The old wooden door clicked shut behind him, muffling the low thrumming hum of the containment spell.
He stood still for a moment, hands resting lightly against the grain. The silence outside the cell was thicker—less violent, more familiar.
He exhaled slowly.
The house was vast, yet it held no warmth. Stone halls stretched outward like veins in a corpse, winding endlessly beneath the forest's roots.
Dust coated some corners. Others were too clean, too carefully untouched—memories sealed in place.
He walked, the tray now empty in his hand.
Candles flickered against walls adorned with ancient relics—portraits faded by time, weapons dulled by regret.
He passed them all without pause, except for one frame: an oil painting cracked at the edges, two figures beneath a crescent moon. Her face was blurred now, but his own younger self stared back with haunted eyes.
He looked away.
Through a thick curtain, he entered a side room. A workshop. Old books lay open, filled with handwritten notes in ancient languages. Runes etched onto brittle parchment. A vial bubbled faintly with a dark-red substance that shimmered with a pulse of its own.
He picked up a journal. Flipped to a page dated fifty years ago. The ink bled slightly, but the words still stung.
> "A ghost who feeds. A soul fractured by vengeance. Dangerous. Tragic. Rare. But not unheard of."
He tapped his finger on the margin, eyes narrowing.
> "But what happens when a ghost refuses peace?"
He closed the book, slid it back into place, and crossed to a tall window.
Outside, the woods groaned with wind. No birds. No night sounds. The trees bowed like old sentinels, twisted and heavy with secrets.
Something stirred in the distance.
He stilled.
Branches cracked—not far from the barrier that surrounded his land.
He reached for the dagger at his side. Its blade was carved from bone and obsidian. Not for ghosts. Not for humans. For something worse.
He didn't move for several seconds. Just listened. A subtle energy pulsed at the edge of his senses—distant but familiar. It wasn't her. Not the girl in the cell. This was older. Wilder.
A test? A warning?
He muttered a word under his breath. The runes on his arm lit faintly, and the presence slipped away like smoke caught in wind.
He sighed, tension ebbing from his shoulders.
Then he turned back toward the stairs, back toward the cellar.
She was still down there. Still screaming. Or maybe she'd gone quiet again.
He didn't know why he hadn't destroyed her the moment she attacked.
Perhaps part of him recognized the fury in her.
Or perhaps he was just tired of being alone.
The cell was still, save for the faint, pulsing shimmer of the magic-bound cage. A low buzz lingered in the air—quiet to mortal ears, but to her, it was thunder.
Tilda sat slumped in the corner, the girl's body trembling beneath her control.
Sweat pooled at her temples, her lips pale, her breath uneven.
Her fingers clutched the edges of the silken dress like it might anchor her—but the threads were fraying, and so was she.
This vessel was collapsing.
She cursed under her breath, voice cracking.
"No… not yet…"
Her fingers twitched, eyes flaring with pale silver light—then dulling again to the girl's natural brown. Her grip slipped. Her own essence—the ghost that had grown stronger through stolen vitality—was unraveling.
Usually, by now, she would've jumped. Found someone new. Slipped through their spine and filled their mouth with her breath.
But the barrier held her like iron chains.
Her teeth clenched.
"You bastard…" she hissed into the emptiness. "You caged me."
She pressed a hand against her chest, where the heart no longer beat as hers.
The girl inside… she was slipping too.
This body wouldn't last another day.
Desperation clawed up her throat. She screamed again, a screech that cracked the silence and shook the silver cage with furious static—but it only echoed back at her.
Nothing.
No one came.
Her shoulders heaved.
A cold breeze slithered through the cell—not natural wind, but the whisper of death itself, nudging her. Tempting her.
Cross over…
She flinched.
"No!"
Tilda staggered to her feet, hair wild, skin pale. She threw herself against the cage—light burst like lightning and knocked her back. She hit the floor hard, the girl's body twitching from the magic's recoil.
Gasping, she whispered, "I need… a new host…"
But the magic wouldn't let her escape.
And the girl she possessed?
Was dying slowly beneath her.
For the first time in years, Tilda felt real fear—not of dying, but of vanishing.
Of becoming nothing.
She crawled to the center of the cage, weak limbs trembling, and tilted her head upward.
Eyes glowing faintly now—like embers in the ash—she stared toward the wooden ceiling and spat the words:
"Come back… you coward…"
No one answered.