The rain hadn't started yet, but the clouds already hung low — like bruises waiting to darken.
Jack stood at the front of the open-air classroom, chalk in hand, back turned to his half-listening students. His coat was too thin for the morning chill, but he never seemed to notice. He scribbled something slowly across the stone wall, humming tunelessly.
The word was "PARABLE", but the "L" was shaped like a question mark.
"Alright," Jack said, dusting off his fingers. "Today's lesson: stories that trick you into learning something."
He turned, eyes scanning the courtyard. Isaac, Isabelle, and Ian sat slumped together near the back, jackets draped over their shoulders like reluctant wings.
Jack pointed toward the wall. "Can anyone tell me what a parable is?"
No one answered.
He raised a brow. "Ian? Anything?"
Ian perked up. "A riddle with a moral?"
"Close enough," Jack said. "It's a lie that behaves like the truth. The kind of story that's too soft to stab you, but still manages to bleed you dry."
He paced slowly, footsteps echoing off the stones. The trees rustled behind him, their leaves whispering nonsense to the wind.
"There's a parable I like," he continued. "About a man who wandered so long, he forgot his own name. Said he was searching for 'the true face of God.' But every time he thought he found it, it was just a mask. So he'd take it off, and keep walking."
He tapped the chalk against the stone. A small crack appeared in the wall, unnoticed.
"At the end of his life, he realized he'd worn every face but his own — and that was the only one he never found."
"Maybe that's what happens to people who look too hard at things they shouldn't. They start to disappear."
Jack smiled. "But hey—what do I know? I'm just a man who can't spell 'parable' without accidentally summoning a demon."
Someone laughed, but only half-heartedly.
From the far corner, Isabelle squinted toward the woods, her brows furrowed.
"Alright, that's enough existential dread," Jack said, clapping his hands. "You three—Isaac, Ian, Isabelle. Delivery duty again."
"Seriously?" Ian groaned.
"Rain's coming," Jack said, tapping his temple. "I can feel it in the part of my brain that used to believe in happy endings."
He tossed a sealed letter their way.
"Take this to the house past the hedge line. Widow's place."
Isaac caught the envelope. It felt damp already.
"This one's… a strange one," Jack muttered, leaning back against a tree older than most graves. His arms were crossed, but one hand absently tapped the bark like it was keeping time with some private rhythm. "We've been delivering messages to her daily—same handwriting, no signature. No one knows who they're from."
A gust of wind rattled the canopy above. Loose leaves skittered across the cobblestones.
"We usually send someone else," Jack went on. "But Elder Gauis thinks it's time you three paid her a visit."
Ian raised a brow. "Why us?"
Isaac stood silent, eyes narrowed slightly at the overcast sky.
A widow? Why would Gauis send us to a widow?
He couldn't make the logic line up. Nothing ever lined up lately.
Isabelle smiled, undeterred. "I'm sure she's just lonely. We should try and cheer her up. If I knew we were going, I would've brought her something—flowers, maybe."
Jack turned his gaze on her. The smile left his face like someone had snatched it midair.
"No need."
The air thickened. Jack pushed off the tree and dusted his palms like brushing away something he didn't want to name.
"Just don't linger. Houses like hers… they tend to notice when you get too comfortable."
He glanced toward the sky, which had gone the color of old bones. "Storm'll be on you soon."
Ian adjusted the book under his shirt. "Alright, then. Let's make this quick."
They didn't talk much after that.
The path to the Widow's house wound through the edge of the village, where the weeds grew taller than the fences and the trees leaned in like eavesdroppers. Stone gave way to dirt, and the dirt to mud. The air was heavy—wet with something more than rain.
A slow drizzle began, cold and careless. It painted their shoulders in damp patches and turned the earth soft underfoot. Ian tightened his grip on the book hidden beneath his shirt. Isabelle walked in the middle, humming quietly to herself like she was trying to stay brave.
Isaac trailed behind. Every so often, he looked over his shoulder, not sure why.
The trees thinned. The house appeared up ahead.
It looked like it had grown there by accident.
Too narrow. Too tall. Its windows were too dark for how early it still was. One of the shutters flapped slowly in the wind, like a hand waving too late to be polite.
They stepped onto the porch, boots slick against the warped wood. The rain thickened, falling in heavy, slanted sheets now—so loud it swallowed their footsteps.
Isaac raised his hand to knock, but hesitated.
He did it anyway.
Three dull thuds echoed into the house, and nothing answered.
"I'm really getting tired of people not answering their—"
The door creaked open mid-sentence.
Not swung. Not pulled. Just… opened. Slightly. Slowly. Like something had been waiting right behind it.
What little light filtered in through the gray sky spilled across the threshold—just enough to reveal a figure standing deeper in the entryway. Perfectly still. Just out of reach.
The light caught only up to their neck.
Their face stayed hidden in the unnatural dark, like the shadow there didn't belong to this world.
A voice came.
Low. Dry. Not quite human.
Hello.
Isaac flinched as the voice landed on him like ice water. Ian, ever the bravest idiot, smacked him lightly on the back.
"That's no way to greet a lady."
Isabelle's voice was softer, barely audible. "...Hello."
With a deep breath, Isaac stepped forward and shut the door behind them.
It clicked shut with a sound far too final. The moment the latch settled, the house swallowed them whole. Whatever faint light lingered from the overcast day vanished, replaced by a darkness so thick it pressed on their skin.
Then—footsteps. Soft, deliberate, uneven.
Off to their left.
A sharp strike cracked through the silence. A match flared, sputtered, and caught.
The flame lit the edge of a candle stub—sitting atop a table so cluttered it barely resembled furniture. And there she was.
The Widow.
Now across the room.
She hadn't walked there. She was just there. Standing in the farthest corner, unmoving. Watching.
The candle's flicker caught only fragments of her: long, spindly fingers resting unnaturally flat atop her hips; a thin silhouette cloaked in dark, layered fabric that shimmered like moth wings. Her face remained cast in shadow, though nothing in the room should've been causing it.
The room around her looked like a fever dream.
Dolls—hundreds of them—lined every shelf, perched in every corner, slumped on chairs, sprawled across the floor. Some were hand-carved. Others porcelain. A few had melted faces. One was missing all its limbs. Their eyes followed.
Wind chimes hung from the rafters—not outside the windows, but inside, jingling lightly with each subtle shift in air. Strands of beads were strung between lamps and doorways like veins.
Old plates sat piled in corners, smeared with dried sauces and half-eaten food long since cold. A fork lay jammed into what might've once been a peach. Teacups sat crusted over with something greenish and fuzzy.
A child's shoe rested on the mantle, alone.
The walls were a patchwork of paintings and torn lace. There was a mirror that had been painted over in black, its surface still glistening wet.
The air smelled of perfume and mildew.
And from somewhere deeper in the house, a music box clicked once.
Then stopped.
The Widow said nothing.
She simply watched.
Isabelle gripped Isaac's sleeve and moved behind him, her breath caught shallow in her throat.
Ian wandered. Slowly. Casually. His hands in his pockets.
He stopped at a shelf and picked up one of the dolls. Its eyes were sewn shut with thick, uneven thread. The stitching looked fresh.
"Nice… nice nice," Ian mumbled. "I, uh… I like your collection."
He glanced around, forcing a grin. "It's really… neat."
She didn't move. But he felt it—like she was smiling now. Somewhere beneath that shadow.
Whether it was the compliment or something else was impossible to tell.
"i s a a c"
A whisper. Too close. Too inside.
Isaac turned. "Belle?"
"I didn't say anything," she said quickly, still holding his sleeve.
He stepped forward, careful not to trip over the cracked dishes littering the ground. Glass crunched beneath his boots. Teacups and plates lay shattered across the floor like bones.
The lights overhead flickered. Once. Then again.
She was no longer in her corner.
Now she was deeper inside the house—half-silhouetted in a hallway. Unmoving again. Her arms hung limp at her sides. Then came the sound of footsteps… and humming. A low, broken melody, off-key, sung with the sincerity of a child imitating a mother who never existed.
"Ian," Isaac whispered, "what the hell is going on?"
Ian didn't look up. "What do you mean? I'm sure she's just… getting us tea or something."
Isabelle stepped backward—and her foot landed on something soft. There was a crack, wet and immediate.
She looked down.
A dead rat. Split open beneath her heel. Its insides glistened in the candlelight.
She gagged and stumbled back, hand clamped over her mouth.
Around them, the furniture—chairs, footstools, a warped piano bench—seemed closer. Like they'd been dragged forward while no one was looking. The walls felt tighter. The ceiling lower. The dolls closer.
The lights flickered again.
Footsteps.
Then—she was seated.
The Widow now sat at a small round table, directly before them. Three cups of tea rested neatly in front of her, each steaming gently.
She had not called them forward.
She simply waited.
Isaac stared down at the tea in front of him.
It didn't look malicious.
If anything, it smelled… pleasant.
Warm, herbal, faintly floral—like something brewed by someone who'd heard of comfort but never quite felt it.
Out of the corner of his eye, a motion.
He turned—just in time to catch a doll slipping from its shelf.
Its glass head cracked against the floor.
Had it blinked before it fell?
He looked back into the tea.
His reflection stared up at him… and lingered.
Too long.
Longer than it should've. Still holding eye contact even after he'd moved slightly.
He didn't say anything.
Have tea.
The voice was smooth. Flat. Mechanical. It did not rise. It did not ask.
The three of them exchanged glances—but none reached for the cups.
They weren't thirsty.
You will be.
Her hands started rubbing her knees—quick, circular, aggressive. Her wrists flexed like something learning how to mimic.
The rain outside grew louder, hammering the windows like a thousand tiny fists.
They each reached for their cups. Quietly. As if by reflex.
Isaac felt the porcelain shake slightly in his hand.
A low creak echoed through the floorboards.
Then a sound—thump. Then again. Heavier. Wet.
Like a heartbeat muffled through a soaked rag.
"So…" Ian asked cautiously. "What's your name?"
No answer.
A sudden crash hit the side of the house. A dull, heavy slam that made Isabelle jump. None of them could tell if it was a tree branch… or something else.
Isaac turned sharply to look behind him. Nothing there.
The lights flickered.
Then flickered again.
The Widow rose.
Not stood—rose.
Her limbs unfolded like a spider, arms stretching longer than seemed natural, knees creaking beneath her as she stood taller, taller—too tall. Her head tilted sideways to avoid touching the ceiling, bones cracking softly with the motion.
She stared down at them.
And reached.
Just one hand, slowly extended.
The fingers were too thin. The nails too clean.
Isaac grabbed Isabelle's arm and bolted toward the door, nearly slipping on the warped floorboards.
He yanked at the handle—locked.
He threw his shoulder into it. Nothing.
Ian joined him, slamming into the door again and again.
"It's okay—we're gonna be okay, don't worry, Belle—"
But Isabelle wasn't the one crying.
They turned around.
The Widow was coming.
Slow. Deliberate.
One hand stretched forward like she expected to be held.
Her head scraped along the ceiling, bending her spine at an unnatural angle as she loomed toward them. The shadow over her face deepened with each step.
"IAN—PUSH HARDER, DAMN IT!"
They heaved into the door.
Wood cracked.
It didn't budge.
Isabelle scrambled across the room, snatching anything she could find—plates, cups, silverware, dolls with empty eyes. She hurled them one after the other. The first shattered against the Widow's shoulder, the next against her ribs.
The Widow flinched.
But she didn't stop.
Not once.
"Come on—come on—" Ian growled through gritted teeth.
Isaac looked from Isabelle—frantic, and panicking—to Ian, straining his whole body against the door.
Then he turned back to the thing that wasn't quite human, and wasn't quite pretending anymore.
He placed a hand gently on Isabelle's head.
"Get her out of here, Ian. I'll be right behind you."
Then, without waiting for a reply, Isaac turned and ran straight toward the Widow.
To be continued.