The bed was cold when Ivy woke up.
Miles was gone.
But his scent lingered—something like cedarwood and old smoke. Something that wrapped around her skin and refused to let go. She sat up slowly, blanket slipping off her shoulder.
The room looked different in the daylight. Brighter. More... exposed. The cracks in the wallpaper. The old trunk at the corner. The broken mirror with a cloth half-draped over it.
She caught her reflection.
And froze.
It was her face—but it wasn't.
Her eyes looked darker, emptier. Like someone else was looking back.
Like something else.
She blinked, and it was gone.
Downstairs, Flora sat at the breakfast table, poking at her toast.
She looked up as Ivy entered. Her eyes went wide. "You look... weird."
Ivy frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I dunno. Just weird. Like... not you."
Then she smiled again. Like a switch. "Wanna play later?"
"Sure," Ivy muttered, distracted.
Mrs. Grose entered carrying tea, her eyes falling on Ivy.
She stopped.
The tray shook slightly in her hands.
"You alright, dear?" she asked.
"I'm fine."
A pause.
"You don't look fine."
Ivy stared back at her coldly. "You always say that."
Mrs. Grose flinched. "That's not like you..."
"Isn't it?"
Later that night, Flora knocked on her door. "Ivy?"
She didn't answer.
Flora opened the door anyway and peeked in.
Ivy was standing in the middle of the room. Still. Rigid. Eyes open but... vacant.
"Ivy?" Flora whispered.
No response.
Ivy turned, ever so slowly. Her voice was low. "Go back to bed."
Flora stepped back. "Okay..."
But as she turned to leave, Ivy suddenly whispered something under her breath.
Flora stopped in her tracks.
"...Peter..."
"What?" Flora asked.
Ivy looked confused. "Huh?"
"Ivy, who's Peter?"
"I didn't say anything."
Flora slowly closed the door.
Her heart was pounding.
Later, Ivy visited Mrs. Grose.
"I need to know what's going on."
Mrs. Grose looked exhausted. Like the house had been draining her every day for years.
"It's him, isn't it?" Ivy asked. "Miles. He's... not right."
Mrs. Grose hesitated.
And then whispered, "He reminds me of someone."
"Who?"
She looked away. "Peter Quint."
"Who was he?"
"Someone we tried to forget. Someone who... used to live in that room. The one Miles sleeps in now."
Ivy went pale.
"And Miles is..."
Mrs. Grose's voice trembled.
"He's too much like him. The way he talks. The things he says. How he looks at you."
Tears welled in her eyes. "It's like Peter never really left. Like he found a way back through that boy."
That night, Ivy couldn't sleep.
She got up. Walked through the dark hall.
The house creaked, whispering to itself.
She stopped outside Miles's room.
The door was slightly open.
She pushed it gently.
Inside, she saw something that made her heart stop—
His walls.
They weren't like hers.
They were covered in drawings.
Dark ones.
Of horses with red eyes.
Of a tall man with a hollow face.
Of herself—
Sleeping.
Crying.
Smiling.
She backed away.
Then tripped over something.
The lid of a wooden box slid open.
Inside were old letters.
All signed:
P.Q.
She stared down at them in horror.
And behind her, a voice whispered:
"Looking for something?"
She turned.
Miles stood in the doorway.
Smiling.