''NEW RULES"
I scream at the top of my lungs, clutching the blanket to my chest like a shield. My heart pounds, breath ragged, eyes locked on the corner—those eyes won't stop staring.
Footsteps thud down the hallway. The door bursts open, and Aunt Serena and Uncle Ethan spill into the room, both wide-eyed with concern.
"There's someon-something in here!" I gasp.
"What?" Aunt Serena blinks, stepping in with a strange expression. She flips on the lights—and I see it.
A cat.
White-furred. Sitting like royalty on top of the dresser. It meows, straight at Aunt Serena, like it's reporting me. I did not see her before.
Relief crashes into me like a wave—followed quickly by embarrassment and a stab of irritation.
"Oh, Montricia," Aunt Serena coos, scooping the creature into her arms. She laughs like this is all very adorable. Uncle Ethan just sighs and walks out, mumbling something under his breath.
"I'm so sorry, dear. I've no idea how she got in here," Serena says, stroking the cat's fluffy head.
"It's okay. It really is," I lie, voice tight.
(It's not. That thing nearly sent me into cardiac arrest.)
After the commotion dies down, I somehow manage to fall asleep again. For about an hour.
At six sharp, there's a knock on the door. I groan.
Aunt Serena enters in a long, white floral dress that hugs her figure a little too perfectly. Her hair is styled in the bob cut . She smiles—but it doesn't reach her eyes.
"Dear, get ready for breakfast, will you?"
Breakfast? At six in the morning?
Who the hell does that?Well my mother used to do that but never woke me up because she had to leave for her shift early,well that explains it.
"Yes… Aunt."
She offers another one of her mannequin smiles and shuts the door behind her.
I drag myself out of bed, take my time showering, and wrap a towel around myself before stepping into the walk-in closet. I freeze.
What in the actual fuck?
It's like I've stepped into a vintage museum. No—worse. A haunted vintage boutique.
Rows of frilled, pale-colored frocks. High-necked nightgowns. Soft pink and ivory dresses from a decade that should've stayed buried.
Lace gloves. Ruffled blouses. Polished, pointed heels no one sane would wear. And not a single pair of jeans or a goddamn hoodie in sight.
This whole room already feels like a horror movie set, and now this? I shouldn't complain—after all, I have clothes, right?
But I can't help the cold, crawling feeling that this wardrobe was chosen for me.
Not by me.
And that's weird.
Really, really weird.
I pull out one of the dresses—white cotton, laced, scattered with tiny pale pink flowers. It brushes my ankles and fits perfectly, almost eerily so. Like it was made for me. I smooth it down, leave my hair loose, and dab on a little moisturizer. No makeup. What's the point?
When I reach the dining room, Uncle Ethan is already there—seated at the head of the long oak table, phone pressed to his ear. He's dressed sharply in a dark grey shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, voice clipped and calm.
"I don't care—just get it done," he snaps at whoever's on the other end.
The air smells like fresh coffee and something else—aftershave, maybe. Strong,
I slide into a seat across from him, mumbling, "Good morning."
He looks up briefly, phone still pressed to his ear.
"Good morning, Odessa. How was your sleep?"
His tone is neutral—neither warm nor cold. Like he's asking out of politeness, not interest.
"I—ah!"
Something brushes against my legs under the table. I flinch and glance down.
Of course.
It's that cat again.
Montricia stares up at me with those soulless, glassy eyes like she owns the damn place. Which, honestly, she probably does.
Uncle Ethan catches my expression. A rare smile curls at the corner of his mouth.
"I have to go," he says into the phone. He ends the call, stands, and walks toward the front door just as Aunt Serena glides into view—elegant and perfect as ever.
They kiss.
She clings to him like ivy. And I look away.Saying goodbyes and doing all the lovey dovey things, Wow,they seem to have a good relationship unlike my mother used to tell me.
When I turn back, I notice the breakfast spread—pancakes, eggs, toast, jam, fruit, fresh juice. Everything smells just perfect.
The door clicks shut behind me. Aunt Serena walks over and takes a seat, her eyes still lingering on the closed door like she wants to chase after him.
"Good morning, Essa," she says finally, still not looking at me. "You look lovely."
"Thank you…"
She clasps her hands together with a smile that feels carved into her face.
"So," she begins lightly, "now that you'll be living here with us, in this house, there will be a few rules."
I say nothing. Just pick at a slice of toast.
She continues, voice smooth and practiced:
"Rules like waking early, sleeping on time, no guests unless I give permission, no devices—your uncle despises them—and no leaving the house unless absolutely necessary just as your uncle instructed."
I blink.
No devices? No going out?
And I'm sorry, didn't I just see Ethan on a phone call barking at someone like a CEO?
I clear my throat. "And… what if I have to go to school?"
Her fork pauses midway to her mouth.
"Oh, darling." Her smile returns.
"You'll be homeschooled. It's safer that way."
Safer.
Right.
Because nothing says "safety" like being locked in a house with strangers, a cat that stares into your soul, and a closet full of dead women's clothing.
No.
I stare at her, trying to keep my face neutral, but inside I'm screaming.
No school? No escape? That's not just boring—it's suffocating.
"What if I need to go out?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
She tilts her head, smiling softly. "We have a spacious garden."
Of course. She has a rehearsed answer for everything. Like she's practiced this.
I want to argue—to say this house already feels like a dollhouse for ghosts—but instead, I just nod.
Then she says it—soft, trembling.
"I'm sorry if it feels like too much. I just…" She pauses, sniffles, her voice cracking.
"I just don't want to lose you too."
Her eyes glisten, and she dabs at them with a napkin softly.
I sit there, heart sinking. Maybe she's right. Maybe she's just… scared as I was.
She did lose her sister. She's just trying to keep me safe.
"I understand," I say quietly.
At that, her smile returns—thin but satisfied—and she wipes away the rest of her tears.