Chapter 5

After an exhausting journey that stretched for hours along rutted, overgrown paths, they finally reached the isolated hut of the old lady doctor. She was a healer whispered about in hushed tones across the remote village—a woman who tended not the body alone, but the tormented souls of those haunted by wild, restless spirits.

In this forgotten corner of the countryside, far removed from the gleaming hospitals and pharmacies of the distant city, poverty dictated every remedy. The people here turned to bitter herbs gathered under moonlight, faded talismans, or desperate prayers offered to indifferent gods.

Yet even now, as the engine of their motorcycle sputtered into silence, the face of the lady ghost clawed its way back into Eloise’s mind. No matter how fiercely she willed it away, the image refused to dissolve: the sunken, coal-black eyes wide with malice, the skin stretched taut and gray like wet clay, the mouth twisted into a silent, accusatory scream.

Eloise could have described every grotesque detail to a stranger with chilling precision—the matted strands of hair clinging to hollow cheeks, the faint scent of damp earth and decay that seemed to follow the vision—but she refused to give it power. She shoved the memory down, only for it to resurface sharper than before, an uninvited tenant in her thoughts.

They dismounted the motorcycle, boots sinking slightly into the soft loam of the forest floor. Before them stood the healer’s hut, a weathered wooden structure half-swallowed by ancient trees whose branches formed a living canopy overhead.

Moss clung to the bark like green velvet, and the air carried the rich, earthy scent of damp soil, wild ginger, and woodsmoke. A narrow, creaking staircase descended from the raised platform of the hut, and down it came the old woman herself.

Her hair was a cascade of pure white, long and unbound, swaying gently against her back like threads of moonlight. She moved with the deliberate grace of someone who had walked these paths for decades, her simple cotton tunic and faded sarong brushing the wooden steps.

As George reached out and took Eloise’s hand, he felt how icy her fingers had become, trembling faintly despite the humid warmth of the afternoon.

“Relax,” George murmured, his voice steady and low, meant only for her ears. “You’d better get treated right away, before this gets any worse.”

Eloise swallowed hard, her throat tight. Nervous energy coiled in her chest, tangled with a fierce, almost painful eagerness to finally know the truth—what had attached itself to her, and why.

 “George,” she whispered, voice cracking with confusion and fear, “what if… after this… the soul still won’t stop disturbing me?”

They stepped forward together, leaves crunching softly beneath their feet. The old lady doctor had already paused on the staircase, her sharp, weathered gaze locking onto them.

She stared not merely at their faces, but through them—as though she could see the invisible weight clinging to Eloise’s shoulders, the shadowy presence hovering just beyond George’s protective stance. Her eyes, dark and knowing, narrowed slightly, reading secrets the living world could not perceive.

Eloise felt a chill race down her spine. Instinctively, she twisted her head to glance over her shoulder, scanning the dense wall of trees and shadows behind them. The path was empty, yet the sensation of being watched—of something following, waiting, listening—refused to leave her. The old woman’s lips curved into the faintest, knowing smile as she continued her slow descent, one gnarled hand steady on the railing.

“Come,” the healer said simply, her voice carrying the quiet authority of someone who had banished far darker things than fear. “The soul has already announced itself. Let us see what it wants.”

Eloise scanned the dense thicket behind them once more, her eyes sweeping across the twisted trunks and emerald undergrowth. Nothing. No footsteps, no shadows slipping between the leaves—only the quiet rustle of wind through the canopy and the distant call of unseen birds. Yet the old healer’s intense, unwavering stare had unsettled her deeply. She turned back, marveling at how Mrs. Sola seemed to perceive what no one else could.

“Good day, Mrs. Sola!” George called out warmly, offering a respectful smile as he stepped forward.

The old woman remained motionless on the staircase, her long white hair stirred faintly by the breeze. Her gaze was fixed not on their faces, but somewhere just behind Eloise—piercing, grave, and unblinking, as though she were studying a presence that lingered in the space between worlds. Her weathered face held a solemn stillness, lips pressed into a thin line.

Eloise gathered her courage and spoke softly.

“Good day.”

At the sound of her voice, Mrs. Sola flinched sharply, as if jolted by an electric current. Her eyes widened, and a visible tremor ran through her frail frame. The calm authority she had carried moments earlier shattered.

“Oh my God!” the old healer gasped, her voice hoarse with genuine shock. One trembling hand flew to her chest while the other instinctively traced the sign of the cross in the air—once, twice—murmuring a hurried prayer under her breath to repel whatever darkness had followed them.

George and Eloise froze, exchanging stunned glances. They had come seeking help, not expecting their mere arrival—and Eloise’s simple greeting—to provoke such alarm. The air around them grew heavier, thick with the scent of smoldering incense and dried herbs drifting from the hut.

“Mrs. Sola,” George said quickly, his tone apologetic yet steady, “I’m sorry if we’ve brought anything… unusual with us. We’re here to ask for your help. Eloise has been tormented for weeks.”

The old woman stared at them a moment longer, her dark eyes flicking once more toward the empty space behind Eloise. Then she exhaled slowly, composing herself with visible effort.

“Never mind,” Mrs. Sola replied, though her voice still carried a trace of unease. She waved them forward with a wrinkled hand. “Come inside my house. The threshold will offer some protection, at least for now.”

Eloise and George followed her up the narrow wooden stairs, the planks groaning softly beneath their weight. As they crossed into the dim interior of the hut, the air shifted—cooler, heavier with the mingled aromas of medicinal roots, dried flowers, and faint candle smoke. Shelves lined the walls, crowded with jars of murky liquids, bundles of herbs tied with red string, and strange talismans carved from bone and wood.

Yet Eloise saw more.

From the corners of her vision, fleeting shapes stirred—ethereal figures that flickered like smoke: a hunched silhouette with too-long limbs crawling along the rafters, a pale woman with hollow sockets watching from beside the hearth, and other indistinct forms that whispered and shifted just beyond clear sight. They pressed at the edges of her awareness, hungry for attention. Her skin prickled with cold dread, but she clenched her jaw and forced her gaze straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge them.

Not now, she told herself. Paying attention only makes them stronger. It only adds to the burden.

Mrs. Sola gestured toward a low bamboo bench draped with a woven mat.

“Sit,” she said, her voice regaining its quiet authority. “And tell me everything. The spirits are restless today… and one of them is very close.”

The interior of Mrs. Sola’s hut was humble and austere, constructed entirely from weathered bamboo and rough-hewn timber that had taken on the deep, earthy tones of decades spent in the forest’s embrace.

 Sunlight filtered weakly through narrow slatted windows, casting long, golden shafts across the single main room. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters like fragrant chandeliers, filling the air with a complex, medicinal aroma—bitter wormwood, sweet camphor, and the sharp tang of ginger root.

On a low wooden table lay an array of jars, mortar and pestle, and scattered leaves in various stages of preparation. This was no ordinary clinic; it was a sanctuary for the spiritually afflicted.

According to George, villagers from miles around made the difficult journey here when modern medicine failed them. Mrs. Sola was renowned as a gifted healer of “lost spirits”—restless entities that clung to the living, feeding on fear and unresolved pain.

While city doctors handled broken bones and fevers, she addressed the peculiar ailments that defied explanation: the kind now tormenting Eloise.

“Sit down,” Mrs. Sola instructed gently, her voice carrying the quiet weight of authority. “I’ll just get my things ready.”

She turned her back to them and moved with deliberate slowness toward the small kitchen alcove at the rear of the hut, her long white hair swaying like a veil. Eloise and George lowered themselves onto the simple bamboo bench, its woven surface cool and slightly uneven beneath them.

 Eloise’s heart hammered against her ribs. A cold, suffocating fear gripped her, tightening around her throat. What if these wild souls refuse to leave? she thought. What if they’ve marked me forever because of my eyes? Her unusual eyes—pale and luminous in a way that had always drawn uneasy glances—now felt like a beacon for the unnatural.

When Mrs. Sola returned, she carried a clear glass brimming with still water, a wide black ceramic basin, and a bundle of fresh red candles. Yet her gaze never once left Eloise.

It was fixed, unnervingly, on the center of the young woman’s forehead, as though reading an invisible inscription etched there. Even as she lowered herself onto a low stool opposite them, the old healer’s eyes remained locked in place, unblinking, penetrating. The room seemed to grow heavier, the air thick with anticipation.

Without waiting for explanation, Mrs. Sola set the black basin on the low table between them. She arranged seven slender red candles in a precise circle around its rim, their wicks dark and untouched. With practiced movements, she struck a match.

One by one, the candles flared to life, casting a warm, flickering glow that danced across the walls and painted shifting shadows on the bamboo ceiling. The scent of melting wax mingled with the herbal incense already lingering in the air.

Eloise instinctively reached for George’s hand, her fingers cold and trembling as they closed tightly around his. This was the first time she had witnessed anything like this ritual—raw, ancient, and deeply intimate. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Mrs. Sola finally spoke, her voice low and steady, still pointing toward Eloise without breaking her intense stare.

“What is her full name?” she asked, the question hanging in the candlelit space like a summons.

The flickering flames of the seven red candles held Eloise’s gaze, their warm light reflecting in her unusual, luminous eyes like distant stars trapped in glass. She parted her lips to answer the healer’s question, but George’s hand gently squeezed hers in warning. He spoke first, his voice steady yet respectful in the charged silence.

“Ahm… Eloise Ventura,” he said.

Mrs. Sola gave a slow, deliberate nod. Her lips moved in a faint, silent murmur, the subtle twitch at the corners of her mouth suggesting the beginning of a prayer or invocation in a tongue older than the forest itself.

Without another word, the old healer rose from her stool with surprising grace for her age. She approached Eloise until she stood directly before her, the scent of dried herbs and candle wax clinging to her simple garments.

With solemn reverence, Mrs. Sola lifted her right hand and placed her palm firmly against Eloise’s forehead. The touch was warm, almost feverish, yet her fingers trembled faintly with the weight of the ritual. She began to chant in a low, guttural language neither Eloise nor George recognized—ancient syllables that rolled like distant thunder, rising and falling in a cadence that seemed to resonate not just in their ears, but deep within their bones.

Eloise’s eyelids fluttered shut against her will, as though an invisible force had commanded them. She could feel the steady pressure of the old woman’s palm, the subtle tremor of age and power combined, channeling something far greater than human strength.

Then, without warning, a violent gust of wind tore through the hut.

It howled from nowhere, rushing inward with unnatural force. The bamboo walls creaked, loose herbs scattered across the floor, and every one of the seven candles was snuffed out in a single, synchronized breath.

 Darkness swallowed the room, broken only by thin blades of daylight slicing through the slats. The sudden chill raised gooseflesh on Eloise’s arms. There had been no open windows, no doors ajar—yet the wind had come, deliberate and hostile.

Mrs. Sola exhaled a long, weary sigh, her hand still resting on Eloise’s forehead. She knew exactly what this was: resistance. The restless soul was fighting back, trying to sever the connection before its secrets could be revealed. But surrender was not an option. Not if Eloise was to be freed.

With quiet determination, the old healer struck a match. One by one, she relit the red candles, their flames reborn with renewed intensity, casting dancing shadows that seemed almost defiant. She resumed her prayer, the unknown words flowing stronger this time, laced with iron resolve. The air grew thick, electric, as if the very spirits of the hut were leaning in to listen.

When the invocation finally reached its crescendo and fell into silence, Mrs. Sola plucked one of the burning candles from the circle. She held it out to Eloise, the flame steady between them.

“Hold it,” she commanded softly, her voice carrying both authority and quiet urgency. “This is for my final prayer. Do not let it go out—no matter what you feel or see.”

Eloise hesitated only for a heartbeat before obeying. She reached out with both hands and accepted the burning red candle, its warm wax smooth against her palms. The flame danced steadily at first, casting a soft, reassuring glow across her face. But as Mrs. Sola resumed her deep, rhythmic prayer—those ancient, guttural words rising like smoke—the candle began to change.

At first, it was subtle: a faint softening beneath her fingers, as if the wax had grown pliable and alive. Then it twisted. The solid cylinder pulsed and writhed, lengthening and contracting like a pale, glistening worm. Tiny ridges rippled across its surface. Eloise’s breath caught in her throat. Revulsion surged through her, far stronger than any terror the ghostly faces had ever evoked. Insects—crawling, wriggling things—had always been her deepest weakness.

With a choked cry, she hurled the candle away. It clattered across the bamboo floor, the flame sputtering but not extinguishing. Her hands shook violently, fingers curling as though still feeling the obscene movement.

“I’m scared!” Eloise screamed, her voice raw with disgust and panic. Tears stung the corners of her eyes. “It moved… like a worm! I can’t— I can’t hold it!”

“Be steadfast,” Mrs. Sola commanded, her voice cutting through the fear like a blade, calm yet laced with iron resolve. “Do not be fooled by what you see. Your third eye is deceptive—it will drag you into the world of darkness if you let it. Fight them. Do not give the spirits your fear.”

The old healer bent slowly, retrieved the fallen candle, and relit it from one of the others in the circle. The flame flared back to life, defiant. George slid closer on the bench, wrapping a strong arm around Eloise’s trembling shoulders. His warmth anchored her.

“Stay strong,” he whispered fiercely against her hair. “Whatever they do, whatever they show you—I’m right here. You’re not alone.”

Mrs. Sola pressed the candle back into Eloise’s hands. Though her fingers still quivered uncontrollably, Eloise accepted it once more. She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out the visual horrors, and focused only on the prayer. The wax felt normal again—solid, warm, ordinary—but the assault had only begun.

Invisible fingers seemed to tickle the back of her neck, skittering like spider legs across her arms and down her spine. Whispers slithered into her ears—soft, mocking laughter that bubbled into anguished cries, then twisted into a deep, guttural voice so creepy it vibrated in her chest.

A woman’s sob dissolved into a child’s gleeful giggle right beside her ear. Loud, sudden crashes echoed through the hut though nothing moved. Each noise made her flinch hard, her heart slamming against her ribs.

She endured it all. Jaw clenched, breath shallow, she gripped the candle as though it were her last tether to the living world. Sweat beaded on her forehead. The air grew colder, heavier, pressing down on her like invisible hands. Yet she refused to open her eyes. She refused to give them power.

For nearly half an hour, Mrs. Sola’s voice rose and fell in unbroken prayer, the candles flickering wildly as unseen forces battled around them. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the chaos ceased.

The whispers died. The tickling sensations vanished. The oppressive weight lifted from the room. Eloise exhaled a shaky, ragged breath and slowly opened her eyes. The seven red candles burned peacefully once more, their flames steady and calm. Mrs. Sola lowered her hands, her weathered face glistening with perspiration but serene.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, they could all breathe in relief. The hut felt lighter, the air cleaner, as though an invisible storm had finally passed.

Mrs. Sola sank heavily into her worn bamboo chair, her shoulders slumping as exhaustion settled over her like a physical weight. The prolonged ritual had drained her; deep lines etched her weathered face, and her breathing came in slow, labored draws. Her long white hair clung damply to her temples, and the steady strength she had shown earlier now seemed fragile, as though the battle with the spirit had taken a visible toll.

Eloise leaned forward, genuine concern flooding her features. It was clear that banishing—or even confronting—such restless entities was no simple task; it demanded a heavy price from the healer’s own life force.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Sola?” Eloise asked softly, her voice laced with worry.

The old woman offered a faint, reassuring smile, though her chest still rose and fell unevenly.

“Yes, child. I’ll just rest for a while… then I will explain everything to you.”

A heavy silence filled the hut while they waited. The red candles continued to burn low, their wax pooling like blood on the black basin. Outside, the forest whispered indifferently. After several minutes, Mrs. Sola drew a deeper breath, some color returning to her face.

 She rose with quiet dignity, moved around the table, and began extinguishing the candles one by one. Thin trails of fragrant smoke curled upward as each flame died. She carefully set aside the basin, the remaining candles, and the glass of water, restoring the modest space to its former stillness.

When she returned to her seat, her expression had grown solemn and focused. She faced Eloise and George directly, her dark eyes steady and penetrating once more.

Eloise sat on the edge of the bench, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, eagerness and anxiety warring within her. She could no longer contain the question burning inside her.

“Mrs. Sola… why is this soul bothering me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“That is precisely what we are here to uncover today,” the old healer replied gravely. “But first, I must ask you some important questions. I need the whole truth—no omissions, no matter how small or strange they may seem.”

Eloise nodded quickly.

 “What are they?”

Mrs. Sola leaned slightly forward, her gaze never wavering.

“When did the soul first start bothering you?”

Eloise fell silent, searching her memory. Fragmented images surfaced—her father crouched by the old metal drum behind their house, feeding papers and photographs into the hungry flames. The acrid smell of burning. The way he had glanced around nervously, as if afraid of being seen.

 Then, among the scattered ashes and half-charred remnants in the garbage, one particular photograph had caught her eye. Without thinking, she had reached down and slipped the singed image into her pocket.

That was the beginning.

“Since I found a half-burnt photo in our garbage,” Eloise answered, her voice growing quieter. “I saw my father burning papers and old pictures that day… I don’t know why, but I picked up one of the photos that wasn’t completely destroyed. After that… I started dreaming about a woman. She appears every night, crying, begging me for help.”

Mrs. Sola’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. The hut seemed to hold its breath as the weight of Eloise’s words settled between them, the first thread of the mystery finally beginning to unravel.

Mrs. Sola nodded slowly, her dark eyes narrowing in deep contemplation. She leaned back in her chair, one wrinkled hand resting beneath her chin as she pieced together the fragments like an ancient puzzle. The silence in the hut grew heavier, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves outside and the dying scent of extinguished candle smoke.

“Where exactly did you see those pictures being burned, and who was doing it?” she asked, her voice low and measured.

Eloise drew a steadying breath before answering.

“I saw my father burning them that afternoon. My parents had gone together into town earlier that day. When they returned, I noticed him behind the house, feeding stacks of old papers and photographs into a metal drum. Flames were already rising. Later, while sorting through the garbage, I found one half-burnt photo. It was headless—scorched at the top—but the woman’s legs and posture… they didn’t look like my mother at all. Something about the shape, the dress… it felt wrong. Out of curiosity, I kept it.”

Mrs. Sola’s expression remained unreadable, yet her eyes sharpened with understanding.

“Aha,” she murmured. “And do your parents know about the disturbances you’ve been experiencing?”

At the question, Eloise’s face crumpled with sudden sorrow. Her shoulders sagged, and a quiet pain flickered across her features. She had once believed her parents would be her first and strongest protectors— the ones to hold her through nightmares, to accompany her on this terrifying journey. Instead, she sat here with only George by her side.

She shook her head, eyes glistening.

“No… they don’t know. If I could wish for anything, it would be for them to come back and help me through this. But after they returned from town that day, they had a terrible argument. Voices raised, things thrown… it ended with them separating. They both left the house shortly after, and neither has returned since. I don’t even know where they are now.”

George placed a comforting hand on her back, offering silent support.

Mrs. Sola absorbed the words with grave stillness. After a long pause, she exhaled deeply and leaned forward, her gaze locking onto Eloise with solemn intensity.

“Okay,” she said. “Now I have confirmed what I suspected. My prediction is true.” Her tone grew heavier, carrying both warning and compassion. “Prepare yourself, child. You will face many trials ahead—some that will test your mind, your courage, and your very soul. What clings to you is no ordinary spirit.”

The old healer paused, letting the weight of her next words settle fully into the room.

“All I can help you with right now is the truth: you are cursed.”

The statement hung in the air like a judgment, chilling the space between them. Eloise’s breath caught, her luminous eyes widening in quiet dread as the full implication of Mrs. Sola’s revelation began to sink in.

Eloise and George stared at Mrs. Sola, their eyes widening in stunned disbelief. The weight of the old healer’s revelation pressed down on them like a sudden storm. A curse? The word echoed harshly in the quiet bamboo hut, stripping away any lingering hope that this might be a simple haunting.

“How… how could I be cursed?” Eloise asked, her voice trembling with astonishment. “We never harmed anyone. My family kept to themselves. Why would anyone do this to me?”

Mrs. Sola’s expression remained grave, carved with the solemn wisdom of someone who had witnessed too many hidden sins. She folded her hands on the table, her long white hair catching the faint light filtering through the slats.

“Your parents’ past is the root of this curse,” she said steadily. “While you were still in your mother’s womb, something they did—some grave wrong they committed—pushed a person to invoke powerful forces against you. The curse was never meant for them alone. It was laid upon their unborn child… upon you.”

Eloise pressed a hand to her chest as though struggling to catch her breath after a long, desperate run. Her heart hammered violently beneath her palm. A cold wave of betrayal and sorrow washed over her. All her life she had believed her parents were ordinary, perhaps flawed, but never bearers of such darkness. Now she sat here, haunted and tormented, paying the price for sins committed before she had even drawn her first breath.

George’s jaw tightened. He glanced at Eloise, seeing the pain flash across her face, before turning back to the healer with serious resolve.

“Mrs. Sola,” he asked, his voice low and steady, “how can Eloise rid herself of this curse? There must be a way.”

Eloise nodded faintly beside him. It was the very question burning on her tongue—the only thing that mattered now. Freedom from the nightmares, the visions, the constant chill that followed her like a shadow.

Mrs. Sola leaned forward, her dark eyes locking onto Eloise’s with unyielding intensity.

“There is only one true answer,” she replied. “The soul does not merely seek revenge. It seeks justice. And it has chosen you, Eloise, because you are the one it has been waiting for—the only one who can help it find peace.”

Eloise blinked, confusion and disbelief swirling together. “But… how? How do I do this? Where do I even start?”

The old healer’s gaze softened slightly, though her words carried no false comfort.

“Start with your family,” Mrs. Sola said firmly. “Dig into your parents’ past. Uncover the secrets they buried in ash and silence. Only when you understand what truly happened—what injustice was done—will you know how to help the soul. The truth is your path to freedom. But be warned… some truths cut deeper than any spirit ever could.”

A heavy silence blanketed the hut. Eloise sat motionless, the weight of her newfound burden settling into her bones. Outside, the forest seemed to hold its breath, as if the trees themselves knew the long and dangerous road that now lay ahead.

Eloise’s shoulders slumped as the harsh reality settled over her. Her parents had vanished without a trace, leaving behind only silence and unanswered questions. How could she possibly uncover their buried past when she didn’t even know where they were?

“I’m willing to help the soul,” she said, her voice small and uncertain, “but I’m scared. Truly scared. And even if I wanted to begin… how can I? My family isn’t whole anymore. I don’t know where my parents are or how to reach them.”

She pressed her palm against her forehead, fingers trembling slightly as doubt and helplessness washed over her. The weight of the decision pressed down like an invisible hand, making her temples throb.

Mrs. Sola watched her with quiet understanding, the lines on her aged face deepening in the dim light of the hut.

“Think carefully before you decide,” the old healer advised, her tone measured and grave. “This is not a path to rush into. When your decision is firm and your heart is truly committed, you may let the soul know you are willing to help her. Light seven red candles in a circle, just as we did today. She will hear you.”

Eloise lowered her hand and nodded slowly. At least now she possessed knowledge—something solid to hold onto amid the fear. If she truly wanted peace in her own life, then the tormented soul seeking justice deserved the same.

“All right,” she whispered. “I’ll follow your advice.”

Yet even as she spoke the words, a quiet unease stirred within her. It sounded deceptively simple—lighting candles, offering help. But she sensed there would be consequences she could not yet imagine, shadows she had not yet seen.

Mrs. Sola studied her for a long moment, then leaned forward, her dark eyes intense and unwavering.

“Good,” she said. “But I must give you one final reminder.” Her voice dropped to a solemn whisper that seemed to chill the air itself. “Be prepared for what will be asked in exchange for helping the soul. She has already spoken her last demand: one life from your family must be taken. That is the price for all that was done to her. Justice… always demands balance.”

The words landed heavily in the quiet hut. Eloise felt the blood drain from her face, while George stiffened beside her, his hand instinctively tightening around hers. Outside, the forest had grown strangely still, as if even the trees were listening—waiting for the choice that would soon be made.

Eloise froze, the old healer’s final warning piercing her chest like a cold blade. Her breath caught sharply, and for a moment the hut seemed to tilt around her. The thought of one of her family members paying with their life—an innocent life, taken to balance a curse she had never asked for—sent a wave of raw terror through her.

She pressed a trembling hand to her sternum, as though trying to hold her fracturing heart together. The air in the modest bamboo dwelling suddenly felt suffocating, thick with the lingering scent of extinguished candles and drying herbs.

“Is there… no other way?” she asked, her voice barely more than a broken whisper, heavy with sorrow and desperation.

Mrs. Sola’s weathered face remained solemn, etched with the quiet regret of someone who had delivered such truths many times before. She folded her hands slowly in her lap, her long white hair catching faint shafts of afternoon light.

“That is all the spirits have shown me from the past,” she replied gently but firmly. “The debt is deep, and justice demands payment. However… the path can still change. If one among you willingly offers their own life in exchange, the curse may lift without claiming another. Sacrifice has power. But it must be given freely.”

The words hung in the charged silence like smoke. Eloise’s mind spun in frantic circles. She had already lost the warmth of a complete family—her parents gone, their absence a wound that refused to heal. Now this? How could she ever hope to rebuild what remained if she had to say goodbye to someone she loved forever?

 The image of lighting those seven red candles no longer felt like a step toward peace. It felt like standing at the edge of an abyss, forced to choose who would fall.

Tears welled in her luminous eyes, threatening to spill. She looked helplessly at George, whose face had gone pale, his jaw clenched in silent anguish. The weight of the decision pressed down on her shoulders like an invisible mountain. Outside, the forest had grown unnaturally quiet, as though nature itself awaited her answer with bated breath.

Eloise lowered her head, fingers twisting together in her lap, torn between the desperate desire for freedom and the devastating cost it might demand. The road ahead had never looked darker.