The next morning, Amara's alarm went off at 6:30 AM, but she had already been awake for hours. Her dreams had been a blur of shadows and singing—a lullaby that crept into her bones and refused to leave. Her heart was heavy, her breath shallow.
The curse wasn't just an echo anymore.
It was real.
And it was getting closer.
She threw on her black hoodie, slid her journal into her bag, and crept out of the house before her grandmother could ask questions. The walk to school was cold. The mist lingered like it had been waiting just for her. Even the birds seemed hesitant to sing.
Micah was already waiting by the old oak tree near the back gate of the school.
"You look like hell," he said.
"Thanks," Amara replied, tugging her hood over her head. "Did you bring it?"
Micah held up a faded envelope. "Found it in my mom's attic. She used to be part of your mom's circle. This is the last address they used."
Amara snatched the letter. It was addressed in scrawled ink to: The House of the Forgotten Moon.
"How do we find them?"
Micah looked nervous. "It's not a place you Google. We'll have to use a locator spell."
"Today," Amara said. "We try tonight."
Micah nodded. "What about her?"
Amara followed his gaze toward the main building. Miss Voss had just stepped out of her car, dressed in a tight black dress and heels that clicked like clock hands on pavement. Her long, dark hair was pinned up. Her face, as always, was flawless. No sign of what had taken over her just hours ago.
Students watched her like she was a celebrity. No one questioned how she could disappear and reappear. No one cared how her eyes sometimes flickered gold.
But Amara knew.
She watched the way Elara's hand brushed against a locker—and the metal dented slightly.
"She's losing control," Amara whispered.
Micah shivered. "Or getting stronger."
—
At lunch, Amara slipped away from the cafeteria and returned to the old music room. Something about that place called to her. Not just the mirror—but the silence. The strange, alive kind of silence. Like someone was always listening.
She approached the mirror again.
Her own reflection stared back, wide-eyed and wary.
But when she blinked, the reflection didn't.
It just… kept staring.
Then it smiled.
Amara stepped back. "Nope. Not today."
But the mirror shimmered.
Just a flicker.
Like heat waves.
Then the surface rippled.
Her eyes widened.
From behind the glass, another version of her pressed her hand against the other side. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Her lips moved soundlessly.
Amara's heart pounded. She didn't move.
Then the reflection whispered through the glass:
"Don't let her birth it."
Amara's breath caught. "What?"
The mirror vibrated.
The reflection was gone.
Just her own face now—shaken, confused.
She backed away and fled.
—
That evening, Amara and Micah met in the woods behind his house. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, and a sliver of moonlight kissed the tree branches above them.
Micah laid out the ingredients on a stone slab: a vial of rainwater, a copper coin, strands of hair from a black dog, and the letter with the cursed address.
Amara lit a candle and began to chant.
"Show me what's hidden in shadow and flame,
Lead me through whispers, call out its name…"
The wind stirred. The trees groaned.
And then the coin began to spin—faster and faster—until it pointed northeast.
"There," Amara said, eyes locked on the direction.
Micah frowned. "That's near the edge of town. The old asylum."
Amara's throat went dry. "They hid there?"
"Looks like it."
The flame snuffed out.
And in the smoke, they both saw it:
A shadow with a swollen belly, drifting through the woods.
It had no face.
No feet.
Just a moaning hum… like a lullaby made of wind.
—
The next day, Miss Voss didn't come to school.
But strange things happened in her absence.
One student collapsed in the hallway, eyes rolled back.
Another reported seeing "a baby floating in the mirror."
Teachers whispered about nightmares and nausea. The nurse's office was full. And yet, no one blamed her.
No one dared.
Amara walked past Elara's classroom and felt the tension crackle. The smell of herbs and rust lingered in the air.
Micah met her by the lockers. "I think the curse is waking up."
"It never slept," Amara said. "It's just hungry."
That night, they followed the coin's direction.
The asylum loomed like a rotting tooth in the forest's mouth—abandoned, crumbling, and full of secrets. Its gates were bent. Its windows broken. But inside, something pulsed with old magic.
They found a circle drawn in chalk.
Symbols on the floor.
Candles melted to the bone.
And in the center, a diary.
Belonging to: Elara Voss.
Amara opened it, hands trembling.
The pages spoke of her past. Of how she used to be a harlot in the Witch Market—a place where humans sold their pleasures to creatures of darkness. She had fallen in love with a wandering witch—beautiful, cruel, intoxicating. The witch had promised her beauty eternal… for a price.
She had taken the price.
And the curse had taken root.
Every night, her body became ripe with a child that would never be born. A child of magic and malice. A soul forged from regret and bloodlust. Every morning, she was freed—but each time, the child came back stronger.
Until one day… it wouldn't go away.
Amara closed the diary, her heart breaking.
"She was cursed for love," she whispered.
Micah shook his head. "No. She was cursed for betrayal."
"She tricked the witch."
"She used them," Micah said. "And now she's paying the price. But if she gives birth, the curse becomes flesh."
Amara stood.
"We have to stop it."
—
Back at home, Amara stared into her bathroom mirror. It was quiet. Still.
But deep inside, she could feel the child.
Not in her body—but in her soul.
She had seen too much.
Heard too much.
The curse had marked her.
She turned away—and didn't see the shape move behind her reflection.
A flicker of a swollen belly.
A lullaby in the distance.
It was coming.
And the moon was almost full.