Chapter One: The First Touch of Death

I was seven years old when I met Death for the first time. It was at a playground near school, with a boy I'd never even talked to. The early spring rain had slicked the ground and the monkey bars long before any child touched them that day. It's funny how coincidences don't seem so coincidental in retrospect.

I remember focusing all my energy on keeping a tight grip on the bars, swinging clumsily from one to the next, my legs quaking somewhere far below me. It happened so quickly that at first, I didn't realize what had happened. The boy, only a little older than me, had been trying to crawl over the top of the bars, his sneakers squeaking in protest as he made his way to the other side. From below, his friends laughed and jeered, urging him to go faster.

One slip. A scream that was cut off too soon. A sickening crack.

In the wood chips littering the ground beneath the bars, the boy lay in a crumpled heap. Ever so slowly, the chips around his head began to stain a vibrant red as life drained from him. I'd gotten scraped knees before, seen blood trickling from a careless paper cut, but this... this blood was different. It wasn't just red. It was angry, furious red, leeching the life out of him.

I saw it then. Hanging from the bars, I saw it— the shadow of Death. I didn't realize it then, but that moment marked me.

I fell from the bars, my arms going cold and numb, my fingers slipping easily from the cool metal. I landed hard, my eyes never leaving the boy. A scream tore from deep inside me, raw and jagged, forcing its way past my wide-open mouth. It felt like the moment stretched on into eternity, my scream morphing into a high wail.

The boy's eyes were vacant now, dull and brown, staring up at the grey clouds above. Adults surged forward, shielding the younger children from the horror, rushing to clear the playground. My mother was by my side, trying to pull me away, but I couldn't tear my gaze from the boy. Tears welled in my eyes, terror racing through me as I failed to stifle the wail that kept tearing from my chest. My body froze in place, my tiny hands clenching tight into fists. I felt the sting as my nails dug into the fabric of my pants, the wetness beneath my fingertips a stark reminder of the terror in my bones.

The shadow came closer, and I wanted nothing more than to look away as it coalesced into a jagged black figure, its cloak twisting in the wind. It hovered over the boy's slightly parted mouth, staring intently into it.

I wanted to run. I could feel a primordial fear take hold of me, yet I couldn't move. A voice in my head screamed at me to flee, but my muscles were locked, frozen.

"Madison, come on!" my mother's voice trembled beside me, pleading. She shook me, trying to pull me away, but couldn't she see it? That thing?

Slowly, a white orb floated from the boy's mouth, suspended by a thin, almost invisible line. The figure reached for it, its movements frantic, yet the boy's body remained unnervingly still.

The wail from my throat grew louder, reaching a pitch that was almost unbearable. The shadow under the figure's hood was darker than night, its gaze fixed on me. The silvery orb hovered just above the boy's lips, abandoned now as the cloaked figure extended its shadowy hand toward me.

The wail reached a crescendo, deafening all other sounds. My skull vibrated with the sheer intensity, as though the sound waves were crashing inside my head. Had I even breathed? My lungs burned, desperate for air.

At some point, I lost consciousness. I welcomed the cool darkness, a reprieve from the terror, an escape from the cloaked figure of Death. Even as my world turned dark, the lamenting wail continued.

-

"Madison?"

I blinked, shaking myself from the memory. My ears still rang, reverberating with the echo of my own cry. I don't know why it had surfaced just then. Across the cracked table, my mother eyed me with a frown. With glossy blonde hair pulled back into a sleek faux bob, she seemed entirely out of place in the grimy, dusty fast food restaurant. Her lips were pursed as she poked at a limp french fry, grimacing as she chewed.

"Finish your lunch, dear. Your father will be done with the car soon, and we'll get back on the road."

I nodded, ducking my head and biting into my burger. It did nothing to ease the unease curling in my stomach. My eyes flicked up to check if my mother was still watching me, but I quickly looked away when I saw her gaze fixed firmly on me. I swallowed quickly, finishing off the last bit of my meal with a hasty gulp of ice-cold soda. I lowered my gaze, acutely aware of her silent scrutiny.

"How much longer until we get there?" I asked, brushing my red hair over my shoulder. "To Blackwood, I mean."

She wiped each finger clean with a napkin, her movements deliberate. Hands folded neatly in her lap, her posture rigid. It was almost comical in the casual setting.

"We're nearly there," she said, sparing a glance out the fogged windows at the road running past the restaurant. "It shouldn't take more than twenty minutes to get into town, and then about ten more to get to our new home."

She barely stifled a sigh, hiding it behind a controlled exhale. Instead, she turned her gaze back to me, her look firm but not unkind. A lump formed in my throat. I forced another sip of soda past it.

The silence between us stretched. I felt an unspoken obligation to fill it.

"Mom…" I began, hesitating. My fingers twisted nervously, gripping the sleeves of my jacket under the table. "About Sadie…"

She raised a hand to stop me, throwing a quick glance over her shoulder as if any of the bleary-eyed patrons could overhear. She looked back at me, her lips mouthing a silent "Not here."

I flushed and returned to picking at my food. The thought of Sadie, my classmate from Rocinante Academy, made my stomach churn. I pushed the fries around my tray until Dad came back.

We sat in uneasy silence, the quiet between us a truce we both respected, until the bell above the restaurant door chimed. A man with graying dark hair stepped in, dressed sharply in a button-up collared shirt and shiny black loafers. His eyes scanned the room before landing on us.

I offered him a half-hearted glance before quickly dropping my gaze to the tray in front of me. My stomach twisted even further.

"Mom?" I asked cautiously. "Looks like Dad's done with the car. Are you ready to go?"

She made a low humming sound and stood to dispose of the barely touched contents of her lunch. I followed suit, both of us heading to the front, where Dad stood waiting.

He checked his watch, his face unreadable. "Let's be off. We've little time before sunset, and I'd like to be settled in before dark."

Wordlessly, I followed my parents out to the car. The freshly refueled black sedan stood stark against the beaten-up vehicles around it, gleaming like a polished jewel. Despite the rainstorm and fog we'd driven through, the car looked untouched by the weather.

I slid into the backseat, careful not to leave fingerprints on the door handle. I clicked my seatbelt into place and steeled myself for the drive. The roads grew bumpier as we left the town behind, and the houses that lined the road stood eerily still, like statues shrouded in fog.

My hands twisted into knots in my lap as the unsettling sensation of familiarity crept up my spine. I glanced down at my left palm, feeling the sudden chill of the birthmark there, a faint, cold reminder.

It had been there as long as I could remember: three sharp lines, meeting at one end, resembling a bird's footprint. I always felt the cold more intensely when something bad was about to happen.

When I was younger, one of my friends had gotten her hands on a palm-reading book. We took turns reading each other's palms, and when it was my turn, she traced the birthmark with a furrowed brow.

"This isn't in the book," she'd said, flipping through the pages. "Maybe you're cursed."

The others had laughed, but a shiver crawled up my spine. I didn't believe in curses—not back then, anyway—but I remembered how cold the mark had felt when she touched it. As if she'd pressed a block of ice into my skin. The next day, the boy from the playground had died.

-

The drive felt like it lasted forever, but finally, we pulled up to our new home. Hawthorne Manor.

Dad stopped the car in front of the imposing wrought-iron gates, parking to the side before stepping out to push them open. The gates groaned with protest, their iron frame stiff with rust. A gust of wind sent orange flecks skittering across the cracked stone path.

He returned to the car, expression unreadable, and we drove further into the estate. Through the fog, Hawthorne Manor loomed, perched atop a hill like an ancient sentinel.

I swallowed hard. This place felt... familiar. It couldn't be. We hadn't even heard of Blackwood until two weeks ago,

when my mother found the listing in the newspaper.

Yet as the house grew larger in my sight, I couldn't shake the feeling that I had been here before.

Cresting the hill, we reached the front of the manor. Up close, Hawthorne Manor loomed even more imposing, its dark stone facade streaked with rain and age. Vines clung to the walls like grasping fingers, spiraling upward toward the eaves where a faded crest barely clung to life beneath layers of grime. The roof, steep and jagged, cast long shadows over the gravel driveway, distorting my vision in the fading light.

The massive double doors loomed before us, their wood warped and darkened by time. Iron knockers, shaped like ravens' skulls, rested against the wood, their hollow eyes staring unblinkingly. The windows, once magnificent, were now obscured by layers of dust, their reflections of the overcast sky warped and distorted.

Logic told me the place had been abandoned long ago. Intuition whispered that it had never truly been empty.

We all slowly exited the car. My parents moved ahead, their steps steady as they trod up the gravel path to the porch. Dad fumbled through his pockets, searching for something. I lingered by the car, a cold sense of apprehension freezing my hand to the door. I glanced up at the dark windows, and for a moment, pareidolia conjured faces from the shadows, eyes watching me.

"Ah, here," Dad said, holding up a heavy, tarnished silver key. He clicked it into the lock, turning it with a firm twist. The doors creaked open, and both of them strode into the foyer, leaving me standing alone on the front steps.

I felt exposed, my heartbeat quickening, thrumming a warning in my ears. I felt eyes on me. I glanced around, searching for the source of my unease, but in the fading light, I saw only shadows. Clutching my jacket tighter, I hurried inside, joining my parents.

-

The house was unnervingly quiet that night.

I lay awake in my new bedroom, staring at the cracked ceiling, listening to the creaks and groans of Hawthorne Manor as it shifted with the wind.

"The movers will be here tomorrow morning, so get to bed early so we can start cleaning," Dad had said before retreating to his room hours ago. How could they sleep in a place like this?

Sleep wouldn't come for me. I already knew it. My nerves were on edge just looking at this place from the outside, but now, being inside… it felt like I was caged, restrained, vulnerable.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to convince myself it was just the unfamiliar bed, just the house settling into its old bones.

Tap. Tap.

I sat up so fast, my pulse leaping in my throat. My hand reached for the lamp, but I froze when I remembered it wasn't there. The boxes with my furniture were still sitting in the back of the moving truck. I stilled, listening intently, only hearing my own blood pounding in my ears.

I waited so long that I started to think I'd imagined it.

Tap.

This time, I pinpointed the sound. My window.

I slid out of bed, hesitating only for a moment before crossing the room. My fingers hovered over the curtain, heart hammering in my chest, before I yanked it back.

Two figures stood just beyond the treeline, fog swirling around them. My eyes darted down to the old latch holding the window shut. Somewhere deep in my mind, I knew my palm had gone cold.

My eyes adjusted to the faint moonlight illuminating their faces. Both were tall, dressed in dark clothing, their faces youthful—no older than me, perhaps. The taller one had his hands buried in his jacket pockets, a faint smirk playing on his lips. A wind ruffled his blonde hair, creating a halo around his head. He pulled a hand from his pocket, showing me a small pebble before dropping it in an exaggerated motion.

The other one was more guarded, his arms crossed tightly, his posture rigid. He stood with a scowl on his face, his fair skin glowing in the silvery light, his hair darker than night, absorbing the light around it. He tilted his head impatiently, his chin jerking toward the front door.

Hurry up, he seemed to say.

I froze. Every instinct screamed that this was a mistake, but at this point, did I really have a choice?

I grabbed my jacket, shoving my feet into shoes before creeping downstairs. Each floorboard creaked under my weight, making me wince. I paused, listening for any sound from my parents, but they remained undisturbed.

With care, I opened the front door, stepping outside into the cold. The two boys stood near the porch steps now, watching me approach.

"What do you want?" I demanded, trying to sound more irritated than frightened. The wind tugged a strand of red hair loose, flinging it into my face. I pushed it back, never breaking eye contact with them. "Who are you?"

"Just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood," the blonde boy said with a cheeky grin. "We're your new neighbors. Or rather, you're our new neighbors."

The dark-haired boy rolled his eyes. "Get on with it, Aiden. You're the one who wanted to come here. Why drag me out of bed for this if you're just going to drag it out?"

Aiden smiled wider, unfazed, and nodded toward his brother. "Patience, Rowan. Formalities must be observed. Father would be disappointed to hear you want to rush the introductions."

Rowan groaned, shooting Aiden a sharp glare. Aiden ignored him, turning back to me.

"Forgive my brother," Aiden said with an exaggerated sigh. "He's cranky when he doesn't get his beauty sleep. This is my brother Rowan," he gestured to the other boy, "and I'm Aiden."

Aiden's movements were smooth and practiced, and despite myself, I couldn't help but frown in suspicion. The Cheshire smile did nothing to put me at ease.

"What do you want?" I repeated, voice tight.

Rowan answered before Aiden could speak. "Wrong question," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's not about what we want. We're doing you a favor by being here. So, all you have to do is shut up and listen."

I inhaled sharply, anger flaring up in me and momentarily pushing my fear aside. Before I could snap back, Aiden placed a hand over Rowan's mouth, earning a low growl from his brother.

"We only want to offer some advice," Aiden said, his grin finally fading. His tone was now serious. "You and your family should leave Blackwood. Before it's too late. Go back to wherever you came from and forget this place."

A chill crept up my spine, and the gooseflesh on my arms prickled beneath my jacket.

"Why?"

The brothers exchanged a glance so quick it was almost imperceptible.

"You'd better hope you never find out the 'why,'" Rowan said, his eyes locking onto mine. "Just know this: this town doesn't forget. And neither does this manor."

The wind blew between us, ghostly and cold. For a long moment, no one spoke.

Rowan turned abruptly, heading back toward the trees where they had come from.

"You've been warned," he said quietly, but his voice carried easily across the night, "Don't come crying to us when Blackwood starts showing you its teeth."

With a sigh, Aiden glanced toward his brother's retreating form before turning his gaze back to me. His smile remained, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"He has no manners," Aiden said with a soft laugh. "A good evening to you, Madison. And hopefully, farewell."

Before I could respond, they both vanished into the fog. It wasn't until I was safely back in my room that the unsettling thought occurred to me: How did they know my name?