Lyra had never seen silence look so heavy.
It lay over the woods like a second skin, smothering the chirp of birds and the hum of insects, pressing into her ears until she could hear nothing but the rush of her own breath. The air itself felt damp, soaked through with mist that curled around her ankles and clung to her coat.
She stood before the estate gates with one hand on her suitcase and the other clenched around the strap of her bag. The gates were tall, iron bars mottled with rust, their tips jagged like broken teeth. At their center, the family crest—an empty circle carved into a brass plate—was dulled with age but still visible.
The Hollow.
She had never called it home, though technically it belonged to her now. A dead uncle she could barely remember had left it to her, the last "gift" from a family that had always felt more like a shadow than a bloodline.
"You wanted a fresh start," she whispered to herself. "Well, here it is."
Her voice sounded too loud in the fog, and she flinched at the way it echoed back, soft but sharp, as if the mist had teeth.
Behind her, the village road was gone, swallowed whole by the gray. She had passed a few houses on her way here—wooden cottages with sagging roofs and crooked chimneys. People had stared as she walked past, their eyes following her without words. One old woman had muttered something under her breath, but Lyra couldn't catch it. She had only heard one phrase clearly, whispered by two children who'd ducked behind a fence.
"She looks just like her."
Her. Whoever her was.
Lyra shook the thought away. Small towns loved their gossip. She wasn't going to let half-heard whispers get under her skin.
Still, her fingers trembled as she pushed the gates open. The hinges groaned like something waking from a long sleep. The sound slid across her skin, raising goosebumps.
The driveway stretched before her, lined with trees whose bare branches curled like skeletal fingers. The house itself sat at the end, tall and gray, its roof slanted and its windows dark. It looked less like a home and more like a watchtower, looming over the mist.
She pulled her suitcase behind her, the wheels crunching over gravel. Every step forward made her chest tighten. By the time she reached the front steps, her palms were slick with sweat despite the chill.
The door was massive, oak blackened with age. Its handle was shaped like a serpent biting its tail. When she pressed it down, the door gave way with a low groan.
The smell hit her first—damp wood, dust, and something faintly metallic, like rust or blood. Shadows pooled in the corners of the entry hall, stretching long across the floorboards. The wallpaper peeled in strips, curling like dead leaves. A staircase rose ahead of her, its banister warped and splintered.
Lyra swallowed. She had expected decay, maybe even ruin, but there was something else beneath it. A weight. A presence.
"Home sweet home," she muttered, her voice small against the cavernous silence.
Her footsteps echoed as she dragged the suitcase inside. Dust stirred in the air, glittering faintly in the sliver of light that leaked through the door. She closed it behind her, and the sound of the latch falling shut seemed final, like a lock clicking in place.
For a moment, she simply stood there, her ears straining. The house didn't feel empty. It felt… listening.
She tried to laugh at herself. It's just nerves. A creepy house. That's all.
But then came the faintest sound—like a whisper sliding down the hall. She froze, clutching the handle of her suitcase.
It didn't repeat.
Lyra forced herself to move, her boots thudding against the wooden floor. To the right was a parlor, its curtains moth-eaten and the furniture draped in yellowed sheets. To the left, a dining room with a long table scarred with knife marks. Everywhere she looked, the house seemed frozen mid-breath, as if its owners had stepped away only for a moment and never returned.
On the far wall, a mirror hung crooked, its frame tarnished gold. The glass was spotted and warped, but when she glanced at it, she felt a jolt.
The reflection wasn't quite right.
Her own face stared back—pale skin, tired eyes, dark hair hanging damp from the mist—but the expression wasn't hers. It was too sharp, too knowing, like the mirror-image had been waiting for her.
Lyra's throat tightened. She blinked, and the reflection smoothed back into normal. Just her.
Her pulse hammered. She backed away from the mirror and bumped into the wall behind her.
"Stop it," she whispered to herself. "You're imagining things."
But she couldn't shake the feeling that she hadn't walked into the Hollow alone.
And somewhere deep in the house, past the walls and under the floorboards, something stirred—faint, like a breath drawn in after years of stillness.