The rain had a sound to it—sharp, urgent, like fingernails tapping glass. It had been falling steadily for hours.
The old black van wound its way up the narrow, serpentine road that twisted through the mist-covered hills. Trees stood like cloaked figures on either side, branches draped in fog like funeral shrouds. The headlights pierced the gloom with dull yellow beams, revealing a landscape that never quite looked real. Somewhere below, a river flowed, though no one in the van could see it.
Inside, there were six girls. And silence.
Not the kind of silence that comes from shyness. Not even the kind that settles between strangers. This silence was heavier than that—dense, like fog on lungs, like secrets pressing against skin.
The girls sat apart from one another despite the tight space. Each one had only one suitcase. They'd been told—strictly, sternly—that was all they were allowed. No phones. No trinkets. No toys. Just one bag and themselves.
Mina sat closest to the sliding door, her posture upright despite the chill in the air. She was fifteen, with sharp eyes and a tired face—too tired for someone her age. She watched the trees go by like someone searching for patterns, like a general watching terrain before a battle.
Aria sat next to her, fourteen and clearly not happy about it. Her boots were soaked from the bus transfer earlier that morning, and she hadn't said a word since boarding the van. Her lips were pursed in a way that suggested judgment came naturally to her, and the occasional sideways glance she threw at the others carried an edge.
Twelve-year-old Lina sat in the middle row, tapping her fingers against the window in a nervous rhythm. Her hair was in two uneven braids, and her coat was two sizes too big. She kept peeking up at the rearview mirror, but the driver's face was hidden—cap pulled low, scarf obscuring his chin.
Behind Lina, near the back, was Reya. She was eleven and perhaps the smallest among them, folded in on herself with arms hugging her knees. She had soft features and a silence that didn't feel forced—it felt learned. Like she'd already seen what happens when you speak too loudly in the wrong place.
At the very back were the two ten-year-olds.
Sofi sat with her arms crossed and her mouth in a permanent scowl. She kept glancing sideways at the girl next to her—Tara, whose crutches were wedged between her legs. Tara didn't look at anyone. Her head was bent. She was humming very softly, a tune only she seemed to know, and her hands were clenched in her lap.
Sofi leaned over and whispered, "We shouldn't be here."
Tara didn't answer. Her eyes never left the window.
The van came to a stop without warning.
The jolt made Tara nearly fall sideways. Aria grabbed the seat in front of her with a hiss. Outside, the trees gave way to a towering iron gate—ornate, rusted, and woven with ivy like veins across bone. On either side stood ancient stone pillars, cracked and leaning, but somehow still supporting the weight of the gate's massive structure.
Beyond the bars lay the house.
Grinbridge House.
It was older than anything they'd imagined. A Victorian mansion swallowed in vines and fog, with windows like sunken eyes and spires that curled like claws. Its structure loomed as though the forest had grown around it reluctantly, unwilling to claim it but too afraid to push it out.
No birds sang. No wind blew. Only rain.
The driver still hadn't spoken a single word.
Without turning, he reached one gloved hand to the side and unlocked the door.
A loud clack echoed in the van.
None of the girls moved.
After a long silence, Mina reached for the handle and slid the door open. Cold air flooded in instantly. She stepped out first, then Aria, then Lina, Reya, and Sofi. Tara was last, clumsily lowering herself to the muddy ground, her crutches sinking half an inch with every step.
A figure was waiting beyond the gate.
An old man, tall and thin, with a cane he didn't use and an umbrella he didn't open. His eyes were a pale gray—not cloudy, just... distant. He wore a long black coat that dragged slightly on the wet gravel.
"I am Mr. Calden," he said. "This is your new home." His voice was dry, scratchy. Not cruel. Just tired.
Mina stepped forward, not as the leader—no one had claimed that role yet—but because someone had to.
"Where's the matron?" she asked. "The caretaker?"
Mr. Calden tilted his head.
"My wife is resting," he replied. "She remains upstairs. She does not come down anymore."
That struck the group strangely. Something about the way he said it—flat, unfeeling—made it sound as though she were not resting in a bed, but something deeper. Something colder.
The gate opened without anyone touching it.
The hinges groaned, ancient and reluctant.
"Follow me," Mr. Calden said.
He turned and walked down the cobbled path, the umbrella still closed in his gloved hand.
The girls followed.
The front door was tall, arched, and carved with unfamiliar symbols—curved lines like vines, but arranged with too much intention. When Mr. Calden opened the door, warm air greeted them—but not a welcoming warmth.
It was stale. Still. A warmth that hadn't moved in a long time.
The foyer stretched high above them, two stories tall. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, each crystal coated in dust. Twin staircases wound up to a landing where a wooden plaque had been mounted.
Each of the girls' names had been etched into the wood:
Mina
Aria
Lina
Reya
Sofi
Tara
Freshly carved.
Tara stared at her name. "But... we only got here now."
"No one knew we were coming," Aria muttered.
Mr. Calden walked to the center of the room and turned.
"You'll find your rooms prepared," he said. "Each of you has a key. You may pick which wing—left or right—but your rooms are already chosen. Dinner is at seven. The rules will be explained then."
Reya raised her hand slowly. "Sir... why are our names already here?"
He looked at her.
"The house has always known," he said simply.
With that, he turned again and vanished down a hallway without a single footstep making sound on the wooden floor.
Their rooms were strange.
Not uncomfortable—just unfamiliar.
Each one was decorated differently. Aria's room had a mirror taller than she was. Lina's had an antique dollhouse in the corner. Reya's had pale blue wallpaper that shimmered faintly in low light. Sofi's room was windowless.
Tara's room was strange in the most personal way.
Laid neatly beside the window was a pair of wooden crutches—identical to the ones she had.
But newer.
Her breath hitched.
"They were already here," she whispered.
Sofi sat down on the edge of the bed, watching her. "This place is wrong."
Dinner was served in a long room with a table that looked like it hadn't been used in years. There were seven chairs. Mr. Calden took the one at the head.
The food was warm. Barely. Thick stew, stale bread, and water in tall glass pitchers. The only sound was the clink of silverware.
When the meal was almost over, Mr. Calden set down his fork and folded his hands.
"The rules," he said, "must be followed."
He looked around the table.
"Rule One: You may not leave the grounds. The gate is locked. Do not try the forest. It does not like you.
Rule Two: Doors lock at ten o'clock. Do not open them after that. Do not knock. Do not answer.
Rule Three: The upstairs is off-limits. My wife rests there. She is not to be disturbed.
Rule Four: Do not speak of the lives you had before. The house does not like remembering."
He paused, then added quietly:
"The house listens."
Aria's mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Mr. Calden stood.
"That is all."
He disappeared into the same hallway as before. A moment later, a tall woman in a black dress entered to clear the dishes. Her face was stern, expressionless.
When Lina tried to thank her, the woman didn't even glance her way.
That night, the girls gathered in Mina's room.
They sat on the floor, knees tucked under their chins, voices barely louder than whispers.
"It's not an orphanage," Aria said. "It's something else."
"The names... the crutches..." Tara murmured. "It's like it knew we were coming."
Reya glanced at the door. "Did he say the doors lock at ten?"
Mina checked the clock.
9:58.
Suddenly, throughout the house, a soft mechanical clack-clack-clack echoed.
All six room doors locked at once.
Except...
Tara turned toward hers.
Still open. Just a crack.
A lullaby drifted in.
Soft. Sweet.
A melody she hadn't heard in years.
Tara stood slowly. Sofi pulled her back. "Don't," she whispered.
The hallway stayed dark.
And the voice—the same one in the lullaby—whispered: "Time to come home, little dove."