The chill in the autumn morning air caused Holly Fenwick to clutch her light sweater to her chest. She stood at the edge of the porch, gazing out at the garden where Penny was crouched down, scooping soil into her hands. The sight stirred a wave of nostalgia deep in Holly’s chest. As a child, Penny had always been the one most drawn to the earth, her connection to the soil stronger than any of the others.

While her sisters had played with makeup or jumped rope in the yard, Penny had spent hours concocting imaginary potions, building homemade blocks out of mud, and—Holly smiled at the memory—trying to construct the world’s first mud-built igloo. Holly had received countless gifts from her youngest daughter: tiny upside-down flower bells filled with what Penny called holy dew—little more than water from the garden hose, carefully funneled into delicate lilies of the valley. Those days seemed so distant now.

“My earth child,” Holly whispered, watching Penny scoop the soil with her hands, her movements slow and deliberate. The ache in her chest grew stronger, but she pushed it down, forcing a weak smile. But the smile faded as quickly as it had appeared, her face settling into an emotionless line. Holly turned her back to the garden and stepped back into the house, the old wooden boards beneath her feet creaking with each step. She closed her eyes for a moment, her hand resting gently on the doorframe as if the house itself could sense her weariness.

“I hope my efforts do not fail them,” she whispered. The house made a groaning sound in response. “I know, Mother, they are all capable.”

Inside, the familiar scent of dust and wood greeted her. Sunbeams filtered through the south-facing kitchen window, casting golden light across the wide, dark floorboards. Dust particles floated lazily in the beams, dancing in a slow, ancient rhythm. The house seemed to breathe with her, the air thick with the weight of history and magic.

Holly paused. She didn’t need to turn around to know there was a presence behind her. The room seemed to hold its breath, the heater vents letting out a long, low sigh. The lights flickered above her, the bulbs buzzing furiously as though they were trying to ward off whatever had entered the space.

Gypsy, Holly’s faithful black Bombay cat, arched her back and hissed violently, her fur standing on end. She pressed herself against Holly’s leg, her golden eyes wide with fear.

“Turn around, child,” came a voice from behind, a grotesque gurgling sound as though it was being spoken from underwater.

Holly didn’t flinch. She slowly turned to face the speaker, her heart hammering in her chest. “I am not a child,” she said firmly, though her voice wavered slightly. “And I’ve been expecting you.”

“Of course you have,” the voice sneered, its words dripping with malice.

Gypsy hissed again, louder this time.

Holly’s breath caught in her throat as she finally laid eyes on the figure standing before her. It was a man—or what was left of one. His watery blue eyes were vacant, lacking pupils, and his skin was blotched and decayed, pieces of flesh missing from his face. His hair was matted, clinging to his skull in greasy clumps, and his clothes—what was left of them—were a tattered blue suit and a stained white shirt. A massive, blood-soaked hole gaped in the center of his chest.

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“I don’t know how you’ve done this,” Holly whispered, her voice barely audible, “or who has helped you, but whatever this is, you won’t succeed.”

The man’s lips curled into a cruel grin, his yellowed teeth bared. “Of course, I will succeed,” he rasped, his voice bubbling with wetness.

Holly took an involuntary step back as the man’s head fell back, and from his gaping mouth spilled foul, filthy water. It pooled at his feet, spreading across the floor in dark droplets.

“Who is going to stop me?” he laughed, the sound distorted and monstrous. “Your ancestors built the cage that held me, but where there were once four keys to keep me bound, there is now only one. Yours.”

Holly’s pulse quickened. She clenched her fists, standing her ground. “What makes you think I’ll hand over the key to you? You’ve always been insane, and this changes nothing. We both know you can only hold this pathetic form for so long,” she said, gesturing toward his decayed body.

The man’s grin faltered for a moment, his watery eyes narrowing. “You’re right, witch. But I won’t need to use this form once I have the key. I will walk out of that well and rebuild my kingdom. And when I do, no one—no one—will stand in my way.”

Holly’s heart raced, but she refused to show her fear. “How long do you have, Dracone?” she asked, her voice steady. “An hour? Less? You’ve already spent so much magic just to appear here.”

His eyes flashed with anger. “I am not so weak that I can’t kill a witch. Now, give me the key, Holly.”

He took a step toward her, his voice dripping with venom.

Gypsy bolted under the kitchen table, her hiss echoing through the house as the walls shook violently. Dishes rattled in the cabinets, and Holly felt the floor tremble beneath her feet.

“If you don’t give me the key,” Dracone snarled, his decayed body shuddering, “I will kill you. And then I will kill your daughters, one by one until I have it.”

Before Holly could respond, the kitchen knives, held to the wall by magnetic strips, flew through the air. But they passed straight through Dracone, clattering uselessly to the floor. Holly’s hand flew to her chest, her breath hitching as the lights flickered more violently and the doors flapped open and shut.

The man’s body began to shudder, his form glitching as if he were being pulled apart. “I was right,” Holly whispered, her voice trembling. “Your time is almost up. And when you’re back where you belong, at the bottom of that well, I will find a way to lock you away for another century. You will never rebuild your kingdom.”

Dracone’s face twisted with rage. The air turned ice cold, and the walls vibrated wildly. His body tensed, but it was already beginning to dissolve. He let out a roar of frustration as his form collapsed into a puddle of foul-smelling liquid on the floor. The stench was overwhelming, and Holly’s stomach lurched.

Holly and Gypsy let out a simultaneous sigh of relief as they looked down at the puddle.

But the relief was short-lived.

The puddle began to stir, rippling and swirling as it solidified. Holly’s breath caught in her throat as the liquid merged into the form of a large snake, its scales gleaming with moisture. The snake’s eyes were the same vacant, watery blue as the man’s, its body coiling as it slithered toward her.

Gypsy darted toward the snake, but as she passed through it, her sleek black fur was soaked through, as if she had plunged into a pool of water. She hissed and scrambled back under the table.

Objects around the kitchen began to fly across the room, forming a chaotic whirlpool of dishes, books, and pots between Holly and the snake.

“Mother, no!” Penny’s voice rang out, but the snake’s hissing drowned it out. “You must let it be!”

“Listen to your daughter, witch!” the snake hissed, coiling tightly around her body. “Give me the key now, and I will make your death quick.”

Holly’s heart raced. Her vision blurred as the room spun around her, the snake’s voice reverberating in her ears. “I… I can’t,” she stammered, her strength waning. The words barely left her lips before darkness claimed her, and she collapsed.

The snake released its grip, and Holly fell to the ground. Dracone let out a furious hiss. “Where is the key?” it raged, its voice echoing through the house. But as its anger grew, its form dissolved once more, returning to the liquid state as it slithered out the door, leaving the house in eerie, somber silence.