The hatch lifted slowly, as though the earth itself resisted letting it go. Mira's breath hitched at the metallic groan, a deep, old sound that vibrated up through her bones. Alex pulled her back by the shoulders, instinctively placing himself between her and the widening gap. But she barely noticed the motion—her entire focus was locked on the rising door, the slice of blackness widening beneath it.
It wasn't simple darkness. It moved.
Something inside shifted, as though adjusting to the sudden exposure, as though aware of being watched. A faint breath of air escaped the opening, brushing against Mira's skin with a warmth that didn't belong outdoors. It smelled faintly familiar—like ink, cold stone, and her childhood home's basement all at once. A scent she remembered without memory.
Alex whispered her name like a warning. "Mira… stay behind me."
But she stepped forward anyway. Not far—just enough that the strange pull inside her chest eased, as though whatever waited below wanted proximity. The light around the hatch dimmed as a cloud passed overhead, plunging the clearing into a cold twilight. Even the trees stopped their restless rustling, as if waiting.
The hatch swung fully open with a heavy thud against the grass.
Below, a narrow staircase descended into darkness. The steps were carved into stone, edges smooth as if worn down by countless feet. But that wasn't what unnerved her. It was the faint glow at the bottom—a soft, reddish pulse, like a heartbeat trapped behind a wall.
"Mira…" Alex murmured, "what exactly are we looking at?"
She couldn't take her eyes off the stairs. "I think this was built before I was born."
"Your mother?"
She nodded wordlessly.
Alex moved closer. "We shouldn't go down there. Not without knowing what's—"
A whisper drifted up from the staircase, soft but unmistakable.
"Mira."
Her name, spoken with warmth… and something else. Something broken, stretched, layered with an echo behind it. Mira felt her knees weaken. Tears welled in her eyes, sudden and sharp. She didn't recognize the voice precisely, but her heart did. The ache went deeper than memory.
Alex's hand tightened around hers. "I heard it too."
The whisper came again. "Come down. I'm here."
A fragile, childlike part of Mira surged to the surface, desperate to run toward that voice. But that part was small. The rest of her felt a chilling wrongness hiding behind the familiarity. Something in the voice was too smooth, too rehearsed, like a recording mimicking warmth.
Alex gently pulled her behind him, shielding her from the stairs. "You don't have to answer it."
She almost laughed—soft and bitter. "I think it already knows I'm here."
The glow pulsed again from below, stronger this time. A faint vibration moved through the ground, like the heartbeat had grown closer. Mira felt heat rise up the stairwell and brush her cheeks, and with it came images—flashes—fragments. A room with chalk symbols. A wooden chair. A soft voice singing. A door slamming shut. A scream swallowed by stone.
Her head snapped back slightly, the sudden memory slicing through her like a shock. Alex caught her before she could fall.
"What happened?" he asked urgently.
"I—" Mira pressed a hand to her forehead. "I saw something. I… I think I was here as a child."
Alex's eyes went wide. "This place? Down there?"
She nodded, still dizzy.
A new sound echoed from the depths—soft, almost like footsteps. Slow. Unsteady. Moving upward.
Alex stiffened, pulling her back farther. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Something's coming."
Mira tried to retreat with him, but her legs felt anchored. Her pulse hammered against her ribs as the footsteps grew louder. Not rushed. Not stumbling. Just steady, deliberate. Like whoever—or whatever—was down there wasn't in a hurry. Like it knew they wouldn't leave.
Alex grabbed her hand and tugged. "We're leaving. Now."
But the moment she took a step back, the whisper came again—sharper this time.
"Mira. Don't go."
She flinched. The voice shifted subtly with those words, losing some of its borrowed softness. Something darker seeped through.
Alex's breath trembled. "That's not your mother."
Mira wished she could disagree. She wished she could say the voice was just distorted by echo, or carried her mother's tone because of a memory. But she couldn't lie—not even to herself.
The footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs.
Alex positioned himself in front of her, arms outstretched like he could stop whatever climbed from the depths. Mira wished more than anything she could make him leave—make him run—but she knew he wouldn't. His body shook, but he held himself firm.
Then something emerged from the darkness below.
A faint outline, human-shaped but wrong in all the ways that mattered. Too tall. Too thin. Its head tilted as if studying them. At first, it remained in shadow, edges blurring like oil in water. But as the pulsing red light brightened behind it, parts of its form sharpened.
A pale hand gripped the railing. The fingers were long, too long, nails scraping lightly against the metal with a sound that made Mira's stomach twist. The figure took another step, the dim, wavering light revealing hints of its face.
Or rather, a face trying to be a face.
It looked like someone had sketched a human expression and then erased parts of it. A faint mouth. A suggestion of eyes. The shape of a cheekbone that dissolved into nothing the moment she tried to focus.
"Mira," it whispered again, voice layered—an orchestra of broken echoes beneath the familiar tone. "Don't be afraid."
Alex's jaw clenched. "Stay behind me."
But Mira didn't move away. She felt frozen between terror and a strange, terrible recognition. Like she'd seen this before. Like she'd once been close enough to feel its breath on her skin.
The figure stepped onto the first stair above the darkness. The ground vibrated gently beneath their feet.
"Alex," Mira breathed, "I think it wants… me."
"I know," he whispered, voice ragged. "And that's why you're not going near it."
The figure tilted its head even further, as though amused by his attempt. The faint mouth curved—not a smile, but something shaped like one.
Then it spoke again, this time directed at Alex.
"She is already near."
Alex flinched. The voice carried an undertone that seemed to reach into his chest, clawing at his breath. Mira could feel the pressure of it too—like cold fingers brushing the inside of her skull.
"Stop," Mira whispered, shaking. She stepped in front of Alex before he could pull her back. "Don't talk to him."
The figure's head straightened. Its attention focused fully on her.
"Mira," it said, softer. Too soft. "We've been waiting."
Her stomach twisted. "Who is 'we'?"
The figure didn't answer. Instead, something in the darkness behind it shifted—another ripple of movement, another outline. Mira's breath hitched as she realized it wasn't alone.
Alex took her hand again, squeezing hard. She felt him trembling.
"Mira," he whispered, "we run on three."
She nodded.
But the figure spoke again, its voice stretching like a shadow across the clearing.
"You can't run from what's inside you."
Alex pulled her, ready to bolt, but Mira's foot caught on a root and she stumbled. Alex caught her halfway, but the brief delay was enough—the figure moved.
Not fast. Not lunging. Just stepping forward.
But the movement made the world tilt. The trees writhed briefly like their trunks were melting, the air thickening with a pressure that squeezed her lungs. Mira gasped, clutching Alex's arm, feeling reality warp at the edges of her vision.
The figure's foot touched the forest floor.
The clearing dimmed as though the sun blinked out for a moment.
Alex dragged her away, stumbling backwards with her. "Run, run—Mira, go!"
They crashed through branches, thorns catching their clothes. Mira didn't dare look back, but she felt the thing behind them—not chasing, but following with confidence, each slow step making the air vibrate.
Her breath tore at her throat. Alex's hand never left hers, even as they tripped and stumbled, racing back toward the path.
But the forest seemed… wrong. Twisted. Paths shifted. Branches leaned in closer, like hands reaching out. The trail they had taken minutes ago no longer looked the same.
"Mira," Alex panted, "this isn't the way."
The clearing was gone behind them, swallowed by shadow.
The world tilted again, and Mira felt a sharp pain in her skull—like a memory fighting to surface. She staggered, gripping her temples. A child crying. A woman's voice begging her to run. A door slamming shut. A hand pulling her down a staircase.
Alex steadied her, breath coming fast and uneven. "Talk to me. Stay here. Stay now."
She forced herself to breathe, forced the memories back, forced her vision to steady.
And then she heard it—the whisper again, closer than ever.
"Mira…"
It wasn't behind them.
It was ahead.
Alex froze.
Branches parted slowly, and the clearing reappeared where it shouldn't be—impossibly close, impossibly wrong—along with the open hatch and the red glow pulsing like a heartbeat.
No matter which direction they ran, the forest led them back.
Alex pulled her into his arms, shielding her. "Don't look at it."
But she couldn't help it. Something inside the hatch moved—not the tall figure they had seen, but something deeper. A shape rising, slow and deliberate, climbing toward the surface.
This one was smaller. Human-sized. More familiar.
As it climbed the last steps, the red glow softened and Mira's breath hitched in her throat. A face came into view. Real. Clear. And devastating.
Her mother.
Her pulse stuttered.
She struggled against Alex's grip, eyes wide with shock. "Mom?"
Alex's hold tightened. "Mira—no. That's not her."
"But it—" Mira's words caught in her throat. The woman at the stairs looked exactly the way Mira remembered from childhood photos—gentle eyes, soft hair pulled back, tired smile that always carried too much weight. Everything in Mira's body screamed with longing and anguish.
The woman extended a hand, palm up, voice trembling with ache. "Mira. Baby… come here."
Mira took a step forward without thinking.
Alex grabbed her arm. "Mira, please don't. It's not her."
The woman's expression flickered—sadness twisted briefly into something hollow before smoothing back into tenderness.
"Mira," she whispered, "don't you remember coming here with me? Don't you remember what you left behind?"
Tears burned Mira's eyes. Her legs felt weak.
"No," she whispered. "I don't."
"That's because they made you forget," the woman said softly. "Come down, and I'll show you."
Behind her, the tall figure waited in the shadows, its faint smile widening.
Alex stepped in front of Mira, voice shaking with fury. "You stay away from her."
Her mother's head tilted. "Why? She belongs with me."
Mira's heart cracked at the words—not because she believed them, but because she wanted to.
Alex raised his voice, raw with emotion. "Mira doesn't belong to you. She doesn't belong to whatever you are."
The not-mother took a step forward. Alex stepped back, keeping Mira behind him.
"Mira," the figure whispered again, this time with a cold edge, "come home."
Mira felt something snap inside her—a mix of fear, memory, and a deep buried instinct that finally screamed the truth:
This was not her mother.
This was what took her mother away.
She grabbed Alex's hand, so hard it hurt. "We can't stay here. We have to run. Now."
Alex nodded once, desperate relief flashing across his face.
The not-mother took another step.
The tall figure moved with her.
The forest trembled.
And Mira ran, dragging Alex with her, not caring which direction they went—only that it was away from the clearing, away from the voice, away from the door she once opened as a child and somehow survived.
Behind them, the whisper followed—soft, patient, and chilling.
"You'll come back, Mira. You always do."