Nyxhe stood in the doorway of her childhood home, the place now as eerie as the memories it harbored. The floor groaned beneath her filthy boots from the mud and rain, the air thick with dust and the lingering weight of silence. After all these years, she had nowhere else to go, a last resort perhaps.
Her father had vanished here, swallowed by the house and whatever he was trying to protect her from. Whispers of ancient rituals, protectors bound to bloodlines, half-sane mutterings that never made sense as a child were now all she had.
There had only ever been one rule in this house.
Never go to the attic.
Never enter his workspace or touch his journal.
As a child, it felt like a bedtime threat. Now, it felt like prophecy, something meant to happen a rule meant to be broken one fine day.
But unfortunately the days were anything but fine.
The voice had started weeks ago. At first, it was faint, something she could dismiss as wind or her own inner monologue fraying at the edges. But it grew louder with each passing day, and now it spilled into her waking moments.
"Nyx…" that's how she was addressed, It was never "Nyxhe." Only her father had called her that and she didn't like the sound of it anymore.
She blinked, her vision swimming with fatigue. Sleep came in fragments, interrupted by whispers, shadows curling in corners, and a terrible sense of being watched. The doctors had diagnosed but dismissed it, they said it was unresolved trauma, just some anxiety or a psychological ghost causing hallucinations. Medication had dulled her emotions, made everything feel floaty, detached, but the voice had stayed.
Sometimes, she swore she saw her father’s face in her reflection. Not entirely, just a flash. Now was the time when she admitted it was her childhood fear of being lonely and nothing more but a hollow stare an open mouth mimicking a scream she couldn’t hear, syncing words, she could barely recognize the language of let alone make sense of. A cloak that shimmered like torn leather, stitched together from something not quite natural, stuck to the lean figure leaning against the pane, which was actually mirror but a window for her.
She didn’t know what scared her more, the possibility that it was real… or that it wasn’t.
One night, the whisper became a murmur. Clearer. Urgent. Calling.
Her feet moved before her mind caught up. The stairs to the attic creaked beneath her weight. Dust of an unusual ashy color coated everything like snow from another world. At the end of the hall, where light refused to settle, her fingers found a door she didn’t remember being there. It creaked, no, groaned open. The air was wrong. Too cold, too still. Inside, dark stains, and symbols smeared in what looked like blood but smelled like rust. A stone altar sat in the center, catching the eye with ancient, brownish stains. Everything in her screamed to turn back. But she stepped inside.
Fragments of memory stirred. Her father’s voice, rambling, cursing, scribbling notes late at night. He had spoken of Lares, protective spirits. Guardians bound to bloodlines for their protection, providing prosperity and wealth. But toward the end, he wasn’t grateful for their protection. He was afraid of it.
"They want you, Nyxhe. They feed on us, NO, they feed through us."
A sudden chill grazed her neck. "I did it for you, Nyxhe." She whirled around. No one there. Yet it felt like something had passed through her. Heart hammering, she fled to her bedroom. Tried to sink into the floor, feel mundane, familiar, safe. But even there, the mirrors betrayed her. Her reflection trembled with static. Her eyes looked... wrong...too dark, too deep to be hers. She muttered things under her breath, it wasnt purposely she barely knew what she said or thought, sometimes it was her voice. Sometimes… it wasn’t.
Days passed like fever dreams. She barely ate. The voice turned into noise, grew louder, almost unbearable, irritating, stronger. Sometimes it was gentle, like her father comforting her after a nightmare. Other times, it was outrageous, begging, commanding. Desperate for clarity, Nyxhe broke the second rule. After looking for an hour or so she found his journal beneath a floorboard, bound in worn leather. Her hands shook as she opened it, her bod shivered though the cold wasnt chilling. Inside were pages of frantic scrawling symbols matching those in the attic. Notes about ancient rites, incantations, offerings. His warnings grew more unhinged as the pages went on. She frantically turned the pages desperate to see the end. And after a few missing pages so she did. "They were guardians once. Now they are hungry. They wanted her. If youre reading this am gone, I'm sorry, I did it for you for after your mother, I had to but, but they want the bloodline now our blood. I tried it cannot be killed. Only contained."
"THE MIRROR IS THE VEIL, THE BLOOD, VESSEL."
"If the words are broken… it takes us both." She didn’t mean to chant the words. They fell from her lips, unbidden. She bit her lips to stop herself but it was too late the room darkened. The journal vibrated in her hands. Something pressed against her chest, a crushing weight from within. “I’m here, Nyxhe. We’re safe now.” No. That wasn’t safety. That felt like surrender. She stumbled to the mirror. Her own face stared back, pale and strained. Then… a crack. A hairline fracture split across her cheek. She blinked. The reflection didn’t. Fingers rose but not hers, and touched the other side of the glass. The surface rippled like it were liquid. She stepped back, heart thudding with energy, loss or gain she knows not. The reflection smiled, a jagged, crooked smirk. Her mouth didn’t move. But the voice echoed inside her head-
“It’s no more me. It’s us.”
She tried to scream. Nothing came out. Move but she was fixed, freezing yet burning. She reached for the mirror and felt her hand pass through. Cold. Wet. The glass clung to her skin like oil. When she pulled back, the motion was resisted, and with a tinkle the glass shattered, smash, her fingertips were red, blood ran down the glass, but the pain was distant. Not hers anymore. The reflection stayed. Watching. Waiting.
Outside, the house shifted, obscured by heady white clouds and mist, just the usual creaks, like nothing had happened. But inside, something had changed. Nyxhe laughed. A hollow sound, a mad, hysteric laughter. Hers. but not familiar...
THE PROTECTORS HAD BECOME PREDATORS. Not just drawn to her, but through her. The legacy her father had tried to bind, to suppress, was alive now. And so was she. But what part of her remained?
Was it trauma?
Possession?
Psychosis?
She would never know.
And neither would anyone else...
React
