Chapter 2: Beneath the Surface
At first, it was nothing more than a whisper of unease, an intangible sense that something was not quite right. Dorian told himself it was nerves—after all, a child was on the way, and with it came responsibility, vulnerability, and the terrifying reality of having something to lose again. Perhaps it was the echo of old memories, a trick of the mind clawing its way back to the surface. But no—this was different. This was now.
It began subtly, like the hush that falls before a storm. The air in the cottage no longer carried the scent of wildflowers and hearth smoke. Instead, it felt dense, as though something unseen lingered in the space between heartbeats. Even the light filtering through the windows during the day seemed dulled, like the world had dimmed slightly without explanation.
Dorian started waking in the early hours of the morning, long before the sun crested the hills. Not from nightmares—but from silence. A silence so absolute, it was deafening. No wind rustling the trees, no owls hooting from the woods, no shifting of old wood in the beams above. Just an oppressive stillness that pressed against his chest until he had to sit up and remind himself to breathe.
Lyra, too, began to change. Though she remained gentle, loving, and steadfast, he could see the exhaustion bloom like a shadow beneath her eyes. She smiled through it, brushing it off as nothing more than the physical demands of pregnancy. But her hands trembled slightly when she lit the lanterns. And at night, she sometimes awoke with her breath caught in her throat, her eyes wide and glassy, her gaze locked on a darkened corner of the room.
"There's nothing there, my love," he would whisper, drawing her close. She would nod and bury her face in his chest. But neither of them truly believed it.
It wasn't until the night of the mirror that Dorian began to accept that something had entered their sanctuary—something old, something wrong.
The mirror stood tall in the sitting room, a relic they'd inherited from the cottage's previous owners. Lyra had tried to cover it once with a lace curtain, finding its gaudy frame and warped glass unsettling, but Dorian had asked her to leave it. "Let it stay," he had said. "It's part of the house's soul." Now, he wished she hadn't listened.
They sat by the hearth that evening, Lyra nestled against him with a book in her lap, her fingers trailing idly across his arm. The fire crackled warmly, casting a soft golden glow over the room. Dorian glanced up absently—and froze.
The mirror.
It reflected the room perfectly—the chairs, the firelight, the crooked edge of the rug—but not them. Where they should have been sitting, there was only the empty armchair, flickering with flame. Then, slowly, the glass began to ripple. Like water. Like smoke. Like something just behind the veil was reaching out.
"Did you see it?" he asked, his voice barely audible.
Lyra looked up at him, concerned. "See what?"
"The mirror," he said, eyes still locked on it. "We weren't in it. It—moved."
She turned to look, but the mirror was still again, offering only their reflections. Her hand found his. "You're tired, Dorian. You've barely slept."
But her voice was too careful. Her tone too even. She'd seen something too—he was sure of it. And worse, she was trying to protect him from it.
That night, they lay curled together in bed, the lantern's flame guttering low beside them. Lyra stroked his hair in slow, soothing movements. "You're not alone anymore," she whispered. "I'm here. We're safe."
He wanted to believe her. Gods, he wanted to believe her more than anything. But the knot in his chest only grew tighter.
Days passed, and the sense of unease bloomed like mold in the walls—quietly, steadily, choking the light. The nursery, once a place of joy, began to change. Dorian noticed the rocking chair first. It swayed gently one morning as he entered the room, though the air was still and the windows closed. He stood watching it, his breath caught in his throat, until it came to a stop on its own, as if someone had risen from it just before he walked in.
The mobile above the crib would spin lazily even when no breeze stirred. The tiny glass stars clinked together with the sound of distant chimes. Once, he returned from gathering firewood and found the nursery door wide open, the mobile spinning wildly, the soft blanket from the crib folded neatly on the floor—as though someone had gently lifted it and placed it there.
He tried to tell himself it was Lyra. That she had rearranged things, opened the windows. But when he asked her about it, she only stared at him, silent, her lips parted in confusion. "I haven't gone in there since yesterday," she said softly.
It was a lullaby that finally broke the veil.
One night, as the wind howled faintly against the windows and the fire hissed in the hearth, Dorian sat at the kitchen table, staring into the flickering shadows. Lyra was asleep upstairs. Or so he thought.
Then it came—quiet at first. A melody. Faint. Familiar. A child's lullaby, drifting from the floorboards beneath him. The tune curled through the air like mist, and something deep in his memory stirred. It was the song his mother used to hum when he was very small—before the estate, before the blood, before everything had crumbled.
He rose, legs heavy, and stepped into the hallway. The music grew louder—not beautiful, not gentle, but warped, as if played on broken strings.
"Lyra?" he called out, but there was no answer.
He ascended the stairs, one hand trailing along the railing, his other holding a candle that barely pushed back the shadows. As he passed the nursery, he stopped.
The door was open.
Inside, Lyra stood beside the crib. Her back was to him. She was humming.
The lullaby.
"Lyra," he whispered, stepping inside.
She turned slowly, her eyes unfocused, her expression blank. Then, just as suddenly, she blinked and gasped, as though coming up from deep water. The melody stopped. She looked around, confused.
"Dorian… I—I don't remember walking in here."
He took her into his arms, holding her close. Her skin was cold, her breath shallow.
Something was wrong. It wasn't just a haunting. It wasn't simply a memory lingering in the corners of their home.
Something had followed them.
And it had finally awakened.