Isaac ran Passed the widow.
But the hallway didn't end.
It should've ended.
He'd seen the house from outside. It wasn't big. A crooked rectangle with a leaning roof, three windows, maybe four rooms max.
But the corridor stretched out before him, long and narrow, bending slightly like a spine curling inward. The walls peeled in strips, paper and wood revealing each other like skin and bone. The air smelled like rotting lavender.
Behind him, the Widow screeched.
Not with her mouth.
With her presence.
The walls groaned as she moved. The floorboards thudded in slow, deliberate rhythm.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Isaac's feet skidded against the damp floor. He knocked over a tower of children's books stacked like an altar. A music box whirred to life—no one had touched it—and began playing a broken waltz, half a note off-key, spiraling into a discordant loop.
At the end of the hallway was a door.
Small.
Too small for the Widow to follow.
Isaac glanced over his shoulder.
She was at the hallway's mouth now, crawling on all fours, her face scraping against the floor. Her arms folded like a mantis. Her joints clicked.
But she did not enter.
She just watched.
The humming began again—quiet and off-tempo. Like something trying to soothe itself.
She wasn't chasing him.
She was guarding something.
Isaac pushed the door open.
It shouldn't have opened.
But it did.
And inside—
There was a room.
Warm.
Still.
Clean.
A child's room. Unaged. Untouched.
No dolls here—only books on a shelf, a bed with a floral blanket, a wooden horse rocking gently with no wind.
And in the center of the room,
a mirror.
Covered in black cloth.
And just below it,
a figure.
Not the Widow.
Not exactly.
Smaller.
Collapsed inward, like a creature mid-molting.
Hands clasped around its knees. Hair like straw soaked in ink.
It didn't move, but Isaac felt it breathing.
The Widow began to cry.
Quietly. Behind him.
"What the hell is going on…"
Isaac didn't mean to say it aloud, but the words slipped out like breath in winter—visible, useless, already fading.
The Widow's sobs echoed through the hallway like a wooden board trying to remember it was once a tree. She didn't wail. She leaked. The sound was uneven, wet, human enough to hurt but alien enough to raise every hair on his arms.
And still… he almost felt bad for her.
He didn't want to. But he did.
There was something in the sound—like a child left too long in the dark, crying not for rescue but because they forgot what light felt like.
He looked back, just once. Her body slumped at the hallway's mouth, still too large, too wrong, bent in a way no one should ever bend.
Then he shut the door.
The latch clicked.
Silence.
The air in the room was thick and still, like breath that had gone stale. Isaac scanned for an exit—but there wasn't one. No windows. No second door. Just pale green wallpaper curling at the edges, shelves of untouched toys, and that mirror under its shroud, pulsing faintly with a heat that had no source.
He was sealed in something else's memory.
The rocking horse creaked softly behind him, still swaying from a motion that never happened.
Isaac stepped further in, careful, almost reverent.
He didn't know why—but this place felt sacred in the wrong way. Like trespassing inside someone's grief.
i s a a c
Isaac stood alone in the center of the room.
It was too still. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was preserved. Like a museum sealed in amber, or the inside of a snow globe. Dust floated weightlessly in the air, catching the flicker of the hallway's dying candlelight.
The room was wrong.
He stepped forward slowly, and his foot knocked gently against a rocking horse. It creaked.
On the dresser, there was a name etched into the wood in looping, childish cursive: Mary.
Isaac looked around. This wasn't the Widow's room.
This was Mary's.
There was a bed—small, the sheets neatly made, corners tucked with the precision of someone hoping to be praised. A stuffed bear lay half-buried beneath the pillow, its button eye dangling from a thread. Beside it was a cracked music box, its ballerina stuck mid-spin.
On the nightstand, a diary lay open. Isaac leaned in.
The first entries were innocent, sweet:
Mama braided my hair today even though she was mad.I didn't cry this time.Daddy said if I'm good he won't drink.
Later entries wavered:
I think I made her mad again. I don't know why.They said if I tell anyone, I'll be taken away.Even when they're mean I still love them.
The ink darkened. Words were scratched out and rewritten. One page was just the word SORRY, scribbled over and over.
He looked up.
Wedding photos. One showed Mary older, standing beside a tall man in a suit, his face faded into shadows. She was smiling, though. Genuinely. Desperately.
A note on the back of the frame read: "You loved me anyway."
Dresser drawers contained dried flowers, cracked teacups, a stack of unopened letters from the village church. One had never been opened. It was addressed to Mary Widower.
He turned to the mirror.
i s a a c
For a second, he thought it was cracked. But no—the reflection was whole.
It just wasn't… synchronized.
His reflection blinked a second too late. When he raised his arm, the reflection hesitated—then caught up.
But worse than that—he saw behind him.
He saw the dolls blinking.
He saw the shadow on the bed vanish.
He saw Mary—young, alive, smiling with her hands clasped in front of her—standing just behind his shoulder, before she flickered out of view like a skipped frame.
Isaac backed away, breath shallow.
And then the humming began again. That same broken melody. But now, there were two voices: one soft and childlike. The other low, rasped, stretched too thin.
He turned.
The room was empty.
But the door on the far wall—no taller than a crawlspace—was now slightly ajar.
And something had opened it from the other side.
Isaac stood alone in the center of the room.
It was too still. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was preserved. Like a museum sealed in amber, or the inside of a snow globe. Dust floated weightlessly in the air, catching the flicker of the hallway's dying candlelight.
The room was wrong.
It didn't match the rest of the house. There was no rot here, no stench of mildew or death. The wooden floors were worn but unbroken, the shelves lined with small porcelain animals, dolls with painted smiles, and framed embroidery. The wallpaper had once been yellow with sunflowers. It had now faded to a sickly beige, but the intent lingered.
He stepped forward slowly, and his foot knocked gently against a rocking horse. It creaked.
On the dresser, there was a name etched into the wood in looping, childish cursive: Mary.
Isaac looked around. This wasn't the Widow's room.
This was Mary's.
There was a bed—small, the sheets neatly made, corners tucked with the precision of someone hoping to be praised. A stuffed bear lay half-buried beneath the pillow, its button eye dangling from a thread. Beside it was a cracked music box, its ballerina stuck mid-spin.
On the nightstand, a diary lay open. Isaac leaned in.
The first entries were innocent, sweet:
Mama braided my hair today even though she was mad.I didn't cry this time.Daddy said if I'm good he won't drink.
Later entries wavered:
I think I made her mad again. I don't know why.They said if I tell anyone, I'll be taken away.Even when they're mean I still love them.
The ink darkened. Words were scratched out and rewritten. One page was just the word SORRY, scribbled over and over.
He looked up.
Wedding photos. One showed Mary older, standing beside a tall man in a suit, his face faded into shadows. She was smiling, though. Genuinely. Desperately.
A note on the back of the frame read: "You loved me anyway."
Dresser drawers contained dried flowers, cracked teacups, a stack of unopened letters from the village church. One had never been opened. It was addressed to Mary Widower.
He turned to the mirror.
For a second, he thought it was cracked. But no—the reflection was whole.
It just wasn't… synchronized.
His reflection blinked a second too late. When he raised his arm, the reflection hesitated—then caught up.
But worse than that—he saw behind him.
He saw the dolls blinking.
He saw the shadow on the bed vanish.
He saw Mary—young, alive, smiling with her hands clasped in front of her—standing just behind his shoulder, before she flickered out of view like a skipped frame.
Isaac backed away, breath shallow.
And then the humming began again. That same broken melody. But now, there were two voices: one soft and childlike. The other low, rasped, stretched too thin.
He turned.
The room was empty.
But the door on the far wall—no taller than a crawlspace—was now slightly ajar.
And something had opened it from the other side.
—
Isaac stepped through.
The world folded inside out. The floor disappeared. Then the light.
And then the silence.
—
"ISAAC!"
Someone was shaking him. Violently.
"ISAAC!"
His eyes fluttered open. Rain pelted his face. His jacket clung to his back, soaked. Mud crusted his hands.
Isabelle crouched beside him, panic tightening her voice.
"Come on, this isn't funny," Ian muttered from behind her.
Isaac sat up slowly. The letter was still in his grip—crisp and dry, untouched.
He looked up.
The Widow's house stood before them.
The door was still closed.
"You dropped the letter and just… froze," Ian said. "You've been staring at the porch for like five minutes."
Isaac said nothing.
He stood. Brushed the dirt from his legs. Walked up the steps.
And knocked.
The door opened immediately.
A woman answered it.
Tall. Too tall. But human.
Her skin was pale and smooth, her face soft in the way marble is soft—cold, motionless. There was a stillness to her, like a painting that had learned to breathe.
Isaac stared up at her.
Then stepped forward and hugged her.
The gesture surprised even him. But he didn't pull away.
Her arms hovered for a second, then slowly folded around him.
She said nothing. But she hummed—a fractured, familiar melody, one he remembered not from memory, but from inside himself.
Isaac didn't need to question what he saw.
He understood.
This was not a haunting.
It was a memory that had forgotten how to die.
And he had walked into it willingly.
Because part of him was just like her.
A thing made of grief.
A person-shaped absence.
And for a moment, they simply stood together in the rain—two echoes pretending to be whole.