The house had not felt the same since she returned.
Clara had scrubbed the floors, washed the blood from her skin, buried the nightmare deep beneath the trees. But some things don’t stay buried.
The night stretched long, the walls of her home pressing too close, the air too still. For months, Ivy had woken her, whimpering, crying a mother’s instinct always pulling Clara from sleep.
But tonight?
Tonight, there was nothing.
No cries. No restless shifting beneath the blankets.
Just silence.
it settled heavily over the house, a suffocating blanket of darkness that seemed to absorb all sound. Clara lay in bed, her body rigid, ears straining against the oppressive silence. Since Daniel's death, every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of the wind, had taken on a sinister tone. But tonight, there was nothing. No rustle of leaves, no distant hum of traffic just an eerie stillness that pressed against her eardrums.
Beside her, Ivy slept—or at least, Clara thought she did. The child's breathing was so shallow, so imperceptible, that Clara found herself holding her own breath, waiting for some sign of life. The events of the past days had left her paranoid, her mind conjuring phantoms in every shadow.
Suddenly, Ivy shifted, the movement abrupt and unnatural, as if jerked by invisible strings. Clara's heart skipped a beat, her pulse quickening. She turned her head slowly, eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the curtains.
Ivy was sitting up, her posture rigid, head tilted at an unnatural angle. Her eyes, once warm and filled with childlike curiosity, now stared blankly ahead, reflecting the faint light in a way that made them appear almost hollow.
"Ivy?" Clara's voice was barely a whisper, tinged with a fear she couldn't suppress.
For a moment, there was no response. Then, Ivy's lips curved into a smile, but it was a grotesque imitation of joy, the corners of her mouth stretching too wide, revealing teeth that seemed sharper in the darkness.
"Mommy," Ivy's voice was sing-song, each syllable dripping with a mocking sweetness that sent chills down Clara's spine.
Clara swallowed hard, her mouth dry. "What's wrong, baby?"
Ivy's head tilted further, the motion reminiscent of a marionette manipulated by an unskilled puppeteer. "Play with me, Mommy."
Before Clara could respond, Ivy's body convulsed, her limbs jerking in unnatural directions. The child's eyes rolled back, revealing the whites, and a guttural laugh erupted from her throat a sound so foreign, so filled with malice, that it seemed to vibrate through the very walls.
Clara scrambled backward, her back hitting the headboard with a thud. "Ivy! Stop it!"
But the laughter continued, echoing around the room, growing louder, more distorted. Ivy's small frame shook with the force of it, and then, as abruptly as it had started, the laughter ceased. Ivy's body went limp, collapsing onto the bed like a discarded doll.
For a long moment, Clara couldn't move, her breath coming in shallow gasps, eyes locked on her daughter's motionless form. The silence that followed was even more oppressive than before, pressing down on her chest, making it hard to think, to breathe.
Summoning every ounce of courage, Clara reached out a trembling hand, her fingers brushing against Ivy's shoulder. The child's skin was cold, clammy, devoid of the warmth that should have been there.
"Ivy?" Clara's voice cracked, tears welling in her eyes.
Slowly, Ivy's head turned, her eyes fluttering open. They were normal again soft, brown, innocent. She blinked up at Clara, confusion knitting her small brows.
"Mommy? Why are you crying?"
Clara let out a shuddering breath, relief and terror warring within her. She pulled Ivy into her arms, holding her close, feeling the steady beat of her heart against her own.
"It's nothing, baby," she whispered, rocking her gently. "Just a bad dream."
But as she held her daughter, Clara couldn't shake the image of those vacant eyes, the sound of that twisted laughter. She knew, deep down, that the nightmare was far from over. Something had changed in Ivy something dark, insidious. And whatever it was, it was just beginning.
Ivy yawned, rubbing at her eyes. "I had a bad dream," she mumbled.
Clara swallowed hard, her hands shaking as she reached for her daughter, pulling her close.
"It’s okay, baby," she whispered, pressing a kiss to Ivy’s hair. "It’s just a dream."
But she knew.
Knew it wasn’t a dream at all.
Something had followed them home.
Morning came too fast, too normal.
The town of Ravens Hollow stirred awake, oblivious to the nightmare Clara carried inside her skin.
The world didn’t care that she had dragged a body through the dirt, that she had scrubbed blood from her floors until her knuckles bled. It didn’t care that her daughter **her baby **wasn’t the same little girl she had carried home.
Because outside her front door, life moved on.
Birds chattered on telephone wires. Car engines rumbled down the street. A group of schoolchildren walked past, their laughter sharp and bright, a sound that did not belong in her ears anymore.
Clara stood at the sink, staring out the kitchen window as Mrs. Calloway, her elderly next-door neighbor, hauled her trash can to the curb.
Clara had known Mrs. Calloway since she moved here. She had babysat Ivy once or twice, always stopped to chat on her evening walks. A kind woman.
But today, she felt like a stranger.
Clara’s fingers tightened around the edge of the sink.
What would Mrs. Calloway say if she knew?
If she knew what lay beneath the trees at the edge of town?
If she knew the thing sitting at Clara’s kitchen table was not the same child she had known?
"Mommy."
Clara’s breath caught.
She turned, her stomach knotting but Ivy was just sitting there, swinging her little legs under the table.
For a second, she looked normal.
For a second, Clara almost believed.
"I don’t want cereal," Ivy said, poking at the bowl in front of her.
Clara swallowed hard, trying to push past the thick nausea crawling up her throat. "I can make something else, baby. Eggs?"
Ivy didn’t answer.
She just tilted her head, blinking slowly.
Her eyes not black, not unnatural, but different.
Sharper. Too aware.
Then, the sound of footsteps on the porch made Clara jump.
A knock at the door.
She turned toward it, her pulse spiking.
Someone was here.
A piece of the normal world, cutting into her nightmare.
Clara wiped her hands on a dish towel, moving to the door, forcing herself to breathe, to steady.
She pulled it open.
Detective Harris stood on her porch.
Dressed in his usual gray button-up, his badge glinting in the early morning light.
His dark eyes flicked over her, taking in the exhaustion, the bruises barely hidden beneath the collar of her shirt.
"Morning, Ms. Monroe," he said.
Clara gripped the edge of the door.
"Detective," she murmured, forcing a polite nod.
He exhaled, shifting his weight. "We’re looking into a missing person’s case. Daniel Carter. Haven’t seen him since yesterday."
Clara’s stomach turned to ice.
For a split second, the world blurred.
Daniel.
His blood. The grave in the woods.
She felt dirt under her nails again.
But she swallowed it all down.
Kept her face neutral. Innocent.
Her voice came soft, steady. "Missing?"
Detective Harris studied her carefully.
"You wouldn’t happen to know anything, would you?" he asked, his tone casual too casual.
Clara held his gaze.
She let herself laugh, just a little. A nervous, clueless laugh. "Detective, I haven’t seen Daniel in days."
Harris didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
Then behind her.
A small giggle.
Soft, but wrong.
Ivy.
Clara turned, her blood turning to lead in her veins.
Ivy sat in her chair, swinging her legs smiling.
But her eyes
They were black again.
And Detective Harris was watching her.
Detective Harris’s gaze flicked toward Ivy.
Clara’s pulse thundered.
She turned her head just enough to see her daughter, sitting in that chair, smiling too wide.
Her legs swung under the table in slow, deliberate motions, her little fingers drumming against the wood. She looked normal to anyone else, she would look normal.
But Clara could see the shift.
The subtle wrongness.
The way her eyes, just for a flicker of a second, had darkened into that abyss.
She forced her lips into a tight, apologetic smile, stepping slightly to block Ivy from Harris’s view.
"I sorry, Detective. She gets restless when people come by."
Harris didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
He was watching Clara too carefully now.
"Right," he said slowly.
She felt her own hands tightening around the doorframe.
She couldn’t let him inside. Couldn’t let him see anything.
Clara cleared her throat, pasting concern onto her face. "So Daniel’s missing? That’s strange. He never seemed like the type to disappear."
Harris exhaled, shifting his weight slightly, but his eyes never left her.
"His sister called it in this morning. She hasn’t heard from him. No one has. His truck’s still at his house."
Clara nodded slowly, forcing her body to stay loose. She tilted her head, as if thinking, as if she hadn’t spent the last night dragging his body through the woods, burying him in the earth, scrubbing his blood from his floors.
"That’s odd," she murmured. "Maybe he just needed to get away for a bit?"
Harris didn’t answer.
Just watched her.
Then he shifted. His voice dropped just slightly.
"You sure you haven’t seen him, Clara?"
Too direct.
Her stomach tightened.
She let herself hesitate. Just a breath. Just enough to make the lie more believable.
Then, she exhaled, shaking her head. "No, Detective. I wish I could help, but I haven’t seen him."
Silence.
Then a slow nod.
Harris pulled out a card, holding it out to her.
"If you hear anything, let me know."
Clara took it, fingers steady, her pulse a drumbeat of panic beneath her skin.
"Of course," she said softly.
Harris turned, stepping down the porch steps, heading toward his cruiser.
She stayed at the door, watching him, waiting but he didn’t drive away immediately.
He sat there.
For too long.
Then, finally his headlights blinked on. The car rolled down the street.
Clara’s shoulders sagged.
But the relief was short-lived.
A soft giggle floated from behind her.
She turned, slowly.
Ivy was still sitting in her chair.
Still smiling.
Her tiny fingers tapped against the table rhythmically, deliberately.
And then she spoke.
"Mommy."
Clara swallowed, stepping forward. "Yes, baby?"
Ivy tilted her head, the motion too slow, too precise.
Then, in that same sing-song voice
"He knows."
Clara’s breath hitched.
She froze.
Ivy’s small hands still drummed against the table.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A perfect heartbeat rhythm.
She grinned.
And whispered
"They all will."
Clara’s hands felt numb as she gripped the back of the chair, her nails pressing into the wood.
The kitchen felt smaller. The air, heavier.
Ivy sat there, her small fingers drumming against the table, her lips curved just enough not quite a smile, but something close.
The way she had said it.
He knows.
Clara swallowed against the tightness in her throat.
"It’s just a game," she whispered to herself. "She’s a kid. Kids say weird things."
But the ice buried deep in her ribs refused to melt.
Outside, life moved on.
A car rumbled past. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked lazily into the morning air. The world continued, oblivious.
And yet
She felt eyes.
Watching.
Somewhere, someone was looking.
She moved carefully, forcing a breath. "Okay, baby," she murmured, brushing a hand over Ivy’s curls. "Let’s get you dressed. We need to get out of the house for a bit."
Ivy blinked up at her.
The drumming against the table stopped.
Her hands went still.
Clara waited.
Ivy’s expression didn’t change.
Then she nodded.
Clara let out the breath she had been holding.
She picked Ivy up, carrying her upstairs, her mind moving too fast, too loud.
She needed to get into town.
Needed to act normal.
People were starting to look at her.
Harris would be back. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But he wasn’t done.
She needed to blend.
Disappear back into routine.
She picked out a dress for Ivy a soft yellow one with tiny embroidered flowers. Something innocent. Something light.
Something that wouldn’t make her look like the thing Clara had seen last night.
Ivy let Clara pull the dress over her head, her tiny arms slipping into the sleeves with no resistance.
Too calm.
Too still.
"Where are we going, Mommy?" Ivy asked, her voice soft, sweet, too normal.
Clara hesitated.
She didn’t know. She just needed to be around people. To feel like she still existed in the real world, where neighbors watered their lawns and cashiers rang up groceries and mothers took their daughters out for breakfast.
"We’re going to The Hollow Diner," Clara said finally.
It was safe.
Familiar.
People knew her there.
People would see them.
Ivy smiled.
And for the first time that morning, she felt like a child again.
Clara grabbed her purse, her hands still unsteady, and led Ivy out the front door.
As they stepped onto the sidewalk, the sun finally broke through the morning clouds, spilling warmth across their faces.
But Clara didn’t feel it.
She only felt the chill still clinging to her bones.
And as she buckled Ivy into the car, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone, somewhere, was watching them leave.
The drive into town was too quiet.
Ivy sat in the backseat, her small hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the scenery outside.
Clara tried to focus on the road, on the curve of the trees, on the familiar houses lining the streets. But her grip on the wheel was too tight.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that the town felt different today.
Maybe it was just her.
Maybe it was the weight of what she had done.
Or maybe something had shifted.
She pulled into the parking lot of The Hollow Diner, the neon sign buzzing faintly against the early morning light.
It was small, tucked at the edge of the town square, a place everyone knew.
A place that had been safe.
She stepped out, moving around to unbuckle Ivy.
The little girl slid out of the seat with too much grace.
Too quiet. Too composed.
Clara forced herself to breathe. To act normal.
She reached for Ivy’s hand.
It was cold.
The sensation made her stomach twist, but she ignored it. She had to.
The bell above the diner door jingled as they stepped inside.
The scent of fresh coffee and buttered toast hung in the air. The low hum of conversation filled the space a familiar, grounding sound.
Clara let out a slow breath.
People were here.
Normal people.
Mrs. Calloway sat at her usual booth by the window, stirring a packet of sugar into her tea.
James Turner, the town’s self-proclaimed mechanic and gossip, leaned against the counter, chatting with one of the waitresses.
Everything was normal.
Except
People were staring.
Not openly.
Not in any way that would have seemed off to someone who hadn’t buried a body in the woods two nights ago.
But Clara saw it.
The way James’ conversation slowed as he glanced in her direction.
The way Mrs. Calloway’s spoon hesitated in her tea, just for a beat too long.
The way the waitress at the counter forced a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Clara led Ivy to a booth near the back, her fingers tightening around the little girl’s hand.
A waitress approached. Maggie. She was young, probably no older than twenty, her hair pulled into a tight ponytail, her notepad already in hand.
She smiled, but there was something off about it.
"Morning, Clara," she said, pen tapping against the page.
Clara swallowed. Forced a smile. "Morning, Mags."
Maggie’s gaze flickered to Ivy.
Then hesitation.
Like she had expected Ivy to be different.
Or maybe like she had heard something.
"Coffee?" Maggie asked, her voice too light.
Clara nodded. "And pancakes for Ivy."
Maggie scribbled it down, then hesitated again.
"You doing okay?" she asked, her voice quieter this time.
Clara’s stomach tightened.
She kept her face calm. Casual. "Of course. Why?"
Maggie glanced around the diner quick, paranoid.
Then she leaned in.
"It’s just people have been talking."
Clara’s breath hitched.
Maggie’s voice dropped lower.
"About Daniel."
The words felt like ice.
Clara gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles turning white.
Maggie shifted, glancing toward the front counter, where James and another customer were speaking too quietly.
She leaned closer.
"They think you had something to do with it," she whispered.
Clara’s throat went dry.
Maggie pulled back just as quickly, pasting a smile back onto her face, as if nothing had happened.
"Coffee will be right out."
Then, she turned and walked away, leaving Clara frozen in place.
Ivy stirred beside her, swinging her legs slowly.
When Clara looked down at her, she was smiling.
Not a child’s smile.
Not the kind that belonged in a place like this.
A smile that knew something Clara didn’t.
Ivy turned toward her, voice soft as silk.
"They’re watching you, Mommy."
Clara’s breath caught.
Ivy’s fingers curled around the edge of the table.
Her smile widened.
"And they should be."
The diner felt smaller now.
The air inside was thick, syrupy with the weight of unspoken things. The scent of coffee and fried bacon curled through the space, but it did nothing to cut through the tension.
Outside, the sun burned too bright, its light filtering through the large windows, casting long shadows that stretched across the floor.
Shadows that seemed to bend in ways they shouldn’t.
Clara kept her hands steady on the table, but inside, her pulse pounded a desperate rhythm against her ribs.
People were watching.
She could feel their eyes subtle, careful, pretending not to look but looking anyway. Their conversations had dropped to low murmurs, the occasional stolen glance flicking in her direction before being quickly yanked away.
It wasn’t just Daniel’s name that had started the whispers.
It was her.
The weight of it pressed down on her chest, thick, suffocating.
Ivy sat across from her, her small fingers tracing idle patterns against the table, her legs swinging rhythmically beneath the booth. The yellow dress Clara had chosen for her **so innocent, so normal *felt wrong now. Like a costume, a trick.
Maggie returned, setting the coffee cup down in front of Clara. Dark liquid swirled inside, steam curling into the air, but the scent of it turned her stomach.
Her body was still running from last night, still remembering the feel of soil beneath her nails, the wet weight of Daniel’s body dragging through the trees.
"Here you go," Maggie said, her voice too casual, too forced.
Clara wrapped her hands around the mug, welcoming the heat, trying to steady herself. "Thanks."
Maggie hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other. The way people do when they want to say more but know they shouldn’t.
Then, she leaned in again, voice barely above a whisper.
"They’re saying he was last seen with you."
Clara’s fingers stiffened around the mug.
She swallowed, forcing herself to breathe evenly, to keep her expression light, untouched.
She let out a soft, incredulous laugh, shaking her head. "People always love a good story, don’t they?"
Maggie didn’t smile.
Her eyes darted toward Ivy just for a second.
Then, she turned and walked away, disappearing behind the counter, her ponytail swinging with each hurried step.
Clara took a slow sip of coffee, the warmth burning its way down her throat, but it did nothing to settle the unease twisting like barbed wire in her stomach.
Ivy’s voice cut through the moment.
"You lied."
Clara’s hand jerked slightly, sloshing coffee against the rim of the mug.
She looked up.
Ivy was watching her, her eyes large, unblinking.
Clara forced a chuckle, too light, too thin. "What do you mean, baby?"
Ivy’s small fingers drummed against the table.
"You told her people love stories."
A pause.
Then, a slow, creeping smile.
"But this one’s true."
Clara’s stomach dropped.
She felt her entire body go cold, her limbs locking into place.
Ivy blinked once. Slowly. Deliberately.
Then she turned her head.
Not toward Clara.
Toward the window.
Clara followed her gaze, her breath caught in her throat.
Across the street, just beyond the parking lot
Detective Harris stood watching them.
He wasn’t in his car. He wasn’t pretending to be passing by.
He was just standing there.
His arms crossed over his chest. His expression calm, unreadable.
But he was looking directly at her.
At them.
Clara’s breath came sharp, ragged.
The world around her blurred. The diner’s low hum of conversation faded into a distant murmur, the scent of syrup and coffee turning bitter in her nose.
She turned back to Ivy but Ivy was already staring at her.
And she was still smiling.
Clara’s breath stilled in her chest.
Outside, across the street, Detective Harris hadn’t moved.
He stood rigid, unmoving, arms folded as he watched her. His dark eyes gave nothing away, but his presence alone sent a deep, unsettling tension through Clara’s bones.
He knew.
Maybe not everything. Maybe not yet.
But he was waiting.
Clara’s grip on the coffee cup tightened. The heat seeped into her fingers, but her hands still felt cold, lifeless.
Ivy’s voice cut through the thick silence between them.
"Mommy."
Clara’s head snapped toward her daughter.
Ivy was still staring at her, her small lips parted slightly, her fingers pressed against the edge of the table.
She blinked once.
Then again.
Slow. Deliberate.
"Are we going to pretend he’s not there?"
Clara’s stomach lurched.
Her mouth was too dry to speak.
Ivy didn’t look away. Didn’t move.
Just sat there, her little hands pressed flat against the wooden surface.
"Because he’s waiting," Ivy said, voice light. "Waiting for you to mess up."
Clara swallowed.
A shaky breath passed her lips, but her body felt locked in place.
She had to move. Had to act normal.
She reached for her coffee again, forcing a soft, breathless laugh.
"Ivy, baby," she said, barely above a whisper, "we don’t talk like that."
Ivy’s lips pressed together.
A slow, deliberate shift of her expression not a pout, not frustration.
Something else.
Something too measured.
Too aware.
Clara’s pulse hammered against her ribs.
She turned back toward the window, forcing herself to breathe, to think.
Harris was still there.
Watching.
But then he moved.
A slow, careful step onto the street.
Then another.
Crossing.
Coming toward the diner.
Clara’s body tensed, every instinct screaming at her to get up, to run, to grab Ivy and disappear into the crowd.
But she couldn’t.
She could only sit there, hands trembling under the table, as the bell above the diner door chimed.
Detective Harris stepped inside.
The diner door creaked on its hinges as Detective Harris stepped inside.
The hum of conversation dipped just slightly. Not enough for anyone to outright stop talking, but enough for Clara to feel it.
People noticed.
People were waiting.
Harris walked with the slow, measured pace of a man who already had answers, but was looking for confirmation. His boots made a dull, steady sound against the tile floor, his presence heavy, deliberate.
Clara’s heartbeat pounded in her throat.
She took a slow breath, forcing herself to look normal, to be normal. She had to meet his eyes, not avoid him. She had to smile, not stiffen.
She wasn’t guilty.
She wasn’t.
The detective stopped at the counter, speaking briefly with Maggie. Clara watched her fingers tightening against the table.
Maggie nodded toward her booth.
Of course she did.
Clara swallowed, her breath short, shallow.
Ivy hadn’t moved.
She sat perfectly still, hands now folded neatly in her lap. Her legs which had been swinging moments ago were now motionless.
Clara could feel the heat of her daughter’s gaze on her skin, but she didn’t dare look.
Harris turned.
His steps came slow, heavy with purpose, as he walked toward them.
Clara lifted her coffee, taking a casual sip, willing her hands to stay steady.
Harris stopped at the edge of the table, looking down at her.
"Mind if I sit?"
Clara swallowed the burn of coffee, her lips curving into something polite, light, casual.
"Of course, Detective," she said.
Harris slid into the booth across from her. His eyes flicked to Ivy.
Ivy stared back.
No smile. No blinking.
Just stillness.
Harris cleared his throat, shifting slightly. "I was in the area. Thought I’d stop by, grab a coffee."
Clara nodded. "Small town. Not many places to go."
Harris’s lips twitched at that. Maybe the ghost of a smirk. Maybe nothing at all.
"You mind if I ask you a couple questions, Clara?"
Clara forced her shoulders to stay loose. She exhaled lightly, making it look effortless, easy.
"As long as I’m not in trouble," she said, adding a small chuckle. "I don’t think I could survive a scandal."
Harris’s gaze didn’t waver.
"Daniel Carter."
The name dropped between them like a stone, sinking deep into the silence.
Clara kept her smile in place.
"Still missing?" she asked, tilting her head.
Harris studied her for a long moment.
Then, he nodded.
"His truck’s still parked at home," he said. "No sign of struggle. No sign that he packed up to leave."
Clara let her brows pull together, just slightly. "That’s strange," she murmured. "Daniel wasn’t the type to just… disappear, was he?"
Harris didn’t answer that.
Just kept watching her.
Then his gaze shifted.
Back to Ivy.
Ivy hadn’t blinked once.
She was still staring at him.
Harris shifted slightly in his seat, then looked back at Clara.
"You were close, weren’t you?" he asked.
Clara let out a soft breath, shaking her head slightly. "We were friends. He helped out sometimes, but that’s it."
Harris hummed, tapping a slow rhythm against the table.
Then he leaned in slightly.
Lowered his voice.
"Did you see him that night?"
Clara’s pulse thundered.
She couldn’t hear the diner anymore. The voices, the clatter of dishes, the sounds of forks scraping against plates it all faded.
This was the moment.
The moment that decided everything.
She let out a slow exhale, just enough of a pause.
Then she smiled.
"No, Detective," she said softly.
"I haven’t seen Daniel in days."
Harris watched her.
One second.
Two.
Then he smiled back.
But something in it told her he didn’t believe her.
Detective Harris’s smile was thin, unreadable.
He leaned back against the booth, tapping his fingers lightly on the table. The sound was calculated, measured, as if he were testing the weight of her words, letting them settle in the air before deciding whether to crush them.
Clara didn’t move.
Didn’t shift in her seat.
Didn’t let her fingers tighten around her coffee cup, no matter how much her instincts screamed at her to run.
The silence stretched too long.
Then, Harris exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "You know, I believe you, Clara."
Clara almost sighed in relief.
Almost.
But then his eyes flicked to Ivy.
The movement was subtle, quick, but it made something cold slide through Clara’s spine.
Ivy was still watching him.
Still silent.
Harris hesitated.
And Ivy smiled.
A small, soft thing. The kind of smile a child gives when they’ve been caught in a lie but aren’t afraid of the punishment.
Harris’s fingers stilled against the table.
His jaw tensed.
Something shifted in his expression.
He looked back at Clara. "You always eat here?"
Clara forced a small, breathless laugh. "Not as much as I used to. But Ivy likes the pancakes."
Ivy’s head tilted slightly. "They’re too sweet today."
Clara froze.
The way Ivy said it her voice was normal, light. But there was something off.
Like she wasn’t talking about the pancakes at all.
Harris studied her.
His gaze was heavy, dragging over every detail the slight tremor in Clara’s hand, the way she blinked too quickly, the way Ivy sat too still.
Then, finally he nodded.
"Well," he said, pushing back from the booth. "If you hear anything about Daniel, let me know."
Clara smiled.
Tight. Polite.
"I will."
Harris stood, adjusting his belt.
Then he hesitated.
"You know," he said, voice lighter now, almost teasing, "for a woman who hasn’t seen Daniel in days, you sure don’t seem surprised he’s missing."
Clara’s stomach plummeted.
But she laughed, soft and easy, shaking her head. "Come on, Detective. This is Ravens Hollow. People disappear all the time."
Harris smirked.
"Yeah," he said.
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t leave.
Just stood there watching her.
Then, slowly, his gaze slid back to Ivy.
Ivy smiled again.
And in that moment Clara swore she saw his eye twitch.
Then, finally, Harris stepped away.
Walked toward the counter.
Ordered his coffee.
Clara let out a slow, shuddering breath.
The moment was over.
But the danger?
It was just beginning.
Clara didn’t move.
Her breath sat tight in her chest, pressing up against her ribs like something alive, something desperate to claw its way out.
Detective Harris stood at the counter, his back to her now, but she knew better than to think he was done.
This wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
Around her, the diner moved like nothing had changed. Forks scraped against plates, coffee cups clinked, voices murmured over half-forgotten morning routines.
But Clara knew better.
She could feel it.
The shift.
The way conversations had turned quieter since she’d walked in. The way heads had tilted just slightly in her direction. The way Maggie, now filling a coffee cup behind the counter, wouldn’t meet her eyes.
People were watching.
People were waiting.
She turned back to Ivy.
The child sat still, her hands folded perfectly in her lap, her plate of pancakes barely touched.
She was smiling.
Not wide. Not exaggerated.
Just enough.
Clara swallowed.
She forced her hands to move, tearing a piece off a napkin, needing something to do.
Then ivy spoke.
"He doesn’t like me."
Clara’s breath hitched.
Her eyes snapped up, locking onto her daughter’s face.
Ivy hadn’t moved, hadn’t so much as shifted in her seat.
But the way she said it so matter-of-factly, so detached ,sent a slow, creeping terror curling into Clara’s stomach.
She swallowed hard, keeping her voice even. "What do you mean, baby?"
Ivy blinked, her small hands pressing down lightly against the table.
"He’s afraid of me."
Clara’s throat closed.
Ivy tilted her head, her gaze sliding *just slightly *toward where Harris stood at the counter.
Clara followed it.
Harris was still waiting for his coffee, one hand resting on the counter, the other tapping against his belt absently.
But his jaw it was tight.
Like he’d heard.
Like he’d felt it.
Clara turned back to Ivy, her pulse hammering.
"You don’t know that," she whispered.
Ivy finally moved slow, deliberate.
She lifted her fork. Stabbed it into a piece of pancake. Popped it into her mouth.
Chewed.
Smiled.
"Yes, I do."
Clara didn’t know what to say to that.
Because somewhere deep inside she knew Ivy was right.
Something was shifting.
Something was spreading.
And Detective Harris *whether he realized it or not **was already trapped in it, just like she was.
The question now was how long before he saw it?
And what would happen when he did?
The town was moving, but Clara felt outside of it.
Like a ghost drifting through a world that no longer belonged to her.
The coffee in front of her had gone cold, its surface a dull, lifeless black. She should have been able to taste the bitterness lingering in the air, the scent of burnt toast and fried eggs mixing with the stale perfume of old vinyl booths. But everything was distant.
James had left.
Harris had left.
But the weight of their presence still pressed against her skin, a film of suspicion settling like dust in her lungs.
A metal fork scraped against porcelain.
Not slow. Not careful.
The sound was sharp, shrill, cutting through the morning hum of the diner like the edge of a blade.
Clara turned her head.
Ivy sat with her back straight, her small fingers resting against the plate, the fork’s tines buried deep into what was left of her pancake. The pressure of her grip was unnatural. The plate trembled beneath it, a hairline fracture splintering outward from where the metal pressed into ceramic.
Clara’s stomach clenched.
The heat in the diner swelled, pressing in from all sides, but Ivy’s skin was pale. Too pale.
"Baby," Clara said, keeping her voice soft, "you’re holding it too tight."
Ivy tilted her head, her lips parting just enough for her breath to slip through, shallow and slow.
"I don’t like it here," she said.
Her voice was small. Thin.
But something else had buried itself beneath the words.
A noise rumbled from across the diner.
Laughter.
Not Ivy’s. Not anyone’s in particular.
Just the familiar, hollow sound of people sharing conversation, existing in a space Clara no longer felt welcome in.
She swallowed hard, fingers twitching against the edge of the table.
"We can leave soon," she promised. "Just a little longer."
Ivy didn’t respond.
She only let go of the fork.
The plate, fractured and ruined, held the weight of a child’s strength that should not exist.
Clara pushed back from the booth, pulling a few bills from her wallet and dropping them onto the table.
Her heart was a relentless drum, pounding in her chest as she slid out of the seat and reached for Ivy’s hand.
The girl hesitated.
Just for a moment.
Then she took it.
Clara pulled her close, walking toward the door, her breath short and sharp as she moved past familiar faces, past the scent of overcooked bacon, past the ghosts of conversations that had turned to whispers the moment she stood.
She could feel them.
The people in this town.
They were not looking directly at her. Not yet.
But they were aware now.
And that was enough to terrify her.
The bell above the door chimed as she stepped outside, the warm light of the morning pressing against her face.
It should have felt like an escape.
But Ravens Hollow was still here.
And as she turned toward her car, her fingers still locked around Ivy’s hand, she saw it.
Across the street.
Perched on the bench where old Mr. Garrison usually sat, reading his newspaper.
A shape.
No face. No form.
Just a figure.
Still.
Unmoving.
Clara blinked.
And it was gone.
The town moved as it always had.
And yet nothing was the same.
She squeezed Ivy’s hand and kept walking.
Clara walked fast.
Not running, not panicked but close.
The pavement beneath her feet was cracked, uneven. The air outside wasn’t cold, but it clung to her skin like a damp cloth, thick with the weight of something unseen. The sounds of Ravens Hollow carried around her engines rumbling, footsteps on sidewalks, the rustle of leaves in the sluggish morning wind.
But she wasn’t listening.
Her grip on Ivy’s hand was firm, her fingers pressing too tightly against the small, delicate bones beneath them.
Ivy said nothing.
Just walked beside her, small and still and strange.
Clara reached the car, yanking the door open, guiding Ivy inside. The buckle clicked into place with a dull, mechanical snap, and for a moment, she just stood there, staring at her daughter.
Ivy blinked up at her.
Expressionless. Empty.
"Mommy," she murmured.
Clara’s breath caught.
"What, baby?"
Ivy tilted her head.
Then, slowly, carefully, she lifted her small hands pressed them together, palm to palm, like she was in prayer.
Her voice was quiet.
Soft.
"I saw it too."
The words slid beneath Clara’s skin, crawled down her spine.
She turned her head **too fast, too sharp **scanning the streets, the faces of people moving through their daily lives.
Nothing.
The sidewalk was just a sidewalk. The roads were just roads.
And yet
She knew exactly what Ivy was talking about.
That thing.
That not-shadow, not-man sitting where Mr. Garrison should have been.
Clara swallowed, shutting the car door and moving around to the driver’s side, sliding in, locking the doors without thinking.
She gripped the wheel, her knuckles white.
She needed to calm down.
She needed to think.
Harris suspected her.
The town was watching her.
And now, something else **something that did not belong in the world of the living **had noticed her too.
The keys trembled slightly as she jammed them into the ignition.
The engine coughed, growled, then settled into a low hum.
Clara pulled out onto the road, her mind racing, every movement in the mirror making her stomach clench.
She needed answers.
She needed to understand what the hell was happening to Ivy.
But most of all
She needed to make sure that when the darkness came for them again…
She was ready.
HOW TO Gain a Scholarship to Study Abroad — Research Findings & Practical Guide
Overview — A step-by-step, realistic guide to winning scholarships to study abroad. This guide synthesizes official scholarship portals and government advising networks so you can apply with confidence.
Key official sources used: Fulbright, Chevening, DAAD (Germany), Erasmus+ (Erasmus Mundus), EducationUSA (U.S. advising), and Study UK (British Council).
1. Choose realistic targets
Decide the target country, degree level (Master, PhD, short course), and the scholarship type (fully funded vs tuition-only). Always check eligibility on the program’s official page before writing essays — portals are strict about eligibility.
One-line fit test: If you cannot prove an eligibility item (citizenship, degree, work experience) with an official document, don’t apply.
2. Documents — Practical checklist
Prepare these early:
- Passport or national ID (photo page).
- Academic transcripts & degree certificates (certified if requested).
- Updated CV.
- 2–3 referee letters (academic + professional).
- Personal statement / Statement of Purpose.
- Research proposal (for PhD/research).
- Language test results (IELTS/TOEFL/PTE).
- Program-specific items (GRE/GMAT, portfolio, employer letters).
Tips:
- Keep both high-res PDFs and compressed web-ready PDFs.
- Ask referees at least 6–8 weeks ahead.
- Get essays proofread by a near-native or professional editor.
3. Application strategy & timeline
Suggested timeline (for September intake):
- 18–12 months before: choose country & scholarship list; schedule language tests.
- 12–6 months: draft SOP, gather referees, translate & certify documents.
- 6–3 months: submit university admission applications (some scholarships require an offer).
- 3–0 months: submit scholarship applications; prepare for interviews.
Application mix: one reach, two fit, one safety.
4. Apply — Official application links
Fulbright (USA)
Apply through your country’s Fulbright office or the official portal.
👉 Apply here
Chevening Scholarships (UK)
Centralized online application. Emphasizes leadership and a clear 3–5 year plan.
👉 Apply here
DAAD Scholarship Database (Germany)
Database of scholarships for study and research in Germany.
👉 Search here
Erasmus Mundus Joint Masters (Erasmus+)
Apply via the universities offering each programme. Many provide full scholarships.
👉 Apply here
EducationUSA (U.S. advising & scholarships)
Official U.S. State Department advising network.
👉 Explore here
Study UK / British Council — Scholarships & GREAT
Lists GREAT Scholarships, Commonwealth Scholarships, and other UK funding.
👉 Scholarships here
5. Interview & assessment prep
Prepare 3 short stories showing leadership, resilience, and measurable impact. Practice mock interviews and study program selection criteria.
6. Financial realism & visa prep
- Check carefully what costs the scholarship covers.
- Start visa paperwork early.
- Always confirm requirements on your country’s embassy/consulate website.
FAQ
Q: Can I apply to more than one scholarship?
A: Yes — diversify.
Q: Do I need a university offer?
A: Some (like DAAD, Erasmus Mundus) may require or prefer it. Chevening does not require an offer but you must list three eligible courses.