The Town Queen: Her Return Was Never Meant to Be
They called her Queen Mira, but no one remembered why.
Old-timers said she ruled the town once—not in politics, but in presence. She was regal, bold, unnerving. Men feared her, women envied her, children whispered tales about her hollow eyes that saw too much.
Then she vanished.
No body. No goodbyes. One rainy night, thirty years ago, she simply walked out of her manor on the hill and into the mist. The next morning, her mansion windows were wide open, candles flickered out, and in the kitchen, a kettle hissed over a dying flame.
They searched the woods, drained the well, even knocked on the door of the cemetery caretaker. Nothing.
And then, last Monday, she returned.
I was there. I saw her. And I know this—whatever came back wasn’t Mira.
My name is Kavya, a junior journalist for The Darnham Weekly, which is really just four pages of gossip and lost pet ads. When the scanner chirped about a woman matching Mira Darnham’s description walking barefoot through Main Street, I thought it was a prank.
It wasn’t.
She walked like a statue in motion—silent, soaked in rain, her silver hair falling to her waist. Her white nightgown clung to her like it hadn’t dried in decades. Her feet were dirty. Her lips were bloodless.
She said nothing. Just pointed toward the manor.
I followed her, heart pounding, phone recording. A crowd grew behind me—some filming, some crossing themselves. A few old women started crying.
The manor was untouched. No one had lived there since Mira vanished. Town law declared it haunted after a priest died of a heart attack on the front porch in 2002.
The door creaked open without a touch.
She entered.
We didn’t.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I replayed the footage. Her eyes blinked slowly. She looked… aware. But like she wasn’t seeing us—just something behind us.
And then, in the final frame, as she disappeared into the shadows of the manor, she smiled.
A slow, eerie curve.
I woke at 3:06 a.m. to the sound of my phone buzzing. Private number.
“Come back.” A whisper.
I dropped the phone.
I returned the next morning. She wasn’t alone anymore.
Three people—Emma Crowe (librarian), Father Vincent (retired priest), and Toby Mendez (local vet)—had gone into the manor during the night.
No one had seen them come out.
But the windows were lit.
I climbed the rusted fence and tiptoed around the back. The ivy-choked walls groaned in the wind. I found the service entrance and slipped inside.
The air was wet—not damp, but like breathing inside someone’s lungs.
Footsteps echoed above. A chandelier dripped wax that hadn’t melted.
I followed the sound.
On the second floor, the grand hall doors were ajar.
Inside, Mira sat on a velvet throne that wasn’t there before.
The others stood around her, eyes blank, hands clasped in front like dolls on display.
“Mira?” I whispered.
She looked up.
“You came,” she said, voice dry like crumpled leaves. “You never believed I left, did you?”
I shook my head slowly.
“Good,” she whispered. “Because I didn’t.”
She told me things I shouldn’t have understood.
Of the Other Side. Of a forest beneath our world, where time rots like fruit. She said she walked it for thirty years, but no time passed for her.
“They sent me back,” she said, tilting her head. “Because the town needs balance.”
“Balance?” I asked.
She gestured to the three with her. “Three souls lost. One to replace me. That’s fair.”
I backed away.
“You were chosen,” she said. “But you’ve been too curious. That protects you… for now.”
I ran.
Outside, the sky was burning gold. Crows screamed above the trees. The townsfolk stood on the street like statues, all facing the manor.
And one by one, they began to walk forward.
The town changed after that.
People were… quieter. Smiling more. Too much. No crimes, no shouting, no missing dogs. Even the leaves on the trees stayed green longer.
But no one remembered Mira.
Not really.
When I asked about her, they’d say, “Oh, the name sounds familiar…” but then their eyes would glaze.
The manor’s windows glowed every night now.
And every month, on the new moon, someone would disappear.
Always someone who asked too many questions.
It’s been six months.
Last night, I dreamt of the manor again.
Mira stood by the fireplace, humming a song I’ve never heard but somehow knew.
“You can’t run forever,” she said. “Curiosity runs in circles. Eventually, you come back.”
This morning, my front door was open.
On the porch sat an envelope.
Inside, a photo—black and white—of Mira as a young woman. But behind her, in the mirror… was me.
Author’s Note:
No one remembers Queen Mira Darnham.
But if you see a woman in white walking barefoot through your town, don’t follow her.
Don’t take pictures.
And whatever you do…
Don’t go into the manor.
Because her return was never meant to be.
React
