Mrs. Hodgins stood still, her voice low, her eyes distant.
"The jealousy… it festered."
She stared at the wooden piece in Mira's hand.
"My husband left one morning. Said he was going to the market."
"But it wasn't him I had to fear."
Her voice cracked.
"It was her."
The mistress came quietly.
No words.
No warning.
Just a match.
And a smile.
Mrs. Hodgins had been in the nursery, humming to herself, folding baby clothes.
She smelled smoke.
Turned.
And saw flames licking the doorway.
The woman stood there, watching.
"You should've stayed dead," she whispered.
Mrs. Hodgins screamed.
But no one came.
She clutched her stomach, her unborn child, and tried to escape.
The fire roared.
The walls collapsed.
And everything went dark.
The town talked.
They whispered.
They speculated.
Some said it was an accident.
Others said it was witchcraft.
But no one asked questions.
No one investigated.
And in that silence—
Mrs. Hodgins found her doorway.
She woke up in a place that wasn't quite real.
A foggy corridor.
A mansion that pulsed with memory.
A lamp that whispered her name.
She wasn't alive.
But she wasn't gone.
She had crossed.
And she would never forget.
To be continued…