Eleanor didn't scream.
She wanted to. The sound built in her chest like steam behind glass. But something in her froze—rooted her to the floor as if the house had slipped fingers through her shoes and held fast.
The ballerina's eyes were closed again.
Were they ever open?
No. You saw it. You know what you saw.
Her breath hitched, and she reached for the vanity table to steady herself. Her hand left a clean print in the dust. That felt real. Tangible. She stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror.
The crack on her wrist was still there. She turned her hand. The skin shimmered faintly—too smooth. Not human. Porcelain.
She backed away.
"No," she whispered. "No, no, no."
The melody from the box slowed again, dragging like it was tired, or drunk. One warped note repeated like a skipping record. El-ea-nor… El-ea-nor…
She snatched the lid of the box and slammed it shut.
Silence.
But not empty silence. Now the house was holding its breath.
"I'm leaving," she said aloud, louder than she meant to. "I've done what was asked. I stayed. I saw it. That's enough."
She turned to leave—
—and froze.
The mirror had shifted.
Her reflection wasn't moving.
Eleanor stared into it, heart thudding. Her own face looked back at her, yes—but it blinked after she did. Its mouth moved just slightly out of sync.
Then, softly, the reflection smiled.
The smile wasn't hers.
She stumbled backward and the mirror cracked further, a thin web spidering out from the corner. When she looked back—it was normal. Her face, terrified and pale, trembling.
There was no smile now.
She ran.
Down the stairs. Through the parlor. Past the portraits of long-dead ancestors watching her like jurors.
She flung open the front door.
But beyond the threshold… there was no sky.
Just fog.
Thick, milky white mist swallowed the gravel drive, the front garden, the gate. The world outside had vanished.
She stepped forward, hand reaching—
The fog retreated.
Not cleared—retreated. Like it was alive. Like it wanted her to chase it.
She slammed the door and locked it.
Back in the hallway, the silence shifted again. This time it was heavier. Expectant.
Then: a whisper.
Not from the music box.
From the upstairs hallway.
Just one word.
A name.
But not her own.
"Annabel…"
Eleanor's blood ran cold.
She had never said that name aloud.
But she knew it.