Prelude
In the picturesque town of Blackwood Hollow, Charlie Draper’s real estate business flourished on the predictability and regular turnover of clients who “just wanted to get away from it all.” Newish homes dotted the outskirts of town and were typically rented by commuting professionals or families looking for peace after the chaos of noisy city life. Folks wanted to live in the peaceful countryside but still be able to have the income provided by a city job. The idea that you could “have your cake and eat it too” was what Charlie Draper thrived on. As Blackwood Hollow’s only real estate agent, he made a steady income. As Blackwood Hollow’s biggest blow-hard, Charlie thought it was a stable but somewhat monotonous way to live.
On an early morning in July, as Charlie was enjoying his morning coffee while looking out his office window at the sun coming up over the Georgia Cypress woods, his hum-drum routine was disrupted by an automated inquiry on his business website—a woman from Miami was seeking a cheap rental in a quiet neighborhood. “Secluded” was the only word used to describe what she was looking for. None of the other options had been selected. This person didn’t seem to care about the size, amenities, the school district, or the distance from shopping. “Another quick turn-over,” thought Charlie, and he opened his laptop to jump on this commission as soon as he could. “The early bird gets the worm,” after all. Charlie never got tired of that saying.
Charlie Draper was the sort of man you noticed first, from a hundred feet away. Standing at a solid 6'2" with shoulders broad enough to remind you of a commercial freezer, he carried himself like he was his own best advertisement. He had a smile like a razor—thin-lipped, white-toothed, and always a bit too wide, framed by the faint hint of a smirk that might’ve been charming on someone else. Charlie’s hair, slicked back with practiced precision, was salt-and-pepper as if to add gravitas to his square-jawed, clean-shaven face, though that impression was ruined every time he opened his mouth.
His wide brow jutted like a marble ledge, shadowing his closely-set eyes in a way that made people think twice about asking him to calculate a tip—or maybe even his own shoe size. His nose, a testament to the glory days of college sports, was a little smashed, but he carried it like a badge of honor. Dressed almost exclusively in polo shirts and khakis, with loafers or boat shoes that squeaked in self-satisfaction, he gave off a smell that was one-third cologne, two-thirds “I'm here, pay attention.”
Charlie’s world was narrow enough to fit neatly inside a Ford F150 with a “Support the Constitution” sticker in the back window. He’d tell you himself, in that booming, echoing voice that was part foghorn and part know-it-all uncle. “All-American values,” he’d call them, right before leaning in with his low-hanging opinions, just dying to share.
He couldn’t swim, but that didn’t stop him from strapping on a diving watch the size of a small boulder just for the look. If his wife Maggie even dreamed of telling him that he didn’t need it; he’d pat it with his large, thick-fingered hand and tell her, “You never know when you’ll need to make a splash,” with a laugh loud enough to turn heads in every direction.
Charlie Draper didn’t just speak in clichés; he luxuriated in them. He mansplained to anyone and everyone within earshot, dropping pearls like “At the end of the day…” and “What people don’t understand is…” as if he were the resident philosopher. And all the while, that wide, slightly too-toothy grin would stay plastered on his face, his beady eyes alight with the satisfaction that he had, in his mind, sorted out the entire world. His universe was black and white, his brain worked in slogans, and if you disagreed, well, it was just a sign that you hadn’t heard the wisdom of a man who knew, truly knew, that the best things in life came with a price tag.
Charlie Draper had a knack for finding the right client, the right place. One might say it was his one true talent. He could take one look at a prospective renter and have their future address picked out before they even sat down to discuss their budget. And today, he knew exactly where this new client would be going—because frankly, there was only one place in Blackwood Hollow that fit her budget.
The only catch? The property just happened to be right next door to Ava Marlow’s house.
Now, if you were new to Blackwood Hollow, that might not sound so bad. You might have thought “neighbor” and pictured some harmless old lady who baked cookies and kept petunias on her porch. But you’d have been way off. Ava Marlow’s place wasn’t just any house; it was the house. The one everyone whispered about. The one every kid in town used as a dare target. The last stop on Foxbend Road, looming out of the shadows with an attitude problem and enough overgrown vines to make a horror movie set decorator proud.
But hey, cash is cash, and Charlie wasn’t going to let a little gothic nightmare ruin a good deal. All he had to do was avoid mentioning the whole “cursed neighbor” angle, and he’d have himself another signed lease. Easy enough, right?
He wasn’t sure if that was going to come back and bite him one day. But Charlie Draper wasn’t much of a worrier, and besides, he had his reputation to think of. No one sold a place like Charlie, and not even the creepiest house on Foxbend Road was going to change that.
Charlie paused, tapping a finger against his coffee cup, lost in thought. The client from Miami had seemed eager enough; she wanted peace and quiet, and she’d get plenty of that up near the end of Foxbend Road. Sure, Ava Marlow wasn’t exactly the sort of neighbor people imagined when they thought “welcoming,” but maybe that was just another way of saying “low maintenance.” After all, Ava mostly kept to herself, drifting in and out of her looming Victorian like a ghost with a mortgage, and if the stories were anything to go by, she wasn’t exactly known for neighborhood barbecues or cookie swaps.
But in Charlie’s eyes, her shadowy past, her eerie grace, and even her tendency to let her yard grow wild like some sort of jungle-witch habitat all translated to charm. Besides, that’s what this Miami woman wanted—solitude. It was practically a match made in heaven…or maybe Blackwood Hollow’s version of it.
With a decisive click, he sent off the listing photos and contact details. Done and dusted. All that was left was a little stop by the Marlow place, you know, to be neighborly. And to warn her—no, inform her—that she might have some company soon. Charlie wasn’t a worrywart by nature, but he figured he’d like the heads-up if he were in Ava’s shoes.
He downed the last of his coffee, glanced at his watch, and mulled over his plan. Ava was overdue for a friendly nudge about her lawn—if you could call that overgrown chaos a lawn. He figured he could drop by and casually mention he had the number for a local tree trimmer, or maybe give her a tip or two on keeping the vines from practically swallowing the shutters. He wasn’t sure what she did for landscaping, but whatever it was, he had a sneaking suspicion it mostly involved not doing it.
As he tucked his phone into his pocket and squared his shoulders, he could feel the warm morning air coming from the open window, just enough to raise a little thrill of anticipation. After all, he’d never really had a heart-to-heart with Ava Marlow. She was like one of those distant, beautiful creatures you didn’t approach without a good reason. And he had a reason—sort of. He left a quick scrawl on the kitchen pad for his wife. “Never too late to make a first impression!”
Charlie Draper had only ever seen Ava Marlow’s house from a distance, the imposing Victorian perched at the end of Foxbend Road, half-hidden by old-growth Magnolias and twisted Cypress trees infested with Spanish moss. Up close, though, it was worse. Much worse. The house loomed over him as he made his way up the twisted, stone path, its cracked and peeling facade somehow darker, grimmer than he’d expected. He hadn’t noticed, not from the road, just how the vines scrabbled up the sides like skeletal fingers or how the branches seemed to twist toward the house, curling around it like something trying to drag it down into the swamp.
The windows, murky and dark, covered in streaks of grime, felt like empty, accusing eyes. He swore he felt them on him, watching, though they were “dead as a doornail.” The whole place had a heaviness to it, a dampness that clung to the air, pressing down on him with each step. And that smell. God, the smell. A stale, choking reek of incense, as if someone had tried to cover up rotting food but only made it worse. It hung thick in his throat, mingling with the musty odor of mildew and wet earth, making his skin crawl.
Charlie wasn’t one to be spooked easily, but something about this place felt wrong. The house had always seemed big and brooding from afar, but standing this close, it felt alive—though in no way he could explain. The turret, which tilted crookedly above him, seemed less a part of the house and more of a disjointed limb, its sun-bleached shingles dangling like broken teeth. He thought he saw something shift at the window up there, but it was probably just a shadow cast by the clouds or a trick of the light. Probably.
The path itself was practically a trap, winding and choked with weeds and brambles that clawed at his khakis, as though the very ground was trying to keep him from reaching the porch. Once-beautiful flowerbeds had turned into a tangle of wild, thorny growth, and the tall grass all around seemed to whisper with every slight breeze, though no sound of insects or birds filled the air. It was as if the usual hum of the Okefenokee swamp land that was a few miles away, just…stopped here, at the edge of Ava Marlow’s property.
As he finally reached the porch, Charlie blinked. The front steps, the narrow little porch, they were pristine. He took it in with something close to awe—or maybe unease. Not a single speck of dust marred the polished wood of the steps, not a trace of cobweb anywhere. A wicker chair sat there, large and regal, its velvet cushion plump and perfect, with a shawl draped over one arm as though someone had just been there and stepped away. The small glass-topped table was spotless, too, though he could see the marks of old tea rings embedded in the surface, a strange detail that somehow made him feel more unsettled. How could a porch, untouched by dirt, remain so clean while everything else around it rotted?
He straightened himself, took a steadying breath, and glanced back at his watch. No sense standing around, gaping at the place. He was here to be neighborly, to give Ava the heads-up about her potential new neighbor, and maybe drop a few friendly hints about getting her yard in order. But standing there, staring up at those empty, grime-smeared windows and that twisted turret, he couldn’t shake the feeling that every shadow, every darkened pane of glass, was watching him. Waiting, somehow.
Charlie rapped on the door, his knuckles pounded against the old wood, but the sound was dull, swallowed almost immediately by the oppressive quiet surrounding him. He waited, listening to the silence, feeling it settle over him like a damp blanket. There was no noise from within, no creak of floorboards, no rustle of movement. Nothing.
Yet somehow, he felt certain she was there—right there, standing just beyond his view, watching him from the darkened interior. The weight of her unseen presence clung to him, prickling his skin, and making his mouth go dry.
Charlie glanced around, trying to distract himself, but that only made things worse. This house had been here longer than anyone in Blackwood Hollow could remember, standing in place with a silent defiance that unnerved even the locals. They knew of the house, of course—everyone did. This was the Marlow place, where the kids avoided riding by on their bikes and did not go near on Halloween. Every town had one.
Ava Marlow herself wasn’t a recluse exactly. She’d been seen around town, especially at the farmer’s market, where she’d flash a polite smile, exchange a few words, and vanish, leaving people with the impression of a nice, friendly widow who kept to herself. Nothing remarkable, nothing memorable. Ava liked it that way, or so it seemed. She was friendly enough but always reserved, as if she floated along in her own private current, just out of reach.
Some folks thought she’d been in town five years; others swore it was closer to ten. The truth was hazy, like so much about her. But there was something about her house—a faint strangeness that seeped out of the cracked walls and grime-streaked windows—that made people talk in whispers. They might have called her a “private person,” but standing here, waiting on her doorstep, Charlie found that “private” wasn’t quite the right word. This felt more like…lurking.
He knocked again, slower and harder this time, hoping to stir something, anything, to break the eerie stillness. But his knock had been tentative, and the silence thickened, seeming to press in on him from every side. He could practically feel her eyes on him, somewhere behind those shadowed windows or maybe listening on the other side of the door, waiting. His pulse picked up, a cold sweat prickling his temples. He tried to laugh it off, but it came out hollow, weak.
This was ridiculous. She was probably just out or busy with something inside, but as he shifted his weight, glancing back toward his truck, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was there, just out of sight, scrutinizing his every move with an intensity that made his skin crawl.
The silence deepened, and a cloud covered the sun, causing the shady porch to darken further and drop slightly in temperature. He felt a prickling panic building in his chest, his heartbeat quickening and pulsing in his ears, his breath shortening. Was he suffocating? Every instinct was telling him to leave, to get off this cursed porch, away from that pristine wicker chair, the spotless table, the unblemished glass with its eerie tea stains. He couldn’t explain it, but something about the perfect, dust-free porch in the middle of all this rot and decay felt…wrong. Like it had been waiting for him.
Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. He felt the panic break through, and with one last, darting glance at the door, he turned and bolted, his heart hammering as he practically leapt off the steps. He didn’t stop until he reached his truck, his hands shaking as he fumbled for his keys. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. All he wanted was to get as far away from that place as fast as possible.
Charlie Draper wasn’t superstitious, and he wasn’t the kind of man to spook easily. But as he peeled out of the driveway, the unsettling sense that something had been watching him, something just beyond his reach, wouldn’t leave him alone. “Git, while the gittin’s good,” Charlie muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper, almost like he didn’t want the house to hear him. His face was pale, the usual sunburned, country-boy color drained right out of him. He gripped the steering wheel like it was a lifeline, his knuckles white, his fingers clamped down as if he was manning an anti-aircraft gun and waiting for the enemy to break through the clouds.
The truck’s engine roared to life, and he threw it into reverse, almost without looking, just to get himself away from that porch, from those dead, black windows, from the stale scent of incense that clung to his skin like an unwelcome reminder. He didn’t even dare glance in the rearview mirror. Some instinct told him that if he looked back, he might see… something. Something watching him, hidden in the shadows, waiting. So he didn’t look. He wouldn’t look.
Instead, he hit the gas and tore down Foxbend Road, his eyes fixed dead ahead, the words still muttering in his mind like a prayer, Git, while the gittin’s good.
Chapter One
Ava Marlowe could occasionally be found watching the world from her front porch, her gaze distant and her eyes far too young for her years. Her skin, smooth and pale like fine china, glowed beneath the soft light, and her figure was lithe, elegant, seemingly untouched by time. On chilly days, she would cinch a coat snugly around her waist, the fit so slender it looked made for a woman half her age. Silver strands framed her face, enhancing rather than aging her beauty, and when the townsfolk stole glances, they couldn’t decide if she was fifty or seventy. No one knew for sure, and no one had dared to ask. Somehow, in any conversation with Ava, the subject of her age, her past, or anything personal slipped away, redirected with her effortless charm, her cool but warm smile.
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Ava’s presence alone drew whispers—it was unavoidable. She was beautiful, yes, but it was more than that. She seemed to move with a grace just shy of unnatural, gliding soundlessly over Blackwood Hollow’s cracked sidewalks, as though her feet barely touched the ground. Ava was not one to mingle at the town’s few social gatherings, and she never appeared at church, but in truth, neither did many of the newer residents of Blackwood Hollow. The younger folks commuted to nearby towns, busy with jobs at the hospital or long shifts at the factory. Family gatherings were often confined to phone screens, gaming consoles, or other escapes. The mix of modern life and old traditions gave Blackwood Hollow an odd rhythm, but it was still quaint, still quiet, for now.
On the rare occasions when someone had a reason to approach Ava’s door—an Amazon driver, perhaps, or a Girl Scout selling cookies—they often left feeling oddly unsettled, unnerved by Ava’s deep green eyes. From the cool shade of her porch, she would greet them with a polite, gaze that somehow seemed to see past them, as though she were reading more than faces, more than words.
There was something unusual about Ava Marlowe, a sense of mystery as obvious as her beauty yet just as difficult to define. And though people sensed it, somehow, in the unspoken language of small-town life, it slipped quietly into the background, an odd trait of a quirky older woman best left unexplored.
On a particularly still summer afternoon, with the golden light of the setting sun bathing the town in its final, warm glow, Ava Marlowe sat in her usual spot—a wicker chair on the porch, her hands folded over the edge of an ornate shawl draped across her lap. The air was thick with the scent of decaying grass and fallen plants, and only the occasional rustle of wind disturbed the silence as it threaded through the moss-laden trees. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed, its harsh call breaking the stillness.
Then, a figure emerged on the sidewalk—Maggie Draper, the town’s notorious busybody, finally succumbing to her own curiosity. Maggie had often angled for information about Ava, peppering neighbors with questions during casual conversations at the diner or while lingering by the post office, hoping to glean some nugget of gossip. But today, she’d found her nerve and decided to confront Ava directly. She paused at the edge of the sidewalk, staring at the shadowed house, the way it seemed to drink in the evening light, and then she called out.
“Ava!” Maggie’s voice was a honeyed drawl, layered with the sweetness of Southern charm. She glanced nervously up at the second-floor windows, just in time to catch a glimpse of almond-shaped eyes peering back at her. A cat, she noted, filing the detail away for later.
“You look so… young today. What’s your secret?” she asked, her tone thick with syrupy politeness.
Ava’s lips curved into a slight smile, though her eyes remained fixed on Maggie with an unsettling, unblinking intensity. No one ever ventured this far down Foxbend Road, not unless they were required to.
“Everyone in town says how lovely you are,” Maggie pressed, her words flowing as smoothly as molasses. “And, well, we all wonder where you came from, what your story is…”
Ava’s head tilted ever so slightly, her smile fading as she watched Maggie with a cool, appraising stare. “Do they now?”
Maggie Draper bustled across Ava Marlowe’s yard with an eager bounce in her step, her face set in that pouty grin she wore like a doll’s face. She was a stout woman of fifty-two, built with the solid heft of a high school football coach, though her look was less whistle-and-clipboard and more glitter-and-kittens. She wore a pink sweatshirt emblazoned with a sparkly unicorn that shimmered with every jostling step; the fabric stretched taut across her round stomach. Her pink yoga pants clung to thick thighs and tapered down to tiny, almost delicate ankles. Maggie loved the color pink, and she wore it with the same unshakable pride that she wore her cutie-pie smile.
Her hair, a drab brown, looked like it hadn’t seen a good washing in a few days, slicked to one side with an almost oily sheen and secured with a little clip that wasn’t quite up to the job. But she didn’t care. Maggie had never been one to fuss about appearances—hers or anyone else’s. She liked people for their stories, and Maggie knew them all. She was Blackwood Hollow’s self-appointed expert on every resident, every feud, every whisper of scandal. And if she didn’t know something, well, she was bound to dig it up sooner or later.
As she duck-waddled across Ava’s yard, her eyes sparkled with a curiosity that burned as bright as the sequins on her sweatshirt. Today, she was on a mission, uninvited but undeterred, brimming with questions she’d been dying to ask the mysterious widow. To Maggie, Ava Marlowe was a mystery just waiting to be cracked open. And Maggie loved nothing more than a good mystery—especially if it came with juicy gossip.
Emboldened by what she mistook for a welcoming response, Maggie took another step forward, nodding eagerly. “I’ll bet you have some fascinating stories to tell,” she continued, her grin widening as she tried to coax out a response, ignoring the growing unease prickling at the back of her mind.
Ava’s gaze sharpened, her green eyes darkening to an almost unnatural shade. “Stories,” she echoed, her voice soft, but edged with something sharp. “I’m sure you have stories of your own, Maggie. Every town has its secrets.”
Maggie’s heart beat faster, her curiosity quickening at Ava’s words. She nodded eagerly, mistaking the warning for an invitation. “Oh, yes! Sharing is such a good start, don’t you think?”
A gust of wind swept through the yard, scattering dead leaves, and Maggie shivered, the air suddenly colder than before. Ava rose slowly, her movements so smooth they seemed to defy gravity and glided down the porch steps until she stood face-to-face with Maggie. The faint scent of incense drifted from Ava—a strange, musky sweetness that hung thick in the air. Up close, Ava’s beauty was almost unearthly, her skin glowing faintly in the golden light, her green eyes probing, peeling back the layers of Maggie’s cheerful expression as though seeing straight to the heart of her intentions. Ava’s gaze lingered on the bead of sweat above Maggie’s lip, the faded pink barrette holding back a strand of hair, the thick, perspiring neck.
“You should be careful, Maggie,” Ava whispered, her voice low, almost a hum that seemed to vibrate in Maggie’s bones. “Curiosity… it can be dangerous.”
Maggie suddenly remembered a conversation she’d had with Charlie a few weeks back, just after he’d come back from a visit to this house. He’d been quiet, a bit paler than usual, and kept glancing over his shoulder as if he thought someone was following him. Maggie had laughed at him at the time, teasing him for getting spooked by a “sweet little old lady.” But he’d given her a look—serious, maybe a touch embarrassed—and said something that had stuck with her.
“There’s something off about that house, Mags,” he’d muttered, almost like he didn’t want to say it out loud. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it, but it just… it didn’t feel right. It was like…” He’d trailed off, his brow furrowed as he searched for words. “It’s like someone was watchin’ me the whole time. And I couldn’t see ’em, but I could feel it.”
“Maybe you’re just not used to seeing a woman alone,” she’d said, patting him on the shoulder with a little smirk. “I bet she’s just a pretty face, and you got shy, is all.”
He’d frowned, clearly not liking the answer. “No, Mags, it wasn’t that,” he insisted, a strange edge to his voice. “I mean, I felt like something wasn’t right. Like I shouldda not been there. I dunno. The air felt… heavy like it was pushin’ on me.” He nervously chuckled, but the unease in his eyes hadn’t faded. “Maybe was just the smell,” he’d muttered, as though that would make him feel better about it. “Whole place smelled like… a funeral. Ya know?”
Maggie had just waved it off, smiling to herself. She couldn’t imagine Charlie being spooked by anything—least of all a woman alone in a dusty old house. He was probably just trying to make an excuse for not wanting to go back. Maybe, she thought, it was that Ava was too quiet, too beautiful, that it made Charlie feel uncomfortable in some way he didn’t want to admit.
But now, standing in Ava’s front yard, Maggie remembered the look on his face that day—the haunted edge to his voice, the way he’d gripped the side of the kitchen counter as he talked, the paleness that had lingered long after he’d returned home. She’d laughed at him then, but now, her heart thudded with a faint, unsettling echo of his words.
“Wha…?” Maggie stammered, her mouth suddenly dry. “I… I didn’t mean to pry.”
Ava’s smile returned, but this time, something darker flickered behind her eyes. She leaned in close, her cool breath brushing against Maggie’s ear as she whispered, “No, Maggie. It’s too late for that now.”
Maggie’s grin faltered as her eyes met Ava’s, and in that instant, something cold and ancient seemed to seize her heart. Ava’s gaze was a piercing green, fixed and unblinking, and as their eyes locked, Maggie felt the air shift around her, as if she were being caressed by something unseen.
A whisper tickled her ear, faint but insistent, curling in a language Maggie had never heard. It was soft at first, barely a murmur, but soon another voice joined, and then another, layering over each other until the air around her buzzed with an incomprehensible chorus. She couldn’t tell where they were coming from—within her, around her, through her—but the whispers wrapped around her mind like smoke, filling her with a dread she couldn’t name.
The scent of burning incense grew stronger, a cloying, musky sweetness that crawled into her lungs, making it hard to breathe. She swallowed, the smell clinging to her like a cloud, as if the incense were blooming from the very earth beneath her feet. Her chest tightened, each breath a struggle, as though the air had turned solid around her, weighty and warm on all sides.
Then, the ground beneath her feet began to vibrate, a low, thrumming pulse that traveled up through her legs and settled heavily in her bones. It was faint at first, but it grew quickly, an insistent beat, the sound of a thousand prayers chanted in time. The whispers rose in volume, weaving into the vibration a symphony of voices that seemed to pick at the edges of her mind with needles. Her vision blurred at the corners, dark tendrils creeping towards the center just as the shadows bent and stretched out from every corner of the yard, slowly attracted to her like running ink, thickening until they seemed almost solid, walls of darkness closing in, trapping her in that narrow space.
She tried to speak, to move, to pull her gaze away from Ava, but it was as though she was rooted in place, her feet sinking into the quickening earth. Ava’s eyes bored into her, something sharp and dangerous glinting in their depths, something that saw through her, peeling back every layer, every thought, every secret.
Maggie could feel herself unraveling, her heartbeat racing as the shadows crowded closer as if drawn to her fear, her helplessness. She wanted to turn, to run, to scream, but her body betrayed her, held fast by the invisible grip of Ava’s gaze, that awful, knowing stare. The voices swelled to a fever pitch, words she couldn’t understand ripping at her mind, at her beating heart, at her soul.
And then, suddenly, as if someone had ripped a band-aid from her skin, Ava turned, breaking the connection. The voices stopped, the shadows pulled back, and the air thinned, the overpowering scent of incense dissipating in an instant. Maggie gasped for air, throwing her arms out for balance, the silence as sharp and shocking as a slap. Ava moved up the steps and into her house without another word, the door closing behind her with a soft, final click.
Maggie was left alone in the fading light and eerie silence. It was as though nothing had happened at all. Maggie, stunned, remained for a moment, turning in a slow circle, her heart pounding, Ava’s final words echoing in her mind. It’s too late for that.
Finally, her legs began to move, and she hurried back down the path, her pink Crocs squeaking as the sun sank beneath the tree line, the slippery shadows swallowing the pavement of Foxbend Road. Maggie turned out of the drive and fast-walked, pumping her arms toward town in the middle of the street. As she neared the old oak by the mailboxes, her heart leaped into her throat, and she stutter-stepped sideways when something shifted above her. She looked up to see a cat perched high in the branches, its eyes gleaming in the dusk, its tail swinging like a pendulum as it watched her retreat.
Maggie quickened her pace, the sound of her footsteps cutting through the thick silence that had fallen over the street. She had pried too far, and now a certainty settled deep within her. There was something profoundly wrong with Ava Marlowe, never mind her house.
From the window of her darkened home, Ava watched Maggie’s retreat, her fingers brushing against the cool glass, a faint, satisfied smile tracing her lips.
“Some secrets should remain buried,” she whispered to the empty room. Ava Marlowe had buried many things—and she would ensure they stayed that way.
Ava moved through the house with a silent, gliding grace, her feet barely seeming to touch the polished wooden floors. There was an unnatural quality to her movements, an elegance too precise, too fluid, as if she were drifting through water rather than air. The house embraced her, or so it seemed, every angle leaning toward her as she passed.
Inside, the house was a labyrinth of dark rooms, each one steeped in the quiet reverence of a forgotten museum. Heavy tapestry-thick drapes shrouded the tall windows, sealing away the light so that the only illumination came from the dim glow of brass sconces on the walls. The air was still, almost dense, untouched by even the faintest breeze, and without a hint of the outside world. It smelled strongly of incense—a strange sweetness mixed with a saltiness that hinted at decay, like the scent of an old, sun-bleached shoreline long abandoned. It was cloying, sour-sweet, unsettlingly musky, as though it had been simmering in the air for centuries. The scent had soaked into the walls themselves over time. No insects dared skitter across the floorboards; no stray mouse ventured to nest here. The silence was profound as if the house itself was holding its breath.
The walls were lined with shelves and cabinets, crowded with a peculiar collection of objects—curiosities and relics arranged meticulously. Ava passed a polished walnut case containing a rosary made from gleaming obsidian beads, its crucifix adorned with symbols unfamiliar to most eyes. Nearby was a faded, hand-stitched sampler framed in tarnished silver, the thread stitched into patterns that looked like scripture but spelled out words in an ancient, forgotten language. Other cabinets displayed relics collected from corners of the world—an ivory mask with hollow eyes, a tarnished silver dagger with strange etchings on the hilt, a tiny glass vial filled with dried herbs that looked centuries old, its label written in a language lost to time.
There were no signs here of a typical home. No family photographs, no knickknacks or souvenirs from holidays, no evidence of ordinary life. Instead, Ava’s house seemed to exist in a time and place all its own, like a temple devoted to secrets. The cluttered surfaces were dust-free, every object carefully placed and carefully preserved, each treated as if it held power and was more than the sum of its parts. Many of the items looked precious, artifacts worthy of museum vaults, but others were just… odd. There was a small, perfectly polished child’s rocking horse, its paint chipped but clearly cared for, sitting alone in a corner. A weathered collection of seashells lay inside a glass display case, each shell cataloged and labeled. A single white glove, worn and yellowed, sat reverently under a bell jar as if it were a holy relic.
Ava passed through rooms thick with these relics, her fingers brushing over a row of heavy leather-bound books stacked beside an antique hourglass filled with black sand. In the center of the sitting room stood a grand display case with intricately carved corners containing what looked like tools—long, slender metal implements, smooth stones with worn symbols, and bundles of dried plants bound with animal sinew. She called these her “tools,” though they were unlike anything you’d find in a hardware store, each item seemingly handcrafted for a purpose only she knew. They were things that seemed foreign yet familiar, as if from another world, another time.
In a room that seemed to be the heart of the house, dark wood furniture stood solemnly under the dim glow of a massive, ornately carved marble fireplace, stretching nearly to the ceiling with an imposing elegance. Each inch of the stone was etched in strange, winding patterns—vines twisting into shapes that suggested old, forgotten symbols, faces carved into the marble with hollow eyes and haunting expressions. The intricate design gave the fireplace a life of its own, an air of mystery that seemed to shift and breathe with the flickering shadows cast by the small fire within.
Inside the hearth, a modest fire burned low, casting a dim, orange glow that illuminated the room but barely warmed it. The flames were soft and gentle, their light seeming to be captured in time. The glow highlighted an empty stone altar set on the polished hearth. Smooth and worn, it sat bare, its surface cool and untouched. Its emptiness seemed deliberate, as though it was patiently waiting for something yet to come, a purpose as yet unfulfilled, for now.
The walls were lined with glass-fronted cabinets filled with rows of jars, each labeled in Ava’s elegant handwriting—an herbalist’s trove or an apothecary’s secret stockpile. Some jars contained dried insect husks, others held powders, and a few held things that looked like bits of bone. Each item, no matter how strange or mundane, had its place and purpose, as if this collection was alive as if these objects were waiting.
Ava paused at a small writing desk near the staircase as she moved from one room to the next. Resting on its surface, among polished stones and folded linen handkerchiefs, was a small white envelope, its edges tinged yellow with age. It was unsealed, its corner delicately turned up as though inviting closer inspection. From the open edge of the envelope peeked a single lock of hair, neatly tied with a thin pink thread—a frazzled, drab-colored lock of hair unmistakably belonging to Maggie Draper.
Ava’s fingers brushed over the envelope with a faint smile, and the shadows seemed to gather around her like children for story time. The last glimmers of light faded from the peaks of the vaulted windows, and the house fell into complete darkness. Only the earthy, rancid undertone of incense was left to hang in the air, lingering after Ava, like whisps of fog as the shrowd of nightfall was pulled up over her ethereal, flawless face as well.