James glanced up- 7:42 PM. Right on cue, the door creaked softly, and Natasha stepped in like she owned the night.
She never knocked.
Tonight, she wore a velvet coat the color of dried blood and gloves she never removed. Her eyes—green, sharp, unreadable—swept the room before settling on him.
"You're looking tired, Doctor. Has Selena been draining your light again?"
James offered a practiced smile. "It's been a long day."
She smirked, settling into the leather chair opposite him, crossing her legs with slow elegance. He hit record on the device between them.
"Let's talk about your family."
She tilts her head,
"Must we? Such a joyless place to begin."
"You've mentioned your mother briefly. Never your father."
The air changed.
Natasha blinked once, slowly. The smile remained on her lips, but it no longer reached her eyes.
She leaned forward just slightly.
"Funny. That's the one question Selena never dares to ask."
"And you?"
"I think about him often. In detail."
She looked past James, as if watching something play out behind him.
"The way he chewed his food. The way the walls would hold their breath when he entered the room. The way his voice could curl around your spine like a wet rope."
"Did he hurt you?"
Her smile vanished.
"I'm not here to bleed for your clipboard, James."
"You brought him up."
"I think Hell is too kind for men like him."
Another pause of silence.
James leaned back slightly, unsettled by the shift in the room's weight. The flicker of the lamp seemed to slow. He checked the tape recorder—still running.
"Have you ever told Selena how you feel?"
Softly she spoke, almost a sigh
"Selena is too busy praying to hear anything that bleeds."
Then, just as suddenly, she was smiling again—wide and hollow.
"Tell me, Doctor… how well do you sleep after your confessions?"
James didn't answer.
James let the silence hang between them. Sometimes Natasha spoke the most when no one asked her to.
She uncrossed her legs, fingers tracing the rim of the armrest like a violinist tuning silence.
"You know, when we were children, people used to say we were inseparable. That we shared the same soul."
She gave a dry chuckle, devoid of warmth.
"But Selena… she always felt like a guest in my shadow. Quiet. Pale. Always clinging to prayer and polite smiles."
"She speaks highly of you." James said.
"She doesn't know me." Natasha snaps.
Her tone cracked—briefly, but sharply enough to make James lift his eyes from his notepad.
Natasha's face stiffened, as if ashamed of the outburst. She straightened her coat.
"She thinks I'm angry because I raise my voice, She thinks rebellion is rude and purity is silence."
She leaned closer, voice lowering.
"She never saw me. Not really. Not when it mattered."
"But you saw her?"
"I *studied* her. Still do. She thinks I'm chaos. But I know her patterns—when she lies, how she breathes when she's afraid, the way her hands twitch right before she decides to stay quiet instead of scream."
Her eyes flicked up to meet his—dark and gleaming.
"She's a mirror that fogs the moment you get too close."
"And yet you speak of her with... tenderness."
Natasha smiled thinly
"I love her more than anyone alive."
She let that breathe—then twisted it.
"And I hate her for making me feel that way."
"Hate is a strong word."
"Stronger than she'll ever be."
Natasha's voice softened again, almost fond.
"She was always the kind one, The delicate one"
A pause.
"But you can't stay clean forever—not when you've buried bodies in the garden."
James tensed, something in her tone made the hairs on the back of his neck dance.
"What do you mean by that?"
Natasha just smiled.
And James suddenly felt very cold.
He would later listen to the tape again, repeatedly, trying to decode the layers behind that smile. But no matter how many times he replayed it, she never said anything else.
The door clicked shut behind James with a weight that seemed to echo longer than it should have. His house was quiet—too quiet. Not the kind of silence that brought peace, but the kind that reminded you no one else lived there. Not anymore. Not ever, really.
He set his keys on the table by the door, next to a framed photo facedown, the back catching a thin ray of moonlight.
A single lamp lit the living room, casting long shadows over dusty bookshelves and a coffee table scattered with unopened letters. Manuscript pages sat beneath a ceramic mug with dried coffee stains, their typed sentences trailing off mid-thought.
James passed the fireplace, glancing briefly at the untouched row of plaques and certifications. Psychology degrees. A few commendations. One with his father's name embossed in bold beside his own.
The living room wall bore a framed quote: "The mind is not a vessel to be filled, but a fire to be kindled." Underneath it, a rejected book proposal lay tucked into a notebook marked REVISIONS. The notebook was over ten years old. The spine cracked when he opened it. He closed it again.
He poured himself into a drink he didn't want and sat in his armchair, staring at the floor. His eyes caught something in the reflection of the glass coffee table—a movement. Subtle. A flicker in the corner. He looked up.
Nothing.
Then again, in the mirror over the fireplace: Natasha—or was it, Selena? —passing by the hallway.
He blinked. Just the hallway.
James rubbed his eyes. His head ached. Not physical pain, more like a pressure. A slow-brewing migraine of the soul.
He reached for his recorder and played the last session. Natasha's voice filled the room, almost too loudly. She was laughing at something he hadn't remembered her saying.
In the silence between her words, he thought he heard his own name. Whispered. Barely.
His hand trembled as he turned the device off.
From the kitchen came the sound of a drawer sliding shut.
James froze.
But when he rose and walked slowly into the kitchen, the drawer was closed. Everything was in place. He walked out of the kitchen and glanced down the hallway towards the front door. Everything seemed to be still; he figured maybe he imagined it.
Except now, the photo by the door was upright again.
Facing him.
He stared at it for a long time. It was him and his father at a conference. His father wore a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
James turned it down.
Back in the armchair, he pulled the blanket tighter over his shoulders, staring into the dim, unmoving hallway.
He didn't remember turning on the hallway light.
And from somewhere in the house, barely audible, a voice spoke.
"Tell me, Doctor... how well do you sleep after your confessions?"
The sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows painted fractured patterns of saints and angels across the floor. James sat in a high-backed leather chair in the corner room of the house—a private octagon-shaped study turned therapy office. The room jutted out from the rest of the home like a chapel tower, windows on nearly every wall save the one housing the grand marble-white fireplace.
The room felt like a sanctum. Ornate crucifixes and rosaries lined the bookshelves. Candleholders shaped like cherubs were mounted along the walls, though the wax had long melted down to stubs. A statue of the Virgin Mary stood in the corner, eyes downcast and solemn. On the mantle above the fireplace were framed family photos, all aged but carefully maintained. In each one, James noted, Selena was pictured smiling softly beside her mother and father. Natasha, however, was conspicuously absent.
James's eyes lingered on one photo in particular. Selena's mother stood with a graceful sort of authority—tall, elegant, with piercing eyes. Something about her cheekbones and the sharpness of her gaze stirred discomfort. He realized, with a quiet shiver, that Natasha looked exactly like her.
The room smelled faintly of incense and old stone—like the back pews of a church left long untouched. A place meant for confession.
Selena sat across from him, her posture careful, legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded tightly in her lap. She wore a pale blue cardigan buttoned to the top. No makeup. Her hair was neatly parted and tucked behind her ears, a soft honey brown that caught the light in quiet glints. Her complexion was pale but clear, her expression perpetually caught between caution and apology. Her eyes flitted around the room, never quite settling on James.
She looked like someone who tried very hard not to take up space.
"Thank you for coming in, Selena," he said, tapping his pen lightly against the corner of his notebook.
She nodded once. "Of course. It's... helpful. I think."
Her voice was soft, deliberate. Polished in a way that seemed rehearsed. James had always noted her measured tone—as though she were reading her own emotions from a script.
"How have you been feeling lately?"
She hesitated. Her eyes drifted to a stained-glass panel depicting St. Michael vanquishing a demon, then to the floor. "Tired. A little off, maybe. Like I'm not all here."
James leaned forward. "Not all here?"
"It's like I'm watching myself live, but I'm a few seconds behind. Like my mind is buffering."
He scribbled a note, watching her from the corner of his eye. "Have you experienced any more gaps in memory? Lost time?"
She blinked, then nodded slowly. "Sometimes I wake up and it's dark. And I don't remember coming home. Or I'll find things in my room that I don't recognize—books I didn't check out, clothes I don't wear. It's... confusing."
James paused. "Do you ever talk to Natasha about these things?"
Selena's expression changed. Her face didn't move much, but the air around her seemed to tighten.
"We're not... that close," she said finally. "She's always been... different."
"Different how?"
Selena's gaze landed on him for the first time. "She's intense. Angry, sometimes. But smart. She always made me feel like I was the boring one. The quiet one. The disappointment."
James's pen stopped.
"Did she say that to you?"
Selena shook her head. "No. But she didn't have to. She thought it. I could feel it, she was the storm, I was the blank page."
The room fell quiet for a moment.
Then Selena tilted her head, almost curiously. "Do you ever feel like you're not sure who someone is, even when you've known them for a long time?"
James blinked. "I suppose that happens. People can surprise us People also change overtime, especially when you're not looking."
Selena nodded. Then, almost under her breath: "Sometimes I think I surprise myself."
James adjusted in his chair. "How so?"
She looked down at her hands. Her thumbnail had a streak of red paint—or was it nail polish? She rubbed it away quickly.
"Sometimes I wake up... and I don't recognize my own handwriting. Or I find notes I wrote that don't sound like me. Like someone else wrote them inside my head."
James swallowed hard. He looked down at his notes. Something about her phrasing scratched at his memory—like something Natasha had said, almost word for word.
"What did the notes say?"
Selena stared at the window. "They say things like... 'I see you.' 'Don't pretend.' And sometimes just a name. My name. Written over and over."
She smiled faintly, but it didn't touch her eyes.
"Isn't that funny, Dr. James? To be haunted by your own name?"
James tilted his head slightly. "Selena... what is it that you want? What do you hope to change in all of this?"
She didn't respond right away. Her lips parted slightly, her brows pulling together. The soft light painted her face with the color of saintly sorrow.
Then, sharply—"I want a life that is mine."
Her voice cut through the air like a whip. Clear. Certain. Not soft, not rehearsed.
A thin crack split the silence—like the sharp pop of cooling glass. One of the stained-glass panels had subtly fractured near the edge. James didn't notice. But Selena flinched.
She blinked several times, stunned by the force of her own words. Her shoulders pulled back slightly, her eyes widening.
"I—I'm sorry," she murmured, placing a hand over her chest as if to feel her heart steadying. "I don't know where that came from."
She looked genuinely rattled, almost fearful, as if her own voice had betrayed her.
James noted the tremble in her hands. "It's okay. That's... very honest."
She straightened her posture again, smoothing the fabric of her skirt, retreating back into herself.
"Sometimes we don't realize how strong our feelings are until we say them aloud."
Selena nodded slowly but didn't speak.
James flipped a page in his notebook. "Let's shift the conversation for a moment. Can you tell me more about your mother?"
Selena turned her gaze to a small hole in the stained-glass window—where the image of Mary, cloaked in flowing blue, was incomplete. Through the break, she could see the garden below, where rosebushes bloomed in vivid red.
Her voice softened. "She was beautiful. She looked just like Natasha—but she wasn't like her. My mother was... light. When she walked, it was like she floated. Her hair was long, curly, black. It flowed behind her like a cape. The curls framed her head like a crown."
Selena smiled faintly, her eyes distant. "She had a lovely voice. She used to sing while she cooked, while she cleaned. The house was always filled with her songs—old hymns, lullabies... things she said were passed down through generations."
James observed the gentle shift in her expression—the affection was real.
"She was a devout in her beliefs," Selena continued, still looking out at the roses. "Everything she did, she did for God. For family. For love."
A beat passed.
James hesitated. Natasha's words from the other night floated to the surface of his memory—something cryptic, unsettling. "They're in the garden, you know. Buried beneath the roses."
He looked up from his notes. "Selena, what happened to your mother?"
Selena's smile faltered.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, and a confused crease formed between her brows. Her lips parted, but no words came for a few seconds.
Then, quietly: "I... don't know."
She looked away from the window and stood up slowly. "I think that's enough for today, Dr. James."
James nodded, watching her closely. "Of course. We'll continue next time."
She nodded once and quietly left the room, the lingering scent of incense trailing behind her.
James sat in silence, staring at the garden through the window. The roses didn't move, but something about their stillness made the air feel heavier.
Back at home that night.
James sat in the dim amber light of his study, the soft tick of an antique wall clock was the only sound breaking the silence. His fingers drummed nervously against the arm of his chair, a legal pad on his lap filled with scattered notes and observations. He glanced at one entry, underlined twice:
"Bodies in the garden."
That had come from Natasha during their last session. A venomous comment delivered with that uncanny calm she wore like armor. He had dismissed it at the time, attributing it to metaphor—trauma often found its way out through the grotesque, after all. But now...
His thoughts drifted to Selena's session earlier that day. Her retelling of memories—soft, sweet, reverent. Her gaze fixed on the rose garden through that fractured stained-glass. James had noticed the moment her expression had shifted when he asked about her mother. That pause. The confusion.
"I don't know," she had said.
And then she ended the session.
He leaned forward and rubbed his temples. Was he chasing shadows? He was seeing the girls as a favor to their father, but he also needed the money. James was tired, his dreams of being a writer halted by fear and anxiety of failure, and the haunting dissatisfaction of his father.
Later that night, James collapsed into bed, exhaustion finally overtaking his mind.
In his dream, he found himself standing by a fog-veiled pond, the surface of the water black and glassy. A woman sat beside it, her back to him. Her long curly hair cascaded down her back like a cape, the curls crowned around her head like laurel. She hummed a tune—soft and lovely—filling the air with something mournful.
"Mother?" he said aloud, though the voice didn't feel like his own.
The woman turned. Her face was familiar. It was the face from the photograph on the mantel. The girls' mother. Her features mirrored Natasha's in an uncanny way.
Without speaking, she returned her gaze to the water.
"What are you doing?" James asked, stepping closer.
But it was no longer the mother sitting by the water—it was Natasha, younger, maybe ten or eleven. She looked up at him.
"Trying to memorize my face," she said. "So I don't forget what she looked like."
James's stomach turned. He glanced around.
"Where is she? Where's your mother?"
He looked back.
She was gone.
A distant scream cut through the night air. James turned sharply, breath catching. He ran toward the sound, weaving through a field of blood-red roses that seemed to stretch on forever.
Ahead of him stood a door—free-standing, ornate, ancient. It was covered in childish crayon drawings: stick figures, crude flowers, and a red scribble that might have been a heart or a wound.
He hesitated.
The air was thick and wrong here. Something behind the door breathed in slow, heavy gasps. The wind whispered his name.
Don't open the door.
Another whisper, louder this time:
Open it. You have to know.
His hand moved of its own accord, reaching for the knob, sweat breaking along his spine. Just as his fingers brushed the handle—
Hands seized his shoulders.
He was spun around, face-to-face with Selena—an adult version, her expression contorted in panic and fury.
"DON'T OPEN THE DOOR!" she screamed, and shoved him backward—
James hit the floor hard.
He awoke with a gasp, heart jackhammering against his ribs. Sweat soaked his shirt, and his mouth was dry.
He sat up slowly, eyes darting around his bedroom. The shadows were long and unmoving. Silence settled thickly over everything.
Then, somewhere in the house—a faint, almost imperceptible sound.
The slow, delicate crack of a mirror.
James didn't move. He just listened.
And the sound came again.
Friday 8:30PM
When I walked into the room, Natasha was pacing back and forth, obviously agitated. I sighed to myself. This was going to be one of those nights.
"Natasha, would you mind having a seat with me?" I asked nicely as I plopped down into my usual leather chair. Honestly, her pacing was going to drive me nuts—and the amount of patience needed to deal with her was astounding. It's like playing chess with your soul on the line. One wrong move, and I always had this itching feeling that something was clawing at my spirit.
She stopped dead in her tracks. Her head snapped toward me, and in two strides she was at the table. She looked like she wanted to say something but bit her lip instead and sat in the chair opposite me. Running her fingers through her hair in an ill attempt to brush it from her face, she looked at me. Calmly placing her hands on the table, there was an anxious look on her face and a dangerous glare in her eye.
"What did you say to Selena?" she asked carefully, with deliberate annunciation.
"What do you mean?" I asked, genuinely confused. "What's wrong? Is she okay?" Fear began to climb inside me.
She slammed her hands on the table. The bang rang throughout the room and caught me off guard—I jumped to my feet.
"She is off, to say the least! What did you do?" she yelled, her green eyes burning with anger, her pupils completely dilated.
"I don't know what you're talking about Natasha" Slowly annunciating each word.
She cocked her head sideways, shaking it in disbelief.
"Selena said your mother was devout in her beliefs, do you believe in God?"
"God?" she scoffed. "There is no God," she said, staring directly into my eyes.
"So, you don't believe in God?" I asked, hoping to divert the topic a little.
"The concept of God and religion is nothing but a psychological control factor to tame the masses. I hate religion because in my opinion, it frees people from the responsibility of their lives," she said while tapping her fingers on the table, leaning back in her chair, her head tossed back. Her black button-up shirt was open at the top, her diamond earrings visible from an angle. I could see her biting her lip.
"What do you mean by freeing people from their responsibility?" I asked, genuinely curious this time. This would probably be the one serious conversation I ever had with this girl.
She leaned forward again, letting all four legs of her chair touch the floor. She met my gaze.
"The idea that there is a higher power at work in your life makes people less likely to take responsibility for their actions. It's a lot easier to say, 'God will fix my problems' than to say, 'I fucked up, but I'll fix this myself.' All these success stories about people being homeless and suddenly finding God and turning their lives around? Bullshit!" she yelled, slamming her fist down on the table.
"You carry darkness with you, and people are attracted to the light. So, you've been carrying a dark perception about life—how you're down on your luck and everything is against you. You go to church, and the belief that God has a plan for you is shoved down your throat. They tell you shit like, 'Don't worry, He will take care of it.' And without knowing it, you've dropped your psychological burden. Your view of the world changes because now nothing is your fault, right? If something happens, it's what God wanted, right? All they did was mind-fuck you into believing some high power was at work, and now, without knowing it, you have a pep in your step. Your view of life is brighter. You feel like things are going well now because—no shit, Sherlock—they are going better! You're part of a community of people who want to help you now, and everything you have obtained through the connection of your church. It's sad that people can't believe in themselves anymore." She sighed.
"But don't change the subject, James!" she snapped. "I told you I liked her the way she was. Do not toy with my things, James," she said sternly.
"She isn't a toy, Natasha. And, you told me you hated her," I countered.
"But she is mine, James," she said, emphasizing the word "mine." I watched her run her hands through her hair again. Leaning back in her chair, her eyes met mine. "You're playing a dangerous game, James," she said while shaking her head, a smile beginning to cross her lips. Her face was no longer angry—she appeared calmer now.
"No one is playing any game, Natasha." I was irritated. "I'm sick of your mind games."
And she burst out laughing.
"That's the dangerous part—you don't even realize you're playing." She stopped smiling and started playing with her bottom lip as if deep in thought.
"Can we talk about your mother?" I asked cautiously.
She waved me off, looking at her nails. "Why? She's dead."
Her tone was so matter-of-fact that it caught me off guard. When I had asked Selena the same question, she had said she didn't know.
Natasha noticed the shift in my expression. She narrowed her eyes, the corner of her lips tugging into a sly smile. "Oh… you didn't know that did you?" she teased. "Looks like you've got some digging to do, Doctor. Go fetch."
"Can you at least tell me what you thought of her?" I asked.
Her expression softened slightly. "She was a beautiful woman. I look just like her… except I straighten my hair. Hers was curly. Really curly." Natasha's voice quieted with something almost tender. "She was a celebrated harp player. She had a voice that could call to the angels and give you goosebumps. But… these days, her voice is probably more haunting than anything in these halls."
"What do you mean by that?" I asked, sensing a window opening.
Her face returned to its usual irritated, playful expression. "Nope. Do your own research, and then we can talk."
She stood, eyeing me narrowly. She walked quietly toward the door, then stopped in the doorway and turned to look at me again.
"Sweet dreams, James," she said with a smirk, "but stay the fuck out of mine."
A chill ran down my spine. I suddenly remembered the dream from the other night.
James sighed and grabbed her bag to leave, happy to be heading home for the night.
James blinked.
He was in his office—but not quite. The world around him felt dimmed, like reality was wearing a veil. The stained-glass windows, usually a quiet centerpiece, now pulsed with a sickly crimson hue. There was a faint smell of roses and soil—wet, freshly turned earth.
A low hum filled the space, distant and discordant, like a harp playing underwater.
James stood up slowly. The door to his office creaked open on its own.
He stepped out into a hallway he didn't recognize.
The wallpaper peeled in long, curling strips, and the air had a strange pressure to it—as though he had walked underwater or stepped into someone else's memory.
Far down the hall, under the flickering light of a single bulb, stood a woman with long black hair. She wore a dark blue dress and black heels. Her back was to him.
She was peeking through a cracked door—barely ajar—her hand gently resting against the frame, her posture tense.
"Ma'am?" James called out.
The woman gasped.
She turned her head slightly but never showed her face—then ran, her heels clicking down the hallway as she disappeared around a corner.
James followed instinctively.
As he neared the open door, it slammed shut—hard, with a force that seemed almost personal. He jolted to a stop, heart pounding.
A second later, a scream echoed down the hallway.
James bolted toward the sound, following the corridor as it curved into an unfamiliar spiral staircase. There, sprawled at the bottom of the steps, lay the woman. Her body was twisted unnaturally. One of her heels was stuck on a step halfway down. Her leg bent at an angle it shouldn't.
She was crawling, nails scraping against the wood, eyes wide with pain and panic.
"Help!" she rasped, but the voice barely made it past her lips.
James took a step down—but froze when he heard it:
Click.
A door behind him had opened.
And with it, the house changed.
The air was gone. It felt like the entire house inhaled… and never exhaled. Silence blanketed everything, heavy and unnatural.
James turned around slowly.
Standing behind him was Young Natasha. She wore a white nightgown, her hair long and loose, her eyes shadowed but sharp.
"I told you to stay out," she whispered.
Suddenly, a hand yanked her back into the dark—and just as fast, another hand grabbed James from behind, cold fingers wrapping around his collar.
He was thrown down the stairs.
The world tilted. His limbs flailed. His head slammed the steps.
And just before everything went black, James saw a face at the top of the stairs—
A pair of piercing blue eyes.
Watching him.
Cold. Still.
He woke up violently, jolting upright from his desk chair, breath ragged, chest tight with panic.
In the silence of his office, the dream still echoed in his ears.
Then—somewhere in the house, he could hear the sound of a glass cracking.
Saturday 12:00AM
I walked into the room in haste, the door clicking shut behind me louder than intended. The sound startled Selena, who looked up from a book, her delicate fingers still caught between the pages. Her blue eyes met mine—those same eyes from the dream—and for a brief moment, I froze. My pulse quickened.
She stood quickly. "Are you okay, James?" she asked in that soft, angelic voice. Her concern was sincere, but something about it made my chest tighten. The purity in her tone, the brightness in her gaze—it felt unnatural now. Like porcelain so polished you suspect something's hidden beneath.
I rubbed my face, trying to mask my trembling thoughts. "Yes, Selena. I'm just… a little tired, is all." But her presence, so gentle and unassuming, only unsettled me further.
She tilted her head with concern. "Are you sure? You don't look well."
"I should be asking you that," I said, needing to pull the focus from my own disarray. "How are you feeling this morning?"
She offered a soft smile, but even that felt strange—too measured. "I'm fine, I suppose."
"You can tell me if something's wrong, Selena," I said gently.
"I'm fine," she repeated. "I've just been feeling under the weather. It's just not like me at all." She gave a reassuring smile. "I had a fever last night. My mom believes it's just the change in seasons."
My stomach dropped.
Her mom.
I tried to keep my expression still, but the words from Natasha echoed through my skull: "She's dead."
I watched Selena closely now. She spoke the sentence so casually. No sign of lying. No hint of confusion. Either she was completely disconnected from reality… or someone was lying to me.
"Your mom?" I asked carefully.
"Yes," she said with a nod, still smiling. "She was worried about me last night."
The air grew heavier around us. I tried to mask my confusion with a soft nod, but I could feel the temperature in the room drop.
"So… you're fine now?" I pressed again.
"Yes! In fact—" she brightened, her entire demeanor shifting, "I even figured out what I want to do with my life."
For a moment, the weight in my chest lightened. "Really? What might that be?"
"I'm going to be a writer," she said with a dreamy certainty. "Travel and see the world. I'm going to live my life the way I want. Tomorrow at church, I'll give my old life to God and start anew."
She reached out and gently took my hand. Her fingers were featherlight and warm, but in that moment all I could see was her face in the dream—staring down at me with those same blue eyes as I lay at the bottom of a staircase. Something tightened in my gut.
"Thank you for visiting me," she said, eyes wide with gratitude. "I know it was at the request of my father so I wouldn't feel alone… but you didn't have to accept it."
I tried to return her smile, but it didn't feel right. Her skin was the color of buttermilk, her hair soft in long waves. She looked very much like her mother now, too much like Natasha—an image that haunted the corners of my mind.
"I'm happy you found your path, Selena," I said, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears.
She beamed and began talking about France, China, England—the "mother of literature," she called it. Her voice filled the room with delicate excitement, but I couldn't hear her anymore.
I was staring at the wall just behind her, a mirror that had cracked like a spiderweb under pressure. Now, it was completely shattered, shards still glittering across the floor. No one had cleaned it up.
And for some reason, no one seemed to care.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I sat at my desk, haunted by dreams and fragments of something just out of reach. I typed her name into the search bar: Melanie Blackwood.
There she was. Celebrated harpist. Immigrant from South Africa. Fair-skinned, adopted by an American family during apartheid. They raised her in privilege—college educated, classically trained, elegant. Her face glowed in the old photos. Graceful. Joyous. She had converted to Catholicism after marrying a man named Gerald Blackwood, and together they had two daughters—twin girls.
But Melanie Blackwood was reported to have died by suicide 15 years ago.
A cold rush passed over me. The screen flickered. I blinked. I wasn't in my office anymore.
I was in the Blackwood mansion.
The soft hum of classical music drifted in from another room—there was a party happening in the distance. The place was elegant, lively. I wandered through the hallways, drawn forward. I came across a familiar door—the same one Melanie had peered into during my last dream.
It was cracked open this time.
Inside, I saw movement. The shadows were long, stretching across the floor. I leaned in slowly. There were muffled cries—choked, stifled. The faint outline of a child and a looming adult figure. My stomach churned.
No. No. No.
I stumbled back, horrified. The truth punched me in the gut. But before I could process it, I heard her voice.
"James."
I turned.
Selena.
We stood in the rose field again, the air still, the world quiet. The old wooden door was there again, standing impossibly in the open field.
"You shouldn't have come here," she said, her voice no longer light and angelic. It was flat. Cold. Detached.
She stepped toward me, brushing past as she reached for the door. Instinctively, I stepped away.
She clicked it shut.
"Selena… what I saw, was it real?" I asked, barely above a whisper. "Did it really happen?"
She tilted her head slightly. "What do you think?"
"I—I don't know what to think anymore."
She stared at me. The silence between us felt like it could crack the sky.
"When Natasha was younger… she looked exactly like our mother," Selena said quietly. Her face hardened. Her innocence crumbled.
She continued, her tone chilling. "When our mother found out what he was doing, she threatened to leave. She was going to take us. But he didn't like that. So he made sure she couldn't leave. And we were stuck in that house with him. Natasha… she got the worst of it."
I swallowed hard. "Why didn't you help her?"
She looked me dead in the eyes. "Because he killed the person I thought was invincible. My mother was an angel. A real one. And God let her die. So maybe she deserved it. Otherwise tell me—why did He take her from me?"
She said it with no emotion. No remorse. No guilt.
And then it hit me. She didn't just watch it all. She survived it by erasing herself from it.
I thought of the dream. Of the staircase. Of the woman at the bottom—the one who fell. The one who was pushed.
Selena was the one who pushed me.
Had she pushed her mother too?
My chest was tight. Panic creeping in like smoke. I stared at her. But when I blinked—
Hands gripped my shoulders.
"Because there is no God!" Natasha screamed.
I was yanked backward—violently.
I gasped, sitting upright.
I was back in the therapy room. The clock ticked steadily. Natasha sat at the table, watching me with a knowing look. She could see the panic in my eyes. The questions burning in my throat.
"Sit," she said calmly. "Let's chat."
I sank into the chair, unsure if my legs would carry me.
"Tell me everything," I whispered.
She smirked faintly. "I can't tell you everything. But… I can answer a few questions."
Natasha sat across from James, her expression unreadable. The room was dimly lit, heavy with tension. James took a deep breath and leaned forward, his voice careful but determined.
"Can you tell me what happened to your mother?"
Natasha looked at her hands before slowly meeting his eyes. "She was beautiful," she began softly. "Everyone says I look just like her. Her hair was curly like mine used to be... but I started straightening it when I got older. Thought maybe if I didn't look like her, he'd leave me alone."
James remained silent, letting her continue.
"She was the light in that house. And he destroyed her." Her voice wavered only slightly. "She figured it out. One night... she peeked into the room, He chased her. She told him she was leaving. Said she was taking us with her." Natasha's voice dropped to a whisper. "And then I heard her scream. And a crunch. A sickening crunch."
James felt the chill in her words seep into his skin.
"I knew she was gone. And then... there was no one left to protect me"
There was a pause before James asked, "And Selena?"
Natasha's expression darkened. "Selena was always the weaker one. She clung to her Bible and buried herself in it. Maybe she thought that made her safe. That if she was 'good,' he wouldn't touch her. She started pulling away from me the more I rebelled. Maybe she thought I deserved it... because I wasn't holy enough."
She scoffed. "But I still tried to protect her. Because I had to. I was the older twin."
James blinked, his vision swimming slightly. The world around him flickered, distorted.
Natasha stood. "That's enough for now."
And with that, she turned and walked toward the door.
The moment she exited, James gasped—and jolted upright in his chair. He was alone. Back in his office. Alone, but still shaken.
That wasn't just a memory. That was a dream.
No—two dreams.
He rubbed his temples, trying to make sense of the haze still gripping him. Someone had pulled him into the first dream.
Natasha had pulled him out.
But who pulled him in?
It couldn't have been Selena... unless she wanted him to see something. But she'd seemed so detached. Cold. Did she want him to know? Or was it a trap?
He remembered the sharp yank. Natasha's hands on his shoulders.
She saved me, he thought.
James looked at the clock—9:02 PM. Sunday.
He stood abruptly, heart racing.
He grabbed his coat and keys
He drove fast.
Tonight, he would talk to Mr. Blackwood.
And get answers.
I got to the door, fumbling to shove my keys into my coat pocket. My fingers paused when I noticed the door was already ajar, barely cracked open. My pulse ticked up. There were no lights on, no signs of life greeting me from inside the house. Dread began to climb up my throat like smoke.
I pushed the door open slowly. The creak of the old hinges groaned like a warning. My instincts screamed that something was wrong. I pulled out my phone and, without fully thinking, called the police to leave an anonymous tip. I didn't have much, but I was a mandated reporter, and something about tonight... it felt final.
"Please," I muttered, "just send someone."
I stepped inside and was immediately swallowed by the darkness. My shoes crunched softly on broken glass. I moved through the hall, peering into rooms with my flashlight on my phone—dining room, living room—nothing. My heart was pounding.
Then I reached the gallery at the end of the corridor.
Selena was sitting there, motionless in her favorite chair, staring out the massive window.
"Selena!" I exhaled sharply, relief cutting through me for a moment. "Are you okay?"
She didn't respond. I slowed my pace. Her stillness wasn't calm—it was vacant.
"Selena?"
She finally sighed. "Why?"
I stopped in my tracks. Something was wrong. Her voice—it was hollow.
I moved to reach for her hand, hoping to break through whatever trance she was in, but her head snapped toward me with a sharp, robotic glare. I froze.
Her eyes were… wrong. Cold. Empty. And furious.
She stood.
I backed up instinctively. Something about the way she moved—calculated, too fluid—it wasn't her. Or at least not the Selena I knew.
Then something flickered.
I blinked.
The room twisted like static washing over an old VHS tape.
When I opened my eyes again, I was still in the Blackwood mansion—but it looked... pristine. The wood gleamed. The air felt warmer. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows.
Another blink, and I was suddenly upstairs, outside a bedroom.
Voices.
Selena and Natasha.
Natasha was pacing frantically, nearly hyperventilating.
"I'm pregnant," she whispered. "I'm pregnant and I don't want this. I don't want this."
Selena sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in prayer.
"All will be well," she said gently. "God has a plan for you."
"Shut up," Natasha spat. "If I have this baby, people will start asking questions. They'll find out what Dad did, and then yeah—maybe he goes to jail. Maybe I'm finally free. And you? You can rot in this pew-stained house, clutching your little Bible and praying for someone to save you."
Selena flinched.
Natasha's breathing quickened, and in a sudden burst of rage, she punched the mirror on the wall. Shards rained down.
She stared at her fractured reflection.
And in the mirror, standing behind her—Selena.
With a piece of the glass in her hand.
Selena lunged. No hesitation.
The glass plunged into Natasha's stomach, and she gasped, stunned, blood blooming across her shirt like spilled ink.
Selena's face was locked in a serene, vacant smile. Her eyes were wild.
"I did it for you, Dad," she whispered as he ran from the room. "I did it for God."
Everything bled to black.
When I opened my eyes again, I was no longer in the mansion. I was somewhere... in between.
Natasha stood in front of me.
She had been dead all along. I slowly put the pieces together. The late-night sessions. The ghostly appearances. The emotional push and pull. It was never two girls. It was one. One broken soul split in half, trying desperately to survive.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
She smiled gently. "It's okay. I didn't expect you to fix anything. I just wanted someone to see us."
"Are you leaving now?"
She nodded. "I must. Things are finally settling."
"But I still have questions."
She raised an eyebrow, as if amused.
"Did your dad ever… did he touch Selena?" I asked, the words bitter on my tongue. "I don't understand how she became like this."
Natasha's smile faded into something more neutral.
"No," she said. "He always found her unsettling. I think even he knew she was... different. After she killed me, he never looked at her the same. He was afraid of her."
"And my second question... will I see you again?"
She stared at me. "I don't know"
I woke up to the sound of hospital monitors beeping wildly. Nurses were shouting. I could barely breathe. They told me I'd had a heart attack.
Later, the detectives arrived. The room smelled like antiseptic and latex gloves.
"Mr. Blackwood is dead," one of them said. "We're looking for Selena. She's now a suspect." Was all I heard, their voices fading in the background.
I told them everything I could remember. They took it seriously. They searched for the house, the garden. And under a patch of rose bushes, they found a box.
Inside were the remains of Natasha's unborn child.
The detectives explained: Selena had murdered Natasha when they were fifteen. She was committed for a year, diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder, then released into her father's care.
Months passed. I recovered. Quit therapy. Started writing again.
Sometimes I caught myself glancing over my shoulder.
One evening, while finishing dinner, I flipped off the lights and crawled into bed.
But the light clicked back on.
And I heard a soft cracking sound echo from somewhere deeper in the house.
I walked slowly to the hallway.
Selena was sitting in a leather armchair.
No. Not Selena.
I froze, heart hammering.
She smirked. "Relax. Don't have another heart attack."
My hand clutched the doorframe as I tried to calm my breathing.
She stretched across the chair. "Paint me like one of your French girls," she teased.
I didn't laugh.
She rolled her eyes, annoyed. "You're no fun."
Then, standing, she ran her hand along the edge of my bookshelf.
"You write, not paint. So, make sure it's a good story, James. Something beautiful. Something for me."
She walked to the door.
Paused.
"Don't worry," she said, smiling. "We won't kill you... yet."
Her eyes shimmered in the hallway light—one green, one blue.
And for just a moment, I swore I saw both girls standing there at once.
Natasha—the protector.
Selena—the monster.
One soul. Fractured.
She disappeared through the front door, under the cover of the night.