That night, after our fight, Cris had no memory of the Obscure, nor of her encounter with her. She only remembered fleeing the school, whispering, "You don't need me? So be it."
She walked for what felt like hours, the trees closing in on either side, swallowed by thick, choking fog. Her breath turned to mist as silence pressed against her like a suffocating shroud. Finally, faint lights flickered in the distance.
"A sign of life," she whispered, rubbing cold hands against her arms. But as she drew closer, the lights revealed a mansion—a hulking shadow surrounded by dead trees. An eerie stillness clung to the air like a warning.
She couldn't die here, alone and frozen. So she knocked—once, twice—before footsteps thundered from within.
"Who's there?" The man's voice was rough, urgent.
"I need help," Cris called, her voice trembling. The door creaked open, revealing a stranger's face, eyes wary but softening as they saw her shaking frame.
"I need help," she repeated before collapsing, knees hitting the cold ground.
When she woke, three figures surrounded her—two women and a man.
"Thank God," one woman breathed, "she's awake."
Their names came slowly: Katherine, the eldest—stern, with eyes that never quite softened; Matilda, her niece, whose smile didn't reach her eyes; and Josh, the man who had carried Cris inside.
They offered her soup and clothes, a red frock with soft fabric, but beneath their kindness lingered something darker, something waiting patiently beneath the surface.
"So, Crystal," Matilda's voice sliced through the quiet as she sipped her tea at the heavy dining table. "What brought you out here? Not that we mind, but traveling alone so late... aren't you scared?"
Cris hesitated, eyes darting. "I had a fight with my best friend at school. I was drunk... and left the party in anger. But... I think I walked longer than I thought." Her voice faltered, lost in the memory. "When I turned back, there were two paths, and I couldn't tell which one I came from." She forced a nervous smile. "Can I stay the night? I'll leave at first light."
"Of course," Katherine said, smiling. She nodded to Josh, who rose silently.
Cris followed him, stepping away from the table into the mansion's shadows.
The dining room stretched vast and cold, lined with towering bookshelves crammed with leather-bound tomes. She turned toward a glass showcase glinting with ancient, dust-coated artifacts.
"My father was an archaeologist," Josh's voice was low. "Collected relics from forgotten places. These shelves hold books that map secret passages—long lost worlds." He caught Cris staring, mesmerized.
Ahead, a grand arch framed two wooden pillars. Beyond it, a door stood ajar. She stepped inside.
The room was eerily perfect—a large bed centered beneath dim light, a towering mirror on the left, and a massive cupboard on the right.
Suddenly, a heavy *thud* echoed behind her. Panic surged as she spun around. The open doorway was gone. The door had slammed shut—locked tight. Josh's footsteps faded away in the silence that swallowed her whole.
It was a massive door with thick glass, framed by four columns and four rows of wood. In the upper left section, five tiles formed a strange pattern—each a different color. The top left tile burned red, to its right a muted yellow, below the red a deep blue, beneath the yellow a dark green, and at the bottom an orange that seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light.
Flanking the doorway stood two tall wooden compartments, each holding a statue of a man clutching a pike. Their faces were hidden behind smooth white masks, their stone bodies frozen mid-stance, yet somehow watchful.
When Cris realized she was trapped, she slammed her fists against the door. "Help!" Her voice cracked. "Open up!"
Laughter answered her—low, distant, and wrong.
She struck the glass again and again until a strange vibration rippled through her body, cold and electric, running from her fingertips to her spine. She froze. "What's happening?"
Josh's voice came from the other side, flat and close. "Don't do that if you want to live." His footsteps faded into silence.
"Why?" she demanded, but the only reply was emptiness.
She sat on the bed for hours, the air growing heavier, until exhaustion dragged her under.
When she opened her eyes, the door stood open.
She stepped out cautiously—no one. The stillness was absolute. Her pulse quickened. This was her chance. She ran through the hall to the main gate, wrenched it open, and rushed outside—only to find herself standing in the mansion's living room as if she had turned her face back to the room rather than exiting it.
Her stomach turned cold. She spun around. The room stretched endlessly in both directions, a perfect copy on either side.
She turned back from the false exit, frustration tightening her chest, and moved toward the couch. *Maybe the exit isn't where I think it is.*
Peering into each room, she spotted a door at the far end. Through its glass, tree leaves swayed faintly. "There you are," she whispered, unlocking it.
The air outside bit colder. She was in the backyard, walled in by high hedges trimmed too neatly. In the far corner, a narrow passage waited. She slipped through and entered a vast, unpainted brick room. The walls sweated damp. Four gaping holes split the floor, each leading into darkness where something wet trickled away.
She leaned toward one, straining her ears. A low growl slid through the air, deep and inhuman. Heart hammering, she stepped back into one of the holes.
It wasn't deep, but as soon as her foot pressed down, the floor shuddered. Gears shifted somewhere beneath her.
From the holes, they rose—Josh, Matilda, and Katherine—faces painted into grotesque clowns, skin cracked under the thick makeup. Their eye sockets were empty voids.
Josh's head twitched toward her, and in a voice that scraped the inside of her skull, he groaned, "Happy Halloween."
Cris's scream tore the room in half. She bolted toward the gate, flung herself inside the mansion, and locked it.
The living room was still—too still—until a hiss began. Not the hiss of a snake. Something heavier. Closer. It slid around her, circling without form. She spun in place, seeing nothing.
Panic drove her back to the guest room. She slammed the door shut and pressed her back against it, knowing something was still inside with her.
The moment she stepped inside, laughter echoed—taunting, twisted, circling her like a noose.
"They're just messing with me," she hissed through clenched teeth.
She collapsed onto the bed, tears soaking into the pillow. Time dripped by in silence until her gaze fixed on the door. *Maybe the glass will shatter if I keep hitting it. Maybe that's why he told me not to.*
She slammed her fists against it, harder and harder. The strange waves returned, stronger this time—thick and vibrating, crawling into her bones. Then, a cold wind rose behind her.
She turned.
A tall figure floated in the room, wrapped in a black cape. A rusted scythe dangled from its skeletal hands. Its face was hidden by a white mask, the long nose jutting forward, two hollow holes staring where eyes should be. No footsteps—only the sound of air bending around it as it glided closer.
It moved faster.
Cris dropped to her knees, arms shielding her face. "Bewusteloos en vergeet!" she screamed—the words her headmistress taught her in case the guards caught her while on her mission to save Zinnia.
Silence.
She lowered her arms. The room was empty. Relief swelled in her chest, though it trembled like glass ready to crack.
Breathing deep, she tried to think of a way out. But exhaustion seeped in, and sleep dragged her under.
When she woke hours later, she forced herself off the bed to search the room. Under the mirror stood a large, ornate chest of drawers—except, as she approached, she realized it wasn't a drawer at all.
It wasn't a drawer at all—it was a treasure chest. Inside sat a dollhouse, delicate yet eerily familiar, its front door identical to the one trapping her now. A small key jutted from the side.
"Oh… a music box," she murmured, twisting it. The mechanism whined before a faint tune began to play. Light spilled from the dollhouse door, and when she glanced at the real one, she saw a green glow behind the red tile—no light from the others.
*Maybe it's a clue. Maybe I have to press the red tile.*
She shoved the dollhouse back under the chest and pressed the tile. Nothing. Heart pounding, she pressed again. Still nothing. Frustration flared, and she slammed her palm against it. The instant her hand struck, the strange waves roared through her again, the green glow pulsing behind the red tile.
That wasn't a clue. That was a warning.
Hours crawled by. Boredom gnawed at her until she wandered to the cupboard. Dresses hung inside, old but clean. An idea sparked—if she dressed like a clown, painting her face, maybe they won't recognize her. She grabbed an outfit, ready to change, when a low moan cut through the silence.
She froze. It came again—this time from the statue to the left of the door. She stepped closer and pulled off its white mask.
Beneath was a man with short hair and a light brown beard, dressed as a knight. The moment the mask fell away, he sucked in a ragged breath as if surfacing from deep water, then collapsed to his knees.
"Who are you? What were you doing here?" she demanded, helping him up.
"I've been petrified for years." He steadied himself, voice trembling. "Thank you, milady. Ser Jack, at your service." He dropped to one knee before her.
"Me? What did I do?"
"You smiled at me," he said, astonished. "I was cursed. You freed me with that smile, milady."