Rory froze.
The voice hadn't come from upstairs. It was closer. **Inside the house**, just beyond the kitchen doorway.
Male. Calm. Unfamiliar.
Her hand slid against the wall, reaching instinctively for the light switch. She flipped it.
Nothing.
The bulb overhead buzzed faintly, then let out a slow *pop*. The hallway dimmed further, leaving only the gray light filtering through the curtains. Shadows stretched across the carpet like fingers.
She called out, softly, "Mom?"
No answer.
Something was wrong with the air. It felt... charged. Like standing near a humming transformer. A thin layer of sweat formed on her back. Every step she took down the hall felt like a choice she couldn't take back.
The floorboards whispered under her weight.
She reached the edge of the kitchen and paused, not yet willing to cross the threshold.
> "You came home early," the voice said again.
It wasn't threatening. But it didn't feel like it belonged.
Slowly, she leaned in.
A man stood in the center of the room. Not doing anything. Just... standing. Like he'd been waiting.
He wasn't dressed like anyone she knew—dark gray coat, heavy boots. His eyes were the only thing clear in the dim light: a pale, almost inhuman silver, watching her with unreadable calm. Something about him was too still. Like he didn't blink enough. Like he wasn't used to blinking at all.
Rory swallowed. Her throat was dry.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
The man didn't move. "You don't recognize me yet. That's good. It means there's still time."
"Time for what?" Her voice cracked. "What did you do to my family?"
He tilted his head slightly. "They're not the ones in danger."
He took a step forward, slow, measured.
And something behind him shifted. Not a movement—more like **a bend** in the space around him. Like the kitchen walls pulsed, just once, breathing in and out.
Rory stepped back.
He held up a hand. "Don't run. Not yet."
"Don't tell me what to—" she started, but then stopped.
Because the room behind him had changed.
The kitchen cabinets—her mother's floral magnets on the fridge, the yellow kettle—were **gone**. Replaced by stone. Stone walls, ancient and dark, slick with moisture. The air shimmered between her and the stranger like heat off pavement, warping the space in fragments. A second reality trying to bleed through.
And then it was gone.
Just her kitchen again. Slightly darker.
Her knees nearly gave out. She gripped the edge of the wall for support.
"What's happening?" she asked, her voice barely above a breath.
"You're waking up," the man said, soft. "But they won't let you do it in peace."
A sound echoed from somewhere deep in the house.
A dragging sound.
Something slow. Heavy.
"Who—" she began.
"Not who," the man interrupted, his expression hardening. "*What.*"
Outside, the wind picked up. The house creaked under the strain. The temperature dropped so fast, her breath fogged in front of her.
Then the front door creaked open on its own.
Not flung, not slammed—just… opened. Like something had been invited.
And standing at the threshold—
**A shape.**
Too tall. Too thin. The wrong kind of still.
The man turned sharply. His shadow twitched again on the kitchen floor, *splitting* for a second before snapping back into place.
> "Selene," he said, not to her, but to something *within* her.
> "Don't let it in."
Absolutely! Here's the continuation of the scene, directly following:
---
> "Selene," he said, not to her… but to something *inside* her.
> "Don't let it in."
---
Rory's pulse slammed in her ears.
Selene.
He'd said it with too much certainty. Like it *belonged* to her. Like it had always been hers.
The shape outside didn't move. But she felt it—pressing against her mind, like fingers tapping on a locked window.
"I don't know what that thing is," she said, backing away, "but I'm not—I'm not Selene. You've got the wrong girl."
The man's jaw tightened. "No. I'm afraid they do."
She blinked. "They?"
But he didn't answer.
Because the *thing* at the door stepped forward.
Just one step. The wooden floor *sighed* beneath it, protesting its weight. Its limbs were too long. Its neck bent slightly, unnaturally, as though trying to *sniff* the air.
Rory's body reacted before her brain caught up. She turned and *ran*.
Through the hall. Past the pictures on the wall. Her foot caught the rug, and she stumbled—but didn't fall. She grabbed the doorknob to the basement.
Locked.
"Don't go down," the man's voice echoed behind her, not shouting, but commanding. "It's worse down there."
She spun to face him—but he wasn't in the kitchen anymore.
He was closer.
Just a few steps away now, standing still as ever, coat barely fluttering even though the wind outside roared louder than before.
Rory's breath hitched. Her chest rose and fell too fast.
"What do you want from me?"
The man looked almost sad.
"I want to *warn* you," he said. "But I'm not allowed to interfere. Not yet."
Behind him, the walls flickered again—just a flash this time, like a candle guttering. Stone. Firelight. A hint of something enormous moving in the dark.
The sound from the front door shifted. No longer dragging. Now *clicking*. Like claws testing the floor.
And then—it spoke.
A voice like ice cracking on a lake.
Shards of syllables trying to become a word.
"Sehhh… lehhhn…"
The door creaked wider.
"Don't listen," the man said sharply. "It's not *speaking* to you. It's *inviting*."
"To what?"
"To forget who you are."
The pressure in Rory's skull built. Like something was *pushing* through. Her vision blurred, doubled.
For a moment, she saw herself standing in another place.
Not her house. Not even her world.
A forest of silver trees. A sky like violet glass. Two moons overhead.
And a girl who looked like her—but wasn't—standing barefoot in the snow, with a crown of ash on her brow and a sword dripping black ichor in her hand.
"Selene," the wind whispered again.
Then she was back.
On her knees in her hallway. Cold sweat soaked her shirt.
The man was beside her now, crouched low, his voice barely above a breath.
"You don't have long," he said. "They'll come for you soon. Not just the Hollowborn—others. Some will say they're your allies. They'll lie."
She stared at him, eyes wide. "What *am* I?"
"You're not ready to hear that."
He stood.
The shape at the door hissed—soft, disappointed.
The man turned toward it.
"You've seen her now," he said. "You have no power here."
And just like that, the door slammed shut.
Every light in the house blinked back on.
Rory gasped and looked around. The hallway, the kitchen—everything was normal again.
The man was gone.
Only one thing remained behind: a long scratch gouged deep into the inside of the doorframe, where *something* had reached in… and almost crossed.