Chapter 404

A chill hung in the air, that sort of cold that felt unnatural, like it didn't belong to the season. The house, with its peeling paint and warped wood, stood on the edge of the village.

The trees around it were bare, their gnarled limbs twisted against the gray sky. Inside, the faint sound of a child's laughter echoed through the halls, too light, too joyful for the decay that surrounded it.

Marie had been a quiet child, reserved even when she was young. Her parents had always said she was a bit too curious for her own good. But this wasn't about curiosity. This was something darker, something that had taken hold of her in ways no one could understand.

The first time her mother noticed something was wrong, Marie had been staring out the window for hours, motionless.

The light outside had been soft, a dying afternoon sun spilling through the glass, but her face, pale and wide-eyed, had looked as if she could see something that wasn't there.

At first, her mother chalked it up to an overactive imagination, a child's habit of dreaming when the world grew too quiet. But then came the day Marie didn't blink.

She had been sitting at the table, a doll in her hands, when her mother asked her what she was doing. Marie didn't respond. She didn't even move.

Her small fingers remained frozen around the porcelain doll, its delicate features twisted in a strange smile, like it too had been touched by whatever was inside Marie. When her mother tried to speak again, the silence that followed was thick—unnerving, deep.

Marie's eyes, wide and unfocused, stared ahead as if they could see past everything. As if they could see the things beyond.

"Marie?" her mother called again. Nothing. Her voice trembled with unease, a tremor that was more than just worry. It was fear.

The days after that only grew worse. Marie had stopped eating, stopped speaking. She spent hours sitting on the edge of her bed, her gaze locked on nothing, her body stiff and unmoving.

Sometimes, she would stand at the window, staring out into the wilds beyond, her face stretched into an expression her mother couldn't recognize. Then came the moments when she would suddenly laugh—soft and melodic, but it was wrong. Not the laugh of a child. It was hollow. Empty.

At first, her parents tried to be understanding, offering comfort, telling her it was just a phase. But deep down, they knew it wasn't. The changes weren't just physical. There was something inside Marie now. Something that had replaced the child they once knew.

The fairy had found her.

It hadn't been sudden, at least not to anyone but Marie. In the early hours of the morning, when the house was still and the air hung with thick fog, something crept into her room. It was small—no bigger than a bird—but the shadows that swirled around it made it appear as though it didn't belong in the world at all. The creature's eyes, glistening like liquid mirrors, locked onto Marie's, and in that moment, something shifted. A presence that didn't feel right, something that pressed down on the soul, entered her body.

Her parents noticed the change the next morning. They had awoken to a house that felt colder than it had been in years. The kitchen, where they usually gathered in the mornings, was silent. Marie was already sitting at the table, her head tilted to one side. Her expression was blank, but in her eyes, there was a strange gleam.

It wasn't her anymore.

Her father, the stronger of the two, had tried to snap her out of it. He had shaken her, yelled at her, but Marie hadn't reacted. Instead, she'd just stared at him, her lips twitching into a grin. It wasn't a smile—it was something much worse. And that's when they knew. This wasn't their child anymore.

The fairy had taken root in her, burrowed deep into the core of her being. It spoke without speaking. The child's body moved like something wasn't quite right, jerking in ways that a human body shouldn't.

Her speech, once so innocent and pure, was now distorted, filled with strange sounds. Her mother would catch glimpses of her at odd times, crawling through the house on all fours, her eyes wide and unblinking, her mouth stretched into that same grin.

It was as though the fairy was feeding on her humanity, devouring everything that had once made her who she was.

One day, when her mother went to check on her, she found the door locked. Her heartbeat quickened, and for the first time in months, fear gripped her heart. The room was silent, the stillness suffocating. She knocked at the door, but there was no response. Her hand trembled as she turned the knob.

Inside, Marie sat at the window, her legs tucked beneath her, her body motionless. The room was colder than it had ever been, and the shadows seemed to stretch unnaturally, pooling in the corners. The air tasted sharp. As if it had been tainted.

Her mother stepped inside, her eyes falling on Marie. But what she saw wasn't her daughter. Marie's gaze locked onto her with those strange eyes—reflective, cold, unfeeling. Then Marie spoke, but the voice that came out of her was no longer the innocent sound of a child. It was warped, guttural, something both older and crueler than any child could be.

"The seed has been planted," Marie said, her voice a distorted version of her own.

Her mother backed away, horrified. The thing in Marie's body had begun to take control, and the fairy, that ancient thing, was growing stronger. It had no need for a child. It had no need for innocence. It only needed to take. To possess.

From then on, the creature that looked like Marie was no longer bound by the constraints of human flesh. Her movements became erratic, unnatural. She would climb the walls, her fingers scraping against the peeling paint like an insect. Her voice would echo through the empty house, but the words were no longer coherent. They didn't sound like any language, and yet they were hypnotic, like they were meant to make you listen, make you understand something that was beyond comprehension.

The village began to notice the change. People stopped coming around, fearing what they might find. The house became a place of dread, a home to something no one could see but everyone could feel. Those who had known Marie, those who had watched her grow from a sweet, quiet child into a young girl with laughter and dreams, had begun to forget her.

The fairy was winning.

One night, as the moon hung low in the sky, casting a pale light over the house, Marie's mother came to a final realization. Her daughter was gone. What was left wasn't human. It was a creature, a thing, that wore her skin like a mask. And the fairy that had taken root in her was too powerful to expel.

In the dead of night, her mother tried to escape. She ran to the door, her hands trembling as she turned the lock. But when she opened it, she was met by something she couldn't have prepared for.

Marie stood there, her head tilted at an unnatural angle, her lips twisted into that grotesque grin. Behind her, the shadows moved like living things, crawling over the walls, across the floor. The coldness pressed in, suffocating.

Her mother took one step back, her heart racing, but Marie didn't move. Not at first.

Then, like a snake, she uncoiled.

Her mother screamed, but the sound was cut short, swallowed by the dark. The last thing she saw before she fell was the gleam in her daughter's eyes.

It was a gleam that had never been hers.