will you?" He begins but I don't want to hear anything from him.
"I thought we could be friends." I hiss. "But I was an idiot. Kindness is wasted on people like you."
"Look, I know how you might be feeling right now—"
"Don't you dare act like you know me!" I don't let him finish. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes, and I force them back, swallowing the lump in my throat, but they slip through.
"Don't you, for a second, think you understand me or what I've been through. I don't care why you isolate yourself from those around you, even your own loving family! I don't care why you do what you do, and frankly, I don't care the least bit about your problems or how you want to waste your life."
My grip is tightening around the phone so hard I swear it's going to break. "But if you try to interfere in mine…" I pause, my voice shaking, but I press on, forcing the words through the lump in my throat. "I'm not just going to sit back and let you ruin everything. It might just be some sick hobby for you, but this is my life. I've been unwanted from the moment I was born, and now that I'm finally surrounded by people who tolerate me, feed me, and let me live with them, I'm NOT going to let you take that away from me. Broken as it is, It's MY home." I say, my voice breaking as I hold back a sob.
I hear him sigh, and something in his voice tells me he's not even hearing me anymore.
"Clara," he says my name again, his voice far too calm. "Where are you? Are you still at the cabin? I'll be right—"
I hang up before he can say anything else, the phone dropping from my hand as my shoulders shake. I close my eyes and breathe.
I can't let myself fall apart again, not like this. I need to calm down. This won't solve anything. Not now. Not while I'm this worked up. I can't let him make me lose control like I always do.
I walk across the room, my mind trying to gather itself, piece by piece. My eyes flick to the adjacent wall. There's a large round mirror hanging there, and at first, it seems unimportant—just another reflective surface in the room. But then I stop. Something feels… off.
I step closer. It's subtle at first, like my mind is playing tricks on me. But then it hits me.
I don't see myself. I have no reflection.
A chill spreading down my spine, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. The reflection of the room is there, the furniture, the door. But I am not in it. I reach for the mirror, needing to prove to myself that I'm still here.
But just before my fingertips graze the glass, I see it.
My fingernails are glowing. A soft, white luminescence, subtle like moonlight, concentrated at my fingertips.
I pull my hand back slowly, watching the faint glow shimmer as I move. No... this can't be...
Is this… my ability? Not being seen? Being invisible?
How ironic. I almost laugh, but it doesn't come out. Just a breath, sharp and short. Of all things, invisibility. For someone who spends their life screaming just to be seen.
It's not funny. Not to me.
♡...........💙...........♡
I step out of the cafe, the warm, bitter scent of coffee wrapping around me like a flimsy excuse for comfort. Maybe I should've grabbed more caffeine pills. The pharmacy was right there, and I had the taxi driver drop me off in front of it.
I want the bitterness to scrub away the feeling that I should've gone into the basement, that I should've done more.
But I didn't. Instead, I let him talk me out of it. His words, smooth like poison, slipped into my mind and made me believe that he might mean it. I hate myself for it. For listening. For believing in the possibility of peace when all I should be thinking about is how to tear everything apart.
At least I still took something from him. Something valuable.
I can see it so clearly—his face, the disbelief, the horror when he realizes it's gone. I hold onto that image. Let it warm me in the places the coffee can't reach.
Let's see how much you meant it when you said you wanted to set things aside. Let's see how much you're willing to obey your own words when you're the one who's being wronged.
If things get worse between us, I remind myself—I'm not helpless. I've got power. Wealth. A father with a taste for handling problems the old-fashioned way. If that bastard crosses a line again, I won't even have to ask. I'll hear about it in news reports. I'm done with being cautious.
A low, off-key melody breaks through my thoughts—some worn-out tune played on strings that should've been replaced months ago. A street guitarist slouched outside a shuttered bookstore. No one's stopped to listen. It's almost 11pm, and even on the busiest avenue in the city, people at this hour are out with purpose. Meetings. Lovers. Secrets. No one has time for a misplaced tune.
I drop thirty dollars into the open case and smile at him. He looks stunned. His face lights up like I gave him more than money.
My braid shifts as I move, reaching past my waist, swinging over my shoulder as I walk, the end brushing against the pockets.
Sometimes I think I deserve every punishment I've ever gotten.
If I think about it, they weren't wrong to punish me for smoking. I think every parent would be upset over it, naturally. Mine are just a bit stricter. Trying to scrape the chaos out of me and try to replace it with discipline and obedience. If they knew I snuck out like this, they'd chain me to the bed. Forever.
I don't do it often. I've done it 4 times so far in my life, when the walls close in too tightly. A short walk in the park down the block. A snack from the cafe on the main street. A glimpse of freedom. Just to remember what it feels like to move without being watched. To breathe without having to earn it.
I'm supposed to be the good daughter. The well-behaved one. Grateful. Fixed. The perfect Penelope.
But no matter what I do, I could never be that.
So I lie. Again and again and again. And every time I'm caught, there's no one else to blame but me. Still... for a little while, in this sliver of night, I want to let myself believe I'm free. Even if it's a lie too.
I start walking toward where the street thickens with people—restaurants that haven't closed yet, late buses emptying out groggy passengers, and scattered clusters of strangers loitering near lit windows. Away from the path I was taking to get home.
Not because I'm so caught up in this feeling of being free and don't want to return. But because I know. Even with my mind spinning, I haven't failed to notice.
I'm not alone.
Two pairs of footsteps. The way they adjust when I pause. The way they linger just far enough to seem casual, yet never stray.
I keep my head down, thankful for the mask covering most of my face, but I still tug the hood a little lower. I keep my pace steady as I toss the half-empty cup in a trashcan before digging my hands inside my pocket.
Do they know who I am? Have they seen my face? Or are they just tracking a lonely girl? That's enough of a reason sometimes.
For a split second, I wonder if Alister sent them. But I brush the thought off just as quickly. He's many things, but he does his own dirty work. He has pride in his skills.
My gaze flits between shop windows and alley mouths, always aware of where the exits are, where the people are, and where they are.
I risk a glance back over my shoulder.
The man has his hands buried in the pockets of his long coat. His salt and pepper hair, styled neatly. Next to him, the woman stands out even more. She's in a tailored suit like she just stepped out of a boardroom, every line on her face pulled tight into an expression that could cut glass. She doesn't even try to fake it—her gaze is razor-sharp, her jaw set like she's already annoyed by how long this is taking.
I snap my head forward again, pulse thudding in my ears.
They seem older. Slower, maybe. I could outrun them, if I had to. If I wanted to risk everything on a straight sprint. But the moment I break into a run, this game of pretend ends. They'll know I know. And that changes everything.
No. There's only one shot I have.
Using my ability.
I don't know how I did it. I don't even know if I can do it again. It lasted only a few minutes in the cabin. I haven't even gotten a chance to practice it.
But I have to try.
I feel their pace shift. A sound behind the shuffle of the crowd. They're coming.
I spot the alley—a narrow break between two closed shops, barely lit, half-drowned in shadows. I veer toward it, trying to keep my movements casual. Just a girl walking. Just a quiet turn.
The moment I'm in the alley, I quicken my pace, my fingers twitching at my side as if trying to will the power into motion.
I can't do what Alister does—lure people in, drop them quietly, and leave no trace. He's silence and precision.
I'm noise. Flash. Gunfire.
And right now, the last thing I need is attention. I can't use the gun in my bag. Even if it'll only take 5 seconds.
I break into a run the moment I'm further in the alley, my sneakers slamming against the pavement as I weave between trash bins and broken crates. The night air cuts sharp against my skin, but I don't stop. I don't look back.
But I hear them.
Their footsteps echo behind me. Farther away than I expected, but not far enough. They're running too.
I glance down at my hands mid-stride, hoping, praying—willing—for something. For the power to spark like it did before. For that brief white glow at the tips of my fingers, the way it had shone in the cabin.
Come on. Come on.
Another turn. Another alley. And then—finally—I see it.
White. A faint shimmer on my nails, like someone dipped them in frost.
I don't have time to celebrate. I press a hand over my mouth to muffle my breathing and sink into the shadows lining the brick wall, moving silently toward the corner up ahead.
But when I round it, my legs go numb.
It's a dead end.
A locked, towering metal gate blocks the path ahead.
I spin around, aiming to go back and take another way, but it's too late.
They're here. They stop at the entrance to the alleyway. The man moves further in while the woman stays there, breathing heavily.
I stay glued to the wall, invisible, and silent. They are blocking my only escape route, and I don't know how long I can stay invisible.
"Empty." The man mutters, stepping forward to peer around the corner. He spots the gate. "It's a dead end past here."
The woman groans in frustration. "Damn it. Kid must've used her powers. Whatever it is."
The man nonchalantly shrugs, hands still tucked into the deep pockets of his coat. "Well, there's nothing we can do about it now."
The woman narrows her eyes at him, her jaw tightening. "Are you seriously going to let this slide?"
I don't think they know who I am. Meaning, they don't know where I live either. Good.
He sighs. "You really shouldn't be using your monocle in public like that. What if someone saw you?" He rolls his eyes and leans back against the alley wall. "I'm tired after today. I just want to go home."
They're still blocking the only way out. I press my back tighter to the wall, the shadows hugging me like a second skin. My breath trembles against my palm. Every second that passes feels like a countdown.
I start inching forward. Step by step.
Stick to the wall. Don't trip. Don't breathe too loud.
Then suddenly—
Crash.
A door nearby swings open, and a middle-aged drunken man stumbles out, hitting the pavement. He groans, muttering curses as he staggers to his feet.
The moment he spots the woman, a sloppy grin spreads across his face. "Well, hello there," he slurs, wobbling toward her.
She frowns at him, lips twisting in disgust.
He grabs her arm. "Whatcha doin' out here all alone, gorgeous?"
The man with the salt-and-pepper hair frowns and casually pulls out a slim smoking pipe from his coat along with a small lighter.
The woman smirks. "Let go," she warns. "Or you'll regret it."
A small flame flares from the lighter. I pause, halfway down the wall, watching wide-eyed as the pipe man lights the rounded opening, mumbling something before bringing it to his lips.
When he exhales, the smoke isn't grey—it's pale green, swirling unnaturally in the air. Instead of dispersing, it floats and drifts straight toward the drunken man's nostrils.
His body stills. For a heartbeat, everything is quiet.
Then—
He drops to his knees, coughing violently before falling to the ground. Unconscious—or worse.
I press forward, keeping to the darkest part of the wall.
Closer. Just a few more steps.
The woman clicks her tongue and adjusts her blazer. "You could've done that sooner."
The pipe man smirks while extinguishing the pipe. "And you could have ended him in seconds. Yet you love playing the damsel in distress. Bet your husband loves that."
I move right past them. After slipping out of the alley and into the wider street, I look at my hands.
My nails… no longer glowing. My body's visible again, I suppose.
I run despite the tightness in my chest, distancing myself from those two and ducking into another side street. I press my back to the wall, blinking fast as I drag in shaky breaths through my nose, my mouth—anything. My head spins.
But I need to get home. Fast.