I woke up like a princess.
Warm. Soft. Suspended in that brief, perfect moment where the world hasn't remembered to hate you yet.
My eyes stayed closed. My body felt heavy in a good way, wrapped in blankets that actually did their job. For a second—just one—I thought, Wow. That was the nicest dream I've had in years.
Then I opened my eyes.
The attic ceiling stared back at me. Slanted. Wooden. Too close.
Right.
Mystic Falls. Terrible summer. Terrible timing.
I groaned and rolled onto my side, staring out the window. The forest was there, exactly where I'd left it. Green. Endless. Quiet in a way that felt smug.
"I hate this room," I muttered. "I hate attics. I hate trees."
From downstairs came Martha's voice, already mid-screech, loud enough to pierce floors. Some argument. Some injustice. Some crime committed against her personally.
Normal.
Then the smell hit me.
Food. Real food. Seasoned food.
My stomach betrayed me immediately.
I clenched my jaw. "Doesn't count," I said aloud. "One good thing doesn't redeem a cursed location."
I stretched, testing my body. Everything ached, but in a dull, manageable way. The bed had been stiff, sure, but not awful. I'd slept. Properly. No nightmares. No screaming eyes. No—
My foot brushed something under the bed.
I froze.
Slowly, carefully, I leaned over and looked down.
The journal was not under the bed.
It was on my bed.
Right beside me.
My breath stopped.
My heart slammed once. Hard. Like it had been waiting for permission.
"No," I whispered.
The room tilted.
I sat up too fast, air rushing in and out of my lungs like it was trying to escape. My hands shook as my brain scrambled for excuses.
Okay. Okay. Calm down. This is explainable.
Sleepwalking. Yes. Definitely. People do that. They walk. They move things. They hallucinate eight-eyed alligators the size of buildings—
My chest tightened.
I grabbed the journal.
It was real.
Cold. Solid. The leather didn't feel old—it felt kept. Like it had survived on purpose.
Memory crashed back into me all at once.
The cave. The eye. The roar. The water. The fall.
I made a sound—half gasp, half laugh—and slapped a hand over my mouth.
"Oh my God," I whispered. "I almost died."
No dramatic music. No slow realization.
Just raw, animal fear settling into my bones.
I tried to open the journal. My fingers tugged uselessly.
Locked.
I stared at it harder, like intimidation might work this time, and finally noticed it—small, deliberate. A keyhole. Neat. Intentional.
Of course.
Of course it needed a key.
A knock came at the door.
I nearly threw the journal across the room.
"Bobby?" Irithiel's voice, soft. Careful. "I… I heard you scream."
I looked at the door.
Then at the journal.
Then back at the door.
She cracked it open just enough to peer inside, eyes wide with concern, hair slightly messy like she'd rushed.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
My gaze dropped to the book in my hands, then back to her face.
I exhaled slowly.
"Oh," I said, quietly. "Fuck."
---
I followed Irithiel downstairs. She moved like she was trying to be subtle about something, but I noticed. Always notice. Slight blush. That didn't make it any less weird.
Breakfast was a chorus of smells and chatter. Bacon, eggs, toast—some of it smelled like heaven and some of it smelled like betrayal. I shoved a piece of toast in my mouth while my brain pinged with one thought: How the hell am I going to open that journal?
Aunt Serene clattered around, cheerful as ever. "I'm heading into town," she said, stacking groceries in a basket. "I'll drop Daniel off at work too. Who's coming with me?"
Martha squealed, bouncing in her chair like a cartoon. "Library! Library!"
Margaret, ever the serious one, chimed in. "I want to see the town structures—old stuff. Medieval, entwined with nature. You know. Architecture."
Perfect. My chance.
"I just want to… stroll," I said, nonchalant, waving a hand.
Irithiel perked up immediately. "I'll go with you," she said.
Externally, I frowned. Internally… Clings too much. We literally just met.
I wandered toward the mirror on the wall while she gathered her things. My reflection stared back: messy dark hair, the family's signature blue eyes, sarcastic expression. Could she like me? I shrugged. Not exactly on the top of my to-do list. Journal, forest, eight-eyed nightmare—that kind of stuff. Romance could wait.
I smirked. Not that anyone would see it. Some men die of thirst, others drown.
Focus. Locksmith. Key. Journal. Everything else was noise.
And yet, I couldn't help catching her glancing my way. Again. And again.
I frowned.
---
I climbed into the back of the truck with the others, slumping into the seat. Daniel sat up front with Aunt Serene, who was busy giving driving directions or life advice—I couldn't tell which.
The road stretched through endless forest. Trees pressed in on both sides like they had been growing there forever, untouched, unquestioned. No one blinked at it. Not a single thought of clearing a path, building a signal tower, or putting up a transformer. And that's when it hit me—electricity? Sure. But no transformers, no power lines, nothing. How the hell did they make this work?
I was about to dwell on it when Irithiel's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. "We're here," she said.
The truck stopped in front of the library. I got down with the others while Aunt Serene, still sitting in the car with Daniel, gave instructions. "We'll gather back at five to head home. Until then, explore—but remember your grandmother's rules."
Rules, I muttered internally. Yeah… if I followed those, I'd be dead right now. I shot Daniel a death glare through the windshield, but he was too smug to care.
The car drove off. Silence, then chaos.
Martha's knee slammed into mine. Hard. "out of my way, slave!" she shouted, grinning as she bolted into the library.
Margaret laughed awkwardly and followed her.
Irithiel just stood there, frozen, eyes wide.
I rubbed my aching knee. "Lead me to a locksmith," I said, voice calm, hiding the surge of pain. "If you know one."
She blinked, then gestured vaguely toward the town. I adjusted my grip on my knee, thinking: Some days you survive eight-eyed monsters, others you survive bratty little children either ways u hate both.
---
Irithiel walked a half-step behind me, hands folded like she was afraid of bumping into the air itself.
"So," she said softly, "why do you need a locksmith?"
"Secret."
Out loud, clean. Inside my head? Because journals found next to corpses don't exist to be decorative. Things like that usually come with warnings. Or confessions. Or instructions on how not to die the same stupid way.
Then the thought stalled.
Why did I even want to know what was inside?
That question felt heavier than it should've, like it didn't belong to me. Before I could pull at it, Irithiel rang the bell.
The shop smelled old. Not dusty—settled. Like time had given up trying to move things around. The man behind the counter looked carved rather than born, thin and sharp-eyed, with a name tag that read CHARLES.
Less than a day in this town, and my list of questions was already longer than my phone battery's lifespan.
I held out the journal. "You got a key for this? Or can you just… yank it open?"
Irithiel drifted away immediately, distracted by shelves that looked less like locksmith stock and more like a trinket graveyard. Charms. Odd bits of metal. Things that felt like they didn't want to be touched. She kept stealing glances at me. I pretended not to notice.
Charles took the journal. His frown came fast.
Then he dropped it.
Not an accident. A decision.
He looked at me instead. "You're John's grandson."
I stiffened. "Yeah."
"You look like him."
That wasn't a compliment. That was reconnaissance.
I frowned. I could feel it now—the sidestep, the slow walk away from the point. And right on cue, he asked, "Where did you get this?"
I didn't blink. "Can you open it or not?"
His mouth tightened. "Young people these days—no respect."
He picked the journal up again, studying it, then me. His eyes kept flicking to my face like he was reading subtitles I didn't know I was projecting. I hated that.
I stepped away, pretending to browse. "What do you know about the forest around this town?"
The reaction was instant.
"Out. Both of you. Now."
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the bell as we stumbled back into daylight.
Okay. Yeah. That confirmed it. Something was deeply, structurally wrong with this place.
Irithiel stared at the journal in my hands, then hesitated. "I… I think I've seen a key like that. In your grandmother's study."
I facepalmed.
Hard.
Of course. Of course the solution was sitting quietly in a room I didn't think to ask about. I let my hand drop, exhaled, then froze again.
Because the question came back, louder this time.
Why do I care?
Why did I feel off—tilted—since the moment I stepped into this town?
I looked at the forest in the distance. It didn't look threatening. It didn't have to.
Something here wasn't chasing me.
It was waiting.