The wind howled through the cracks of the old farmhouse, though all the windows were shut. Clara stood at the kitchen sink, staring into her reflection in the window, but it wasn't quite hers. The eyes that stared back felt older, deeper, filled with pain and knowledge she hadn't earned—but remembered.
She turned to Evan, who was flipping through her grandmother's old leather-bound journal at the table, the one they hadn't dared open until now. He paused on a page written in a language neither could recognize. But Clara could read it.
"Give it to me," she said.
Evan looked up. "You understand this now?"
She nodded. "I think… it's not about understanding. It's about remembering."
She took the book and ran her fingers across the inked runes. As her eyes scanned the page, her lips began moving. Words spilled out in whispers. The lights flickered. The smell of iron filled the room.
Then she stopped.
"It's not just a curse," she said. "It's a pact."
Evan frowned. "With what?"
Clara turned the page. A symbol—like a tree with roots shaped like mouths—was drawn in thick red ink.
"With the ones beneath."
Flashback: 1899 — The First Pact
The Bennetts hadn't always been cursed. Once, they were revered.
When settlers came to the valley, they were drawn by stories of healing springs and endless bounty. At the heart of it all was a woman—Elsabeth Bennett, Clara's great-great-grandmother. She was called The Listener.
They said she could hear things no one else could. Voices from the ground. Songs in the wind. Prayers from the dead.
But the land wasn't generous without price.
One child, every generation.
No burial. No stone.
Just silence—and obedience.
It worked. The rain came when needed. Crops thrived. The well never ran dry. People whispered about blessings, never daring to ask where they came from.
Then Elsabeth's daughter, Marianne, was born.
And she refused.
She fought the tradition. Cursed it.
But the pact could not be denied.
She vanished one winter's night.
The well ran red for three days.
From then on, it didn't bless.
It punished.
Back in the present, Clara traced the drawing in the journal.
"The pact was broken," she said. "But the blood remembers."
"So this is why it's happening?" Evan asked. "All the disappearances? The dreams?"
Clara nodded slowly. "Each generation… someone forgets. And someone remembers. I think I was chosen for the latter."
Evan leaned back. "So what are we supposed to do? Rebuild the pact?"
Clara's voice was barely a whisper. "No. We end it."
That night, Clara left the house alone. The moon was a broken sliver in the sky. Cold wind pulled at her coat as she walked past the dead cornfields, past the rotting barn, and toward the old ruins in the woods.
The chapel.
Her grandmother had forbidden her from going near it. That only made her more certain she had to.
Inside, the air was thick with mildew and memory. Crumbling pews lined the walls, and the altar at the far end was cracked and leaning.
Clara stepped forward, drawn by something below.
She pried at the altar stone with a rusted iron bar.
It slid aside with a deep groan.
A spiral staircase led into the dark.
She descended, each step colder than the last.
The chamber at the bottom was carved from stone, ancient and damp. Glowing moss gave off a pale green light, illuminating carvings along the walls.
Faces.
Some familiar.
Elsabeth.
Mirabel.
Even herself.
At the center was a wide basin filled with thick, dark liquid. Not blood. Not water.
Something in between.
She knelt beside it and dipped her fingers in.
Visions crashed into her.
Lore Vision — The Deep Ones
Long before settlers arrived, the valley was sacred to a people who worshipped the Deep Ones—beings of memory, not flesh. They lived beneath, not underground, but beneath layers of time, identity, and soul.
They offered power, prophecy, and preservation. But always at a cost.
The Bennetts became their vessels.
Elsabeth heard the first whisper. She made the pact in desperation after a season of death.
The Deep Ones fed on what was forgotten.
And when too much was remembered… they fed harder.
Clara gasped and pulled back. Her fingers shimmered faintly.
The chamber shook.
From the walls, voices rose—not in anger, but in recognition.
You are the last Listener. The final gate. Break the line, and silence will fall.
The liquid in the basin stirred.
She fled.
Back at the farmhouse, Evan was packing.
"We have to go," he said. "Something's coming."
"We can't," Clara said. "It follows the blood. It always does."
He looked at her, eyes wide. "Then what?"
Clara closed her eyes.
"We burn the root."
The next morning, she led Evan into the forest. Past the well. Past the graves. Past the gate no one else could see.
At the edge of the world, there was a stone mound overgrown with ivy.
She dug.
Wood beneath her hands.
Not a coffin. A box.
Inside, a book bound in what looked like skin, and a pendant shaped like a mouthless face.
She took both.
"This is where it started," she said. "And it's where it ends."