The House on the Hill
The bus vanished into the fog before Alana Reyes could even turn around.
She stood alone at the edge of Thornhollow, holding a duffel bag with her clothes, a small cassette walkman, and five sealed letters tied together with a burgundy ribbon. Her grandmother's name—Elvira Reyes—was still written in elegant ink on the return address. Only now, Elvira was dead.
And Alana was going back to the place her mother had sworn never to return.
The town was like a frozen photograph from an old magazine: cracked sidewalks, flickering streetlamps, and houses that seemed to sag under the weight of secrets. There were no cellphones. No signals. Just static on the radio and the sound of wind pushing through skeletal trees.
She walked.
Past the church with its boarded windows, past the old video rental store with broken glass, past the sign that said "Welcome Back to Thornhollow"—as if it had been waiting for her.
The Reyes mansion stood at the top of the hill like it had never moved. Black iron gates. Gray stone walls. A roof like claws reaching toward the sky.
The gate opened with a hiss.
Inside, the air was colder. The hall smelled like lavender and old wood. Paintings lined the walls—portraits of people with eyes too dark, too knowing.
Then the mirror near the stairs flickered.
Alana froze.
"She knew you'd come," a voice whispered behind her reflection.
She turned, heart racing.
But she was alone.