The candles flickered even though the windows were shut.
Lyra Vale sat in the dim glow of her basement, the scent of wax and vanilla curling in the air. Sixteen. She should've been happy — her friends had sent her quick birthday texts, her mother had left a small chocolate cake on the kitchen counter before rushing for the night shift.
It should've been a normal night.
But it wasn't.
Something was wrong with the air — too still, too heavy, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Lyra exhaled softly and stared at the candle flames. "You're acting strange," she murmured, brushing her fingers through the air. The flames swayed toward her touch, then stilled again.
The lights upstairs flickered. Once. Twice. Then the entire house plunged into darkness.
She sighed. "Power cut again? Great birthday gift."
Her phone's flashlight cut a faint white beam through the shadows as she headed for the fuse box in the basement.
The door creaked. The air changed.
Cold wind brushed her cheek — but there were no open windows, no vents, no sound except her own breathing. The light from her phone trembled slightly in her hand. And then she saw it.
Stairs.
They weren't there before.
A spiral staircase made of black stone twisted down into the earth, glowing faintly with veins of dull crimson light, like embers buried in coal. Each step seemed to pulse — alive, breathing.
Her phone flickered, the battery dying instantly.
Lyra froze. "No," she whispered. "No, no, no…"
Because she had heard of this before — everyone had. The stories. The rules.
When you turn sixteen, if the stairs appear, you are one of them.
You are evil.
And the Underworld comes for you.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. "That's not possible. I—I've never hurt anyone. I've never even…" Her voice trembled into silence.
The staircase hummed softly, like it could hear her denial. Then, impossibly, it moved — just slightly — inching closer, the first step pressing itself against the basement floor.
Lyra stumbled backward, knocking over a box. "Stay away from me!"
But stairs don't move. They shouldn't. Yet they did. Slowly. Patiently. As if beckoning her.
She turned and bolted upstairs, slamming the basement door shut. Her breath came in ragged bursts. She pressed her ear against the door — silence. Then a faint scrape. The sound of stone sliding over concrete.
The stairs were climbing.
Panic surged. She ran to her mother's room, grabbed the phone, called — no signal. Every mirror she passed reflected not her face, but the faint outline of the staircase spiraling behind her.
She dropped the phone.
The candle downstairs flared brighter — she could see its glow seeping from the cracks under the basement door.
Her heart pounded in her throat. The whispers began.
> "You can't hide from what you are…"
"Stop!" she screamed. "I didn't do anything wrong!"
The door shuddered, and then the world went still again. No sound. No light. Just her heartbeat.
When she dared to open the door again, the staircase was gone.
Nothing. Just the basement floor, cold and bare.
For a moment, she thought she imagined it. Maybe it was the dark. Maybe she was tired. Maybe—
She turned around.
And there it was.
The staircase now stood in the middle of her living room, twisting upward into the ceiling, breaking through reality like a wound in the air. The steps glowed faintly red as if blood ran beneath them.
Lyra's breath hitched. The whispers returned — gentle now, coaxing.
> "It's your turn, Lyra Vale."
"Go down."
Her knees trembled as she backed away. "Why me…?" she whispered. "I'm not evil…"
The first step pulsed brighter, almost invitingly. The air felt heavy, pressing against her chest.
And then she saw it — faint words glowing along the bottom step:
> "You cannot escape your reflection."
Lyra fell to her knees, tears streaking down her cheeks.
She wanted to scream. To wake up.
But deep down, beneath the panic, she knew — the stairs never appeared by mistake.
And for the first time in her life, Lyra Vale was afraid not of the dark…
…but of herself.