The woods behind the Bennett house no longer felt like home.
Trees that once whispered with wind now murmured with something older. The path leading to the ancient stone arch—what Clara now knew as the "second mouth"—seemed to shift slightly with every visit, as if the forest itself didn't want her to find it again.
But she was done running.
The ritual book had said one mouth was sealed. That meant the other was still open—feeding, whispering, calling.
Clara had barely spoken since finding the photo of Thomas. The truth gnawed at her like rats in the dark. She couldn't stop wondering how many generations of Bennetts had lied to themselves, and how long she'd been living under a curse wrapped in silence.
"I'm going with you," Evan said, his voice firm.
Clara didn't argue. For once, she was grateful for the way he never backed down. They prepared before the sun rose—flashlights, salt, the old journal, and a silver locket they'd found in one of Elsabeth's trunks.
The locket bore the Bennett family crest on one side and a pressed violet on the other. Inside was a scrap of paper with a single line written in an unfamiliar hand:
"To shut the second mouth, you must first open it."
"What the hell does that mean?" Evan muttered.
Clara didn't answer. She had a sick feeling she was about to find out.
The forest thickened as they walked. The air grew colder, heavier, and soon the sounds of the waking town disappeared altogether. No birds. No wind. Just breath and footsteps.
When they reached the clearing, the arch stood tall—impossibly tall—though it hadn't been nearly that size the last time Evan saw it.
The stones had rearranged themselves. At the center now hung a heavy iron ring, suspended in the air like it was holding back something unseen. Runes glowed faintly across its surface, like veins beneath ancient skin.
Clara stepped forward. The moment her hand brushed the stone, a memory slammed into her like a wave.
Flashback.
She was young. Maybe five or six. Running barefoot through the forest behind the house, chasing something—someone. A voice called to her, a child's laughter ahead. Thomas? She couldn't see him, but she followed.
Then, the world turned. The trees seemed taller. Their roots moved. The well appeared before her, but not as it was now—no, this one breathed. A heartbeat beneath the stone. Something whispered her name—not Clara, but another.
"Liora."
She blinked.
What?
Then she was falling—arms flailing—down, down into a cold that didn't stop at her skin but clawed into her soul.
End of flashback.
"Clara!" Evan shouted, grabbing her arm.
She stumbled back, gasping. Her knees buckled. "Did you… did you hear that name?"
Evan shook his head. "What name?"
"Liora," she whispered. "That's not me. But it was."
He looked at her with concern. "Maybe it's a name from another life?"
Clara didn't answer. The truth was clawing its way into the light, and it scared her more than the forest ever could.
The ritual book had said the gate chooses vessels. It had said the pact required desperation. What if—what if Clara wasn't just descended from the one who made the pact?
What if she was the one?
Reincarnated. Returned. Chosen again.
A sudden howl echoed through the trees—low and unnatural, like wind through bone.
They turned. The forest shifted behind them, shadows lengthening, forming shapes that watched. Evan raised the flashlight, but the beam seemed to be swallowed by the dark.
Then something stepped forward.
A figure.
Thin. Pale. Eyes like empty wells.
Thomas.
No—what had become of him.
The boy from the photo. Still six years old, but wrong. Stretched, like his soul had been pulled from one world and barely stitched into another.
Clara's breath caught. "Thomas?"
It smiled.
Not with its mouth. With its skin—cracking and parting like bark.
"You should not be here," it said. The voice came from all around. "You should not remember."
Clara stepped forward. "But I do."
The figure twitched. "Then the seal is breaking."
Evan pulled her back. "We need to go."
"No," Clara said. "This is what it wants. What she wanted. Elsabeth didn't just seal the mouth—she sacrificed him to it. He became its voice."
The child-creature screamed—a terrible, keening wail that split the trees and made the ground shake. The arch behind them groaned.
Clara reached into her coat and pulled out the locket. She held it high.
"Thomas! This belonged to her. To Elsabeth. She left it behind!"
The creature paused. Its head tilted.
Then, slowly, it stepped backward—into the arch.
"Open the mouth, Clara," it whispered. "And bleed the truth."
The arch flared with light.
And Thomas was gone.
They stood in silence.
Clara turned to Evan, her voice ragged. "We need to prepare. That was an invitation."
He nodded. "And we're not ready."
She looked at the journal again, now opened to a new page that hadn't been there before.
Words inked in fresh blood.
The well took the voice. The gate holds the body. To end the cycle, you must offer what was stolen: memory, name, and blood.
Clara touched her chest, where her heart thundered in terror and determination.
She now knew what the second mouth wanted.
It wanted her.