Chapter 1: Inheritance

The fog rolled over the cliffs like a living thing, curling through the black iron fence and creeping across the overgrown driveway. Amara Blake stepped out of the rusted taxi, her boots crunching gravel that hadn’t been touched in years. The mansion loomed above her—three stories of rotting wood, shattered windows, and a roofline that seemed to sneer at the sky.

She held the brass key in her palm. It was colder than the wind.

Why me? she thought again.

The letter had arrived two weeks ago. A lawyer’s name she didn’t recognize. A will from a grandmother she’d never met—Elspeth Blake. Deceased. The property was hers now. No conditions. No cost. Just a signature. She’d signed without thinking.

She needed out of the city. Needed quiet. Needed to be anywhere but where he could find her.

The cab driver didn’t even wait for a tip.

The gate groaned open when she pushed it, metal protesting like it hadn’t been moved in decades. She crossed the garden, overgrown and thorny, and made her way up crumbling stone steps to the front door.

It opened before she could put the key in.

Amara froze.

The wind, maybe. Old hinges. She stepped inside, ignoring the way her skin prickled.

The house smelled of damp wood and something sweeter—lavender, maybe, or dried roses. Dust spiraled in the slanted sunlight that leaked through cracked windows. The hallway was long, lined with old portraits whose eyes followed her.

She shut the door behind her. The echo was louder than it should have been.

A grandfather clock in the corner ticked slowly. But it was broken—the hands didn’t move.

Amara set her backpack on a side table. The air felt thick, like walking through honey. Her breath fogged in front of her, and she rubbed her arms.

A sound echoed above her.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

She looked up. The ceiling stretched two floors high, with a grand staircase to the left. Shadows played on the walls. Nothing there.

You’re alone, she told herself. Old houses make noise. Old wood shifts.

The lawyer had said utilities were still connected, that the caretaker had kept the place livable. She didn’t believe it for a second.

The chandelier above her trembled slightly, casting sharp reflections on the floor. She walked deeper into the house, drawn toward a hallway on the right. It led to a dining room. The table was still set. Plates, silverware, a dusty candelabra.

Someone had left in a hurry.

Or had never left at all.

She paused by a painting—larger than the others. A woman in a high-collared dress. Hair pulled back. Pale eyes. The plaque read: Elspeth Blake, 1901–1976.

Amara swallowed hard. The woman looked just like her.

That night, she made a fire in the hearth and laid her sleeping bag on the floor of what must have been a study. She tried not to notice the way the bookshelves rearranged themselves when she turned away. Or how the old radio on the desk clicked on by itself, crackling with static for three full minutes before stopping.

She drifted into sleep.

And dreamed of drowning.

Cold water filled her lungs. Hands dragged her down—small hands, like a child’s. The sky was grey above her, the waves black. She saw a house underwater, the same one she now slept in. And it was smiling.

She awoke with a gasp.

Wet.

Soaking wet.

Her hair clung to her face. Her clothes were drenched. And around her, the floor of the study glistened with puddles of seawater. Strands of seaweed curled between the wooden floorboards.

And from somewhere above her...

A whisper.

“Welcome home.”

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