Beneath the Surface
One month later, while the school buzzed with laughter and excitement as students eagerly prepared for the long-awaited trip, their backpacks stuffed with snacks and dreams of adventure, Nori and Max stood slightly apart from the crowd, their smiles faltering and eyes shadowed with unease, as if the vivid dreams—or perhaps warnings—they had shared whispered secrets of something lurking beyond the joy, something only they seemed to remember or fear, casting a quiet tension over what should have been a carefree day.
Max adjusted the straps on his backpack, his gaze fixed on the distant tree line that bordered the schoolyard. "You dreamt it again, didn't you?" he asked quietly.
Nori nodded, her voice a whisper barely louder than the breeze. "The lake. The house. The girl in the mirror. It's always the same. Only now… she's calling my name."
The bus honked twice, jolting them both. Kids shouted and scrambled aboard, their laughter echoing like a strange kind of mockery to the tension thickening around Nori and Max. They hesitated before following, as though crossing that threshold might mean more than just stepping into a vehicle.
As the bus rumbled away, the landscape rolled past in a blur of green and gold. Max watched the sky, searching for any hint of red. Nori clutched the small journal she always carried now—a diary of her dreams, of signs and symbols, of names that didn't belong to anyone they knew but felt hauntingly familiar.
Two rows behind them, a group of kids played a noisy game, tossing around candies and daring each other to stay up all night when they reached the campsite. One of them, a quiet boy named Eli, stared at Nori with unblinking eyes. She didn't notice—at first.
But Max did.
When they arrived, the woods welcomed them with a deceptive calm. The air was crisp, the ground soft beneath their shoes, and the lake—oh, the lake—shimmered like glass, undisturbed and eerily perfect.
"It's the same one," Nori whispered, stepping closer to the shore. "From the dreams."
Max glanced nervously at the camp leader, who was busy setting up tents and organizing gear. He leaned in. "How could it be? That house was miles away. Another town."
Nori said nothing. Her eyes were locked on the water, where ripples now formed from nothing at all. Not wind. Not fish. Just... movement.
That night, as the fire crackled and marshmallows sizzled on sticks, Nori sat apart again, staring into the woods. Max joined her silently.
"They think it's over," she said.
"I thought it was too," he admitted.
She opened the journal and flipped to a drawing. It was rough, frantic—done in darkness, maybe in panic. A house. A mirror. And behind it, rows of faces. Watching. Waiting.
"What if the locket wasn't the end?" she asked. "What if it was a door?"
The fire snapped behind them. A log split in two with a hiss, sending sparks skyward. Max felt the weight of the forest pressing in, no longer open and free but closing—silent and watchful.
From the edge of the trees, a low hum rose. Not mechanical. Not natural. Something between.
And then Eli appeared, stepping into the firelight, his eyes gleaming with that same, too-still intensity. He held something small in his hand—something metallic. Something glowing faintly.
Nori's breath caught.
It was the locket.
But they had seen it disappear. Had felt the house die.
Eli smiled. "She says hello."
And just like that, the whispers returned.