The inn had smelled faintly of dust and herbs. Ira sat at the edge of her bed, still wrapped in the blanket from the night before. The flashlight lay beside her, its beam extinguished, its screen cracked and slick with condensation. A sliver of sunlight had sneaked past the heavy curtains, carving pale stripes across the floorboards.
She hadn't slept.
Not after the whispers.
Not after the mist.
Not after that final knock at the window.
Her breath was steady, but her thoughts tangled like vines. The woman always said little, but seemed to know too much. Should Ira speak? Confess what she'd heard? Or would that only deepen whatever trap had already begun to close?
A soft knock echoed at the door. Not the whispering kind, just a dry knuckle tap.
Ira had flinched.
The old woman entered without waiting. She carried a tray: dry bread, figs, and tea that smelled faintly of iron.
Without a word, she set it down. Didn't look at Ira.
"I slept," the woman said flatly, slicing a fig in half. "You didn't."
Ira had remained silent.
The woman glanced over. Slow. Calculating.
"They never knock for me anymore," she murmured, sipping her tea. "You should feel honored."
Ira clenched the blanket tighter.
"Did anything... happen?" she asked, testing the air.
The woman smiled, but her eyes remained empty.
"Only what happens to those who stir things before they're ready."
Silence settled between them.
And Ira decided for now, she would say nothing. Her truth was still raw, and the inn had a habit of listening when it shouldn't.
She ate the fig. It tasted like something that used to be sweet.
Ira sat in silence, chewing the last sliver of fig with slow reluctance. The room felt muted, swallowed in the strange stillness that came after the woman left. Even the tea had cooled without a sound.
She stared at her plate. Wondering. Watching the shadows pulse faintly in the corners.
Then…
BANG!
The sound shattered the calm like glass underfoot.
Ira's spine stiffened. Her breath caught. The plate nearly slipped from her fingers.
She turned slowly toward the window, expecting mist, a face, a whisper.
But there, pressed against the fragile pane, was Windie.
She stood outside, her face bright and composed, almost too bright. Her lips stretched into a wide, unsettling smile. Not quite joyful. Not quite cruel. Just… wrong.
It held something unpleasant beneath the surface, as though the smile wasn't hers but something wearing her skin.
Ira stared for a moment, stiff as wood.
Then… she smiled back.
Slowly, carefully.
As if returning the expression was the only safe option.
She stood, wrapped herself tighter in the blanket, and walked to the door. She didn't rush. She didn't breathe.
Down the creaking stairs. Past the tea that had gone cold. Out the front door.
Into the light.
Windie was waiting.
Still smiling.
She didn't blink as Ira approached.
"Did you sleep?" Windie asked, voice light, almost sing-song.
Ira nodded slowly, unsure if speaking was safe.
Windie tilted her head. Her eyes were bright, but not with joy. More like expectation.
"That's good," she said. "It means the house didn't want you gone."
Ira frowned. "What do you mean…?"
Windie stepped closer, placing a hand on Ira's arm. Her fingers were small, warm, firm.
"The ones who shouldn't be here…" she whispered. "They don't sleep. They don't breathe right. They get tugged in their dreams."
Ira shivered.
Windie smiled bigger.
"But you stayed. That means you belong. And you don't want to leave. Not really."
The little girl leaned in, voice nearly a whisper.
"You'll see what the village really is soon. And I'll be right here when it shows you."
Windie's hand was still resting on Ira's arm. Her unsettling smile hadn't shifted, hadn't blinked. The garden behind her was silent, no morning birds, no footsteps from passing villagers. Just the soft hum of air that shouldn't hum.
Ira stepped back slightly, her voice low.
"I really just want to leave this place."
The words felt heavier once spoken. Like admitting it summoned something listening.
Windie's smile flickered.
Then faded.
Completely.
Her face didn't fall with sadness, just emptiness. A blank expression slipping over her features like mist closing over a path.
She leaned closer, voice void of emotion now.
"There's no way out, Ira."
Silence bloomed around them like mold on warm stone.
Ira stared at her. Windie's eyes didn't shine anymore.
They just watched.
"You're already part of it," Windie whispered. "The village doesn't let go. It waits."
The words hung in the air, colder than morning fog.
Ira's throat tightened. Her breath caught, then quickened. She stepped back from Windie, instinctively.
Her chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. Her gaze darted around the street… empty.
No vendors. No children.
Not a single person.
The doors were shut. The windows, still. Even the wind felt staged.
She stepped further, her feet crunching the gravel louder than they should've. The silence answered back.
Windie remained still by the gate, watching.
The smile was gone.
She didn't move. Didn't follow.
Just stood there, as if she'd already said too much.
Ira turned again, eyes scanning for movement, anything human.
She moved toward the nearest door. A stone house with wood warped from age. Ivy clung like veins.
Her fist met the wood, one knock, then another.
"Hello?" Her voice cracked. "Is anyone there?"
No answer.
She knocked harder. **Thud. Thud. Thud.**
"Please... someone."
The door didn't budge. No creak. No shifting behind the frame. Not even the sound of someone holding their breath.
She tried again. Another house. Another door.
"Can someone… please... I just want to know what's happening!"
Her voice echoed. Nothing replied.
Every building felt like a shell now, houses posed as homes, but hollowed of people. As if the village was waiting for her to notice that she wasn't knocking on wood...
She was knocking on walls.
Ira lowered her fist after the fifth unanswered knock. Her voice had thinned into air. Nothing stirred.
She took one step back from the door.
Then felt a tap.
Gentle. Right at her waist.
She turned.
Windie stood there, gazing up, face calm but oddly solemn. Her hand lingered at Ira's side before she let it drop.
Her smile returned, but not like before. This one was tired, a little crooked. Like someone who had learned to wear kindness as armor.
"They won't answer," she said softly.
Ira said nothing.
Windie took a breath, eyes clear and steady.
"I'm the only friend you'll find here. Everyone else…"
She looked past Ira, toward the quiet village.
"…is cruel. Some hide it. Some don't."
The words sank like stones.
Ira glanced around again, rows of closed doors, windows like watching eyes, no footsteps but her own.
Windie tugged gently at her hand.
"Don't knock again. They know you're here. And if they come out now…"
*She paused.
"…it won't be to help."