The stairs never ended.
Rachel wiped her bleeding hands on her dress and kept going. The old wooden steps creaked under her bare feet, each one groaning like it wanted to give way. She had counted them—seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one—but that was hours ago. Or days. Time bled together here.
She didn’t remember how she got here. The first thing she recalled was the music, faint at first, floating through the air like a lullaby. It pulled at something deep inside her, something lost. Then the stairs appeared, stretching up into a darkness that didn’t feel empty. She climbed because that’s what you did when there was nothing else.
Her breath hitched. A voice whispered her name. Not from below. From above.
She stopped. The air shifted. Cold fingers brushed her neck.
“Rachel.”
She turned too fast, lost her balance. The void beneath yawned open. She caught herself, nails scraping wood. Splinters bit deep. Her pulse slammed against her ribs.
Was it her mother’s voice? No. The voice was younger. Softer.
Her own.
A shiver crawled up her spine. She looked up.
There was a door now. It hadn’t been there before.
Beyond it, light. Warm, golden light. A promise.
Her foot hovered over the last step.
And then she heard the laughter.
Not kind. Not welcoming.
Hungry.
Rachel closed her eyes.
And stepped through.
