London had never felt this silent.
Eleanor unlocked the door to her flat, stepped inside, and closed it quietly behind her.
But something was wrong.
She could feel it.
The air was too still.
The lights too dim.
The shadows… too long.
She dropped the box on her desk and looked around.
Paintings on the wall.
Notes scattered across the floor.
Photographs. Faces she'd studied for weeks.
They all seemed to be staring back now.
---
She sat at her desk, flipping through the case files again.
Every victim had drawn something twisted.
Every one of them had mentioned "visions."
Every one of them had whispered about The Crimson Eye before dying.
Her fingers traced the edge of a sketch.
> "They all saw something," she murmured.
"But what connected them…?"
She stared at the mirror across the room.
The surface shimmered faintly in the gloom.
Then—
whispers.
Soft.
Muffled.
She turned.
No one there.
She stood and approached the mirror slowly.
Each step heavier than the last.
Something flickered behind the glass.
Not her reflection—
Something else.
Something... watching.
---
She touched the mirror.
A sharp chill ran up her arm.
> "Why now? Why me?"
Suddenly, a sound behind her—
The box.
It had opened.
One of the drawings had slid out on its own.
The one with the child and the mirror.
She picked it up.
Her hand trembled.
The child in the drawing…
Looked like her.
But the reflection wasn't the same.
The girl in the mirror was smiling—
A crooked, knowing smile.
Her breath caught.
> "That's not just a drawing… That's a memory."
---
The room spun.
The walls pulsed.
The air grew thick, electric with something unspeakable.
And then—
A voice.
Not loud. Not soft.
But near.
> "It's time to go back... to where it all began."
---
She looked at the photo on her desk.
The village.
The house she'd left behind.
> "I don't want to go back," she whispered.
But the voice was already fading, leaving only the echo:
> "You were never meant to leave."