🌕 Episode 1: Dead Relative Energy

The first time Rowan Vale saw the house, it exhaled.

A long, cold breath from the cracked brick chimney—like a creature waiting.

She stood at the wrought-iron gate, suitcase in hand, coat too thin for the autumn wind, already questioning all her life choices. Especially the one that had her driving five hours into the misty countryside to visit a house left to her by a woman she barely knew.

Her grandmother, Vera Vale.

Screen legend.

Rumored recluse.

Certified dead for the past thirty years.

“Well,” Rowan muttered to no one, “she left me a haunted house and a cryptic legal clause. Classic Vera.”

The key in her coat pocket was old, ornate, and unnecessarily dramatic. Like Vera. When she unlocked the rusted gate, it let out a groan that could’ve been a scream. She half-laughed.

“Same, honestly.”

The manor loomed. Three stories of withered elegance—ivy strangling its façade, windows like watching eyes, paint peeling in soft curls. Somewhere in the attic, a curtain flapped despite the closed window.

Rowan narrowed her eyes. “Nope. That’s not ominous at all.”

The front door creaked open before she touched it.

She stopped. Looked around. Wind? Gravity?

A very polite ghost?

Inside, the house smelled like old wood, lavender, and secrets. The kind of place where you didn’t just walk—you were watched. Judged. Welcomed, maybe. But with conditions.

Dust shimmered in golden shafts of light slicing through stained-glass panels. On the mantel, a faded photo of Vera stood proudly—chin high, lips curled, eyes sharp beneath marcel waves. Next to her, the nameplate: Vera Vale. She Always Played Herself.

Rowan snorted. “Fitting. She’d probably haunt me just to fix my posture.”

She dropped her bag and wandered through the foyer, running fingers along banisters and walls. The wallpaper was floral and cracked in places, like the house had been mid-laugh when it died. The staircase curved up in an elegant spine. Above, a chandelier tinkled despite no wind.

The silence felt… thick. Like the house was holding its breath again.

Rowan looked up. “You don’t need to impress me. I already hate it here.”

A floorboard creaked—behind her.

She spun.

No one.

Then, in the distance, a piano chord. Faint. Off-key. From a room deeper inside.

“Of course,” she said. “Why not.”

Three Hours and One Emotional Breakdown Later

The kitchen had no fridge, the water ran brown for five minutes, and the bedroom smelled like old perfume and ghost resentment. Still, Rowan unpacked. Because that’s what you do when you inherit a death-trap mansion in the middle of nowhere: pretend everything is fine.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror—messy auburn hair, freckles that hadn’t faded with age, eyes like burnt gold and exhaustion.

“I am a strong, capable woman,” she said.

Behind her, the mirror fogged up. A single word etched itself into the mist.

“RUN.”

Rowan blinked. Then raised her eyebrows.

“Wow. Subtle.”

She wiped the mirror clean. “You know, Vera, if this is your idea of hospitality, it’s crap.”

The word didn’t reappear. Instead, the light above her flickered twice—almost apologetically.

She sighed. “Fine. Apology accepted. Barely.”

Day Two

Rowan woke to knocking. Not on the front door. Inside the walls.

She opened one eye. “Absolutely not.”

It stopped.

She closed her eyes.

It started again.

After ten minutes, she gave in and googled:

“How to evict a polite but persistent ghost.”

Results: 0 helpful answers, 3 Reddit threads, and one article on toxic exes.

Enter: Bastian Hart

The knock on the actual front door was at 9:06 a.m.

Rowan opened it mid-sip of coffee and immediately choked.

There stood a man who looked like he walked out of an Architect Digest cover shoot—tall, wool coat, dark eyes, and hair that probably styled itself out of sheer obedience.

“Rowan Vale?” he asked, holding out a hand. “Bastian Hart. Restoration Architect. We spoke briefly over email?”

Rowan coughed. “Right. Mr. Sweater Weather.”

He smiled, confused. “Uh. Yes?”

She stepped aside. “Come in. If you dare.”

He hesitated. “Should I be worried?”

“The house is probably haunted, I insulted a ghost yesterday, and the piano plays itself. So… yes.”

Bastian blinked. Then walked in. “Great. I love a challenge.”

Initial Assessment

They did a tour. Rowan pointed out every ominous quirk: self-opening doors, flickering lights, the scent of phantom lavender. Bastian nodded like he’d seen worse. Probably had.

“I’ll need to check the foundation,” he said, crouching to examine floor tiles.

“I’ll need to check your sanity,” Rowan replied.

He smiled again. “You really don’t believe in this kind of thing, huh?”

“I believe in asbestos. Not ghosts.”

Something groaned upstairs.

They both paused.

Bastian tilted his head. “…That wasn’t the pipes.”

Rowan: “Nope.”

That Night

Rowan poured herself wine. She sat by the old fireplace, laptop open, writing a text she wouldn’t send.

Hey. You’ll never guess where I am. It’s very me—full of ghosts and emotional trauma. You’d love it.

She deleted it.

Then, somewhere deep in the manor, the piano started playing again. A single slow melody. Bittersweet.

Rowan stood, heart pounding. Not from fear.

From familiarity.

She didn’t know the song. But her body remembered it. Like a lullaby she once cried to.

She followed it.

The music led her to the old sitting room—dusty, untouched. The piano sat under a white sheet.

But no one was there.

Only the music.

And a photograph on the piano stand she hadn’t noticed before: Vera Vale, young, laughing, with her hand entwined with another woman’s. Faces turned, intimacy obvious, smiles soft.

The back read:

“To V, for every life we’re not allowed. – J.”

Rowan’s hands trembled.

Then the piano stopped.

Final Scene

Later that night, Rowan lay in bed, eyes wide.

The house creaked. The mirror stayed clear. The piano remained silent.

But something had shifted.

She wasn’t alone anymore.

And maybe… she never had been.

🌕 Episode 2: Architect or Exorcist?

[Scene: Kitchen – Morning Light]

Rowan sipped burnt coffee from a chipped mug that said “World’s Most Tired Granddaughter.” She’d found it in a drawer, hidden behind a stack of empty spice tins and an unopened bottle of gin—clearly Vera’s priorities were on point.

Bastian sat across the counter, sketching something on a pad, unbothered by the smell of scorched toast and creeping mildew. How he made wool turtlenecks and ruinous property conditions look aesthetically pleasing, she would never understand.

“So,” Rowan began, “what’s the verdict? Do I need to call an exorcist, or a contractor?”

He glanced up with a grin. “Why not both?”

She squinted. “That was not a comforting smile.”

“Let’s just say,” he said, tapping his pencil, “your walls are holding more than just bad wiring.”

[Flashback: Night Before – 2 A.M.]

The piano had played again. Briefly. One gentle note.

But this time… there was breathing.

Soft. Just behind her.

When she turned, no one was there—except the air, heavy and scented with lavender.

[Scene: Drawing Room – Midday Inspection]

Bastian knelt by the fireplace, brushing away a layer of ash and dust.

Rowan stood a few feet behind him, arms crossed. “I’m just saying—if a ghost is going to murder me, I’d appreciate the courtesy of a memo.”

Bastian didn’t look up. “You want them to send you a death notice?”

“Preferably written in lipstick on a mirror.”

“That can be arranged.” He pried a panel loose and held up a crumpled photograph. Vera again. This time seated, with her hand on another woman’s knee. Neither smiling, but both staring, like they knew a camera could never capture what they had.

Rowan reached for it. The paper was brittle, as if it had been hidden for decades.

On the back, again, a signature:

“To V. All my love, always — J.”

“Juliette,” she whispered.

Bastian froze. “You know the name?”

“Vera’s… lover.” Her voice dipped. “She was erased from every article. Not a single photo. No mention in the estate files. Like she was never real.”

The fireplace crackled suddenly—despite no fire. They both stared at the empty hearth.

Then Rowan muttered, “Okay, if this is your idea of romantic ambiance, Vera, I take it back.”

[Scene: Upstairs Hallway – Afternoon Light]

They moved up the main staircase, which protested with every step.

Bastian stopped in front of a wall, tapping his knuckles against the wood. “Hollow. There’s something behind it.”

Rowan squinted. “Let me guess. Hidden door? Mummified ex-boyfriend?”

“More likely a sealed-off corridor.”

“Right. Because that’s better.”

He pried open a thin crack, revealing a dark hallway no wider than a closet. Dust danced in the shaft of light, swirling in purposeful patterns.

“Do you… hear that?” Rowan asked.

There was a soft whisper. Faint, unintelligible. But real.

Bastian looked at her, face unreadable. “Rowan… You might want to see this.”

They stepped inside.

[Scene: The Hidden Room]

It was a bedroom. Intact. Preserved like a shrine.

Rose-colored wallpaper. A single iron bed. Makeup tins. A trunk with velvet gloves.

On the dresser, an untouched lipstick tube.

Bastian exhaled. “It’s… Juliette’s.”

Rowan stepped forward slowly, touching the vanity. The mirror was spotless.

A film reel lay beside it, labeled “Private – V & J.”

She reached for it—

But the room breathed.

The light flickered.

The door behind them creaked closed—slowly.

Rowan turned. “No. Don’t you dare—”

Click.

Locked.

She looked at Bastian. “Architect or exorcist, Hart?”

He held up his hands. “Today? Mostly panicked civilian.”

[Scene: Later – Room Still Locked]

They sat on the floor, waiting for the door to unlock itself. Or for the ghost to get bored. Whichever came first.

Rowan leaned her head back. “Why is this happening now?”

Bastian tilted his head. “Maybe Vera was waiting for someone who’d finally listen.”

“To what? Her mixtape of regrets?”

“No. Her ending.”

That shut her up.

After a long pause, Rowan said, softly, “I think this house wants me to finish something.”

He looked at her carefully. “Do you want to?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Then: “I don’t know. But I’m still here.”

The lightbulb blinked once—warmly.

The door unlocked with a click.

[Scene: Evening – Screening Room]

Bastian set up an old projector they found in the basement. He fiddled with the reel, gently handling the fragile film.

“Ready?” he asked.

Rowan nodded, curling her knees to her chest on the old velvet couch. “For ghost cinema? Absolutely.”

The reel clicked on.

Footage played.

Vera. Smiling. Alive. Laughing in a garden.

Then Juliette entered—barefoot, in a sundress. They danced. They kissed. They filmed themselves loving each other. Quietly. Proudly. Intimately.

The film crackled midway. Burned.

The reel snapped.

The room fell into silence.

But behind them, a woman’s voice whispered—barely above breath:

“Thank you.”

Rowan turned. Nothing there. But she was smiling through her tears.

Bastian said quietly, “You okay?”

She nodded. “I think Vera’s starting to trust me.”

He paused. “Do you trust me?”

She looked at him. No smirk this time. “Not yet. But I’m getting there.”

[Final Scene: Bedroom – Nightfall]

Rowan curled up in bed.

Outside, wind whispered through the trees.

The mirror stayed clear.

No writing.

No lipstick.

No warnings.

Just her.

Alone.

But not lonely.

🌕 Episode 3: A Name in the Mirror

[Scene: Morning – Vale Manor Bathroom]

The mirror had fogged again.

Rowan stood in her bathrobe, toothbrush dangling from her lips, staring at the steam-covered glass.

At first it was blank.

Then, like breath pressed against frost, letters slowly appeared—soft but clear.

L U C A

She frowned.

“Not Juliette?”

The letters stayed.

Still dripping from her shower, she wiped the mirror clean. Her own reflection stared back—hair damp, eyes sharp, and full of too many ghosts.

Behind her… the door creaked.

She spun.

Nothing.

[Scene: Kitchen – Bastian making coffee like an emotionally repressed domestic god]

Rowan padded into the kitchen in fuzzy socks and a deadpan expression.

“You ever heard of a guy named Luca?”

Bastian froze mid-pour. “…Why?”

“Because your dead cousin just wrote his name on my mirror.”

He blinked. “I’m going to need context. And caffeine.”

Rowan slid into the chair opposite him. “The house keeps choosing new people to haunt. I think Vera’s letting the rest of the ghosts speak now.”

Bastian stirred his coffee. “Luca Fontaine.”

Rowan narrowed her eyes. “That name sounds suspiciously vintage.”

“He was a rising star in the 1920s. Same circles as Vera. Family says he was… unstable. Jealous. Tried to propose to her, but she turned him down.”

“Because of Juliette.”

“Probably.”

Rowan crossed her arms. “And how exactly are you related to this Luca Fontaine?”

He gave her a tired look. “Let’s just say I didn’t exactly apply to be part of this haunted romance drama.”

[Flashback – Bastian’s Memory, Nighttime Dream]

He stands in a burning room.

Velvet curtains aflame.

A woman screams behind a closed door.

Someone—him?—pounds on it, shouting: “Let her go!”

But the voice isn’t his.

It’s deeper. Angrier.

Twisted with obsession.

He wakes up gasping.

His hands are blackened with ash.

[Scene: Vale Manor Study – Afternoon Dust & Secrets]

Rowan and Bastian explored the west wing. The air was stale, thick with mothballs and faded perfume.

A book shifted itself off a shelf.

Rowan shrieked (quietly and with dignity).

Bastian picked it up. Inside was a folded letter. Handwritten in perfect script.

My dearest V,

He’s watching us. I think he knows. I no longer feel safe in the house when you are away. He follows me into the garden. Pretends to be a friend. But you know he is not.

If I disappear… it was not of my own will.

– J.

Rowan’s hands trembled.

“He killed her,” she whispered. “He couldn’t have her, so he made sure no one else did.”

Bastian stepped back, a horrified look crossing his face.

Rowan turned sharply. “What?”

“Luca was committed to an institution in 1944. For arson and delusions. The fire destroyed an entire manor. I thought it was myth. I didn’t realize…”

“You’re his grandson.”

He nodded. “And you’re Vera’s.”

They stood there—two descendants of love and ruin. Mirrors of a past that never healed.

Rowan whispered, “We’re standing in their battlefield.”

[Scene: Night – Upstairs Hallway]

Footsteps echoed. Not theirs.

Soft. Barefoot. Female.

Rowan walked slowly, candle in hand. Shadows flickered.

Then—she saw it.

At the end of the hall, a woman in a long gown. Translucent. Standing still.

Rowan took a step closer. “Juliette?”

The figure didn’t move.

The candle flickered violently.

Then the figure vanished.

And a faint whisper echoed:

“Not her.”

[Scene: Bastian’s Room – Same Night]

He woke to find the name JULIETTE carved gently into the condensation on his window.

Then the same whisper, this time right behind his ear:

“Fix what he broke.”

[Scene: Next Morning – Outside on the Porch]

They sat side by side on the steps.

Silent.

Rowan finally spoke. “What if this isn’t just about memory? What if the house is repeating something?”

Bastian nodded. “We’re falling into the same rhythm.”

“You mean—descendants, strangers, ghosts with unfinished business. Tragic attraction.”

He looked sideways at her. “Are you saying we’re doomed?”

Rowan hesitated.

Then smirked. “I’m saying… we should probably start researching exorcisms before we accidentally reenact a murder-suicide.”

Bastian chuckled. “Great. I’ll get the sage. You get the holy water.”

“Deal. Also… we might need therapy.”

[Final Scene – Back in the Mirror Room]

Rowan stood in front of the vanity where she first saw “RUN.”

She lit a candle.

“If you’re here,” she whispered to the air, “I want to know your story. The truth. Not just Vera’s. But yours, Juliette.”

The mirror remained still.

Then a handprint appeared.

Feminine. Small.

Next to it, in soft script:

“Find the necklace.”

Rowan stared.

Because she knew where it was.

Around Vera’s neck.

In her final film.

The one never released.