Elias tried to live normally.
That alone was an act of rebellion.
He swept the front steps at the usual hour, opened the funeral parlor on time, replaced the water in the vases, and brewed his tea exactly as always. Earl Grey. One sugar cube. No milk.
The windows stayed open for ventilation.The door was locked precisely at sunset.
Routine meant safety.
The woman in the red bridal dress remained outside.
She never crossed the threshold. Elias had refused her once—quietly, plainly—and whatever law governed this place had accepted his word. Now she lingered beneath the eaves, by the roadside, sometimes perched on a lamppost like a bird with broken wings.
She watched.She waited.She did not speak unless spoken to.
Elias never spoke to her.
This was the fifth body this month.
Another child.
He stood in the preparation room, gloved, looking down at the small form laid out before him. The parents had cried. The neighbors had whispered. The explanation was the same as the others—food poisoning, fever, sudden illness. Too fast. Too late.
Elias nodded and accepted the paperwork.
He did his job.
That afternoon, an inspector arrived.
Elias noticed him the moment he stepped inside—not by his badge, but by his eyes. They moved slowly, methodically, never ignoring an exit. He wasn't from the town. His shoes were clean. His coat was stiff and new.
"Elias Graves?" the man asked.
"Yes."
The inspector introduced himself, presented his documents, and spoke with professional detachment. He asked about recent cases, about families, about procedures.
Elias answered everything.
Short.Precise.Calm.
The inspector studied him more than once, a faint crease forming between his brows.
"May we see the body?" he asked.
Elias hesitated.
Only half a second—but enough.
"I need to inform the family first," Elias said.
The inspector examined him, then nodded. "Of course."
While Elias made the call, the woman outside remained silent. No laughter. No whispering. She leaned against the wall, head tilted, watching the inspector through the glass as though he were already dead.
The family consented. The inspection continued.
The inspector moved slowly through the preparation room, taking notes, checking temperatures, reviewing records. His gaze lingered on the child longer than necessary before returning to Elias.
"You've had some trouble lately," he said casually.
"No," Elias replied.
It was true. His definition of trouble was very narrow.
The inspector hummed. "You seem… composed."
Elias didn't answer.
What do you expect? he thought irritably. This face doesn't move. This voice doesn't shake. Am I supposed to cry in the corner?
The inspector summarized his findings. The symptoms were consistent across cases—food poisoning accompanied by high fever. No visible external injuries. For now, the scale appeared limited.
They would keep an eye on it.
After an hour, the inspector closed his notebook.
"We'll be going," he said. "If anything unusual occurs, please contact us."
Elias escorted him to the door.
The woman outside watched intently.
As the inspector stepped over the threshold, Elias spoke, eyes lowered.
"Reinforcements," he murmured. "You should bring them."
The inspector turned, confused. "Reinforcements?"
Elias looked blank.
"…Just a thought."
The inspector hesitated, clearly puzzled, then offered a polite nod and left.
The woman laughed.
Softly. Almost kindly.
"They'll die tonight," she said.
Elias shut the door.
"I didn't ask," he replied flatly.
He washed his hands thoroughly, scrubbing beneath his nails, removed his gloves, and did not look outside again.
It wasn't his business.
In the novel, this had been a minor incident—too small, too scattered. The authorities listened to the wrong people. By the time they realized, the numbers had already grown.
But that wasn't now.
Elias needed to make chicken soup.
He rolled up his sleeves and stepped into the small kitchen behind the parlor. He began chopping—carrots, onions, ginger. The steady rhythm calmed him. The scent filled the room, warm and familiar.
Outside, the woman kept smiling.
Inside, Elias focused on the pot.
One mad ghost was more than enough.
He wasn't getting involved.
Not today.
*****
Morning arrived with sunlight.
Warm, pale light spilled through the window, brushing the wooden floor and the edge of Elias's desk.
Somewhere outside, birds were singing—distant, thin sounds, as though heard through water. Elias stood by the window as he always did, tea in hand, staring out without really seeing.
The woman in the red wedding dress stood there.
She always did.
But this morning, she was holding a child.
The girl looked no older than sixteen or seventeen. She wore a pale blue dress—the sort a student might wear to school. It was clean. Neat.
One of her eyes was missing. The socket was dark and hollow, but the rest of her face was soft, round, almost gentle. She clung silently to the woman's neck, fingers digging into fabric that had long ago ceased to be cloth.
Elias took a slow sip of his tea.
Breakfast was waiting.
The woman tilted her head, clearly amused."Unlike the others," she said lazily, "this one ran. Grief makes people reckless."
Elias said nothing.
The girl looked down.
Her remaining eye met his.
Elias looked away.
He set the cup down, turned toward the kitchen, and reached for the bread. Normal. Breakfast first. Eggs would go cold otherwise.
"Mister," the girl said softly.
Elias paused.
He hated that he paused.
"I'm not with them," she said quickly, words tumbling out. "Not the cult. I didn't know. I swear I didn't know."
Elias kept walking.
"I was just helping in the cafeteria," she continued. "At the school. I cooked every day. I tried to make the food warm. I tried to make it good."
Her voice trembled.
"If it's possible… you don't have to work hard," she said hurriedly. "I don't want trouble. I just— I couldn't bear it anymore."
Elias cracked an egg into the pan.
Too many children.
She didn't say it outright, but it was there.
"So many of them," the girl whispered. "I hate it. I really do. Please."
The word lingered.
Please.
Elias stared at the egg as the white spread slowly, the yolk trembling at the center.
He didn't want this.
He didn't want to know.He didn't want to change anything.
This was how he had survived—head down, eyes closed. If he didn't see it, it wasn't his responsibility. If he didn't touch it, it couldn't stain him.
"Mister," the girl said again, quieter. "Just one woman."
Elias exhaled slowly.
"And if I do nothing?" he asked.
The girl shook her head.
"Just let her invite me in," she said. "That's all."
Elias laughed once—short, empty.
"…Fine."
The word tasted bitter.
He put on his coat, picked up his umbrella, and stepped outside. The woman in the red wedding dress clapped softly, delighted, as if a play had finally reached its favorite scene.
They walked.
Elias didn't ask for directions.
His feet already knew the way.
The house was modest and well-kept, flowers blooming neatly in the yard. Safe. Normal. The kind of place no one ever suspected.
Elias stopped at the door.
He knocked.
A woman answered.
She was beautiful in an ordinary way—gentle smile, warm eyes, apron dusted with flour. The smell of food drifted from inside.
"Oh?" she said pleasantly. "Can I help you?"
Elias looked at her.
So this was her.
He said nothing.
The woman blinked, then smiled wider."Please, come in."
The door opened.
That was all it took.
The ghosts crossed the threshold.
The air twisted. Walls stretched. Shadows bled into one another as warmth curdled into something thick and suffocating. The girl stepped forward, hands trembling, her empty socket fixed on the woman's face.
The woman screamed.
Not at first.
At first, she laughed nervously. Asked what this was. Who they were. She stepped back, confusion flickering—then recognition struck.
Too late.
Elias sat at the table.
A teacup was placed before him.
He picked it up and drank, hands steady.
The screaming began.
It lasted a long time.
The house shook. Something slammed against the walls. Words spilled out—pleas, curses, names Elias didn't recognize. The air grew heavy with iron and rot.
Elias swallowed.
He wanted to vomit.
He didn't move.
Beside him, the woman in the red wedding dress chuckled softly, covering her mouth like a lady watching theater.
"Well," she said lightly, "I thought the girl died at random."
Elias coughed. Tea burned his throat.
"What?" he croaked.
The screams sharpened.
"She didn't know," the bride continued cheerfully. "Good news, though. This woman is connected to the cult. They'll come looking for you."
Elias stared into his cup.
The girl's voice cut through the chaos—thin, furious.
"You fed us," she shouted. "You watched us eat."
Elias closed his eyes.
The screaming stopped.
Silence rushed in, thick and absolute.
When Elias opened his eyes, the house was normal again.
The girl stood before him, posture straight, her remaining eye clear. She bowed deeply.
"Thank you," she said.
Elias didn't respond.
The woman in the red wedding dress laughed softly."See? You didn't have to do anything."
Elias stood.
He walked out.
Sunlight greeted him as if nothing had happened.
Behind him, the house stood empty.
He walked home slowly.
Breakfast was long cold.
Inside, Elias sat and stared at the wall.
"…I hate this," he muttered.