The Calling

Raindrops meandered down the arched glass of the library windows, reflecting the dim, overcast sky. Eileen Weber hunched over the oak table, absentmindedly rubbing the star-shaped birthmark on her left shoulder blade. It had been three days since it began—whenever she turned the pages of The 1487 Witch Trials Chronicles, a whisper echoed in her ears.

"Elaina..."

The voice carried the scent of ash and rust, like embers drifting from a burning stake, scorching her nerves.

"Miss Weber, need a stimulant?"

Max, the assistant librarian, strolled past with a stack of musty Inquisition records, his polished shoes tapping out a mocking rhythm on the sixteenth-century stone floor. "I heard you applied for a field study in Provence. Careful not to get mistaken for a reincarnated witch." He flicked the spine of her book, sending a raven outside the window into startled flight. Its inky feathers swept past Eileen's sweat-dampened neck.

Three days.

Every time sleep claimed her, or when she drifted too far into thought, that voice returned.

Who was it? Who was calling her?

Taking a deep breath, she shut the book, left the library, and walked three blocks to a small, unassuming shop.

Inside, flickering candlelight cast wavering shadows across the room, the air thick with dried herbs and incense. Wooden shelves sagged under the weight of ancient tomes, weathered parchment, and rows of vials filled with unknown liquids. In the dimmest corner, a low table draped in black velvet cradled a crystal ball, its silver-inlaid surface pulsing with an eerie glow.

Sibyl Durand, the medium, locked eyes with her the moment she stepped in. Her gaze was so unsettling that Eileen's breath caught in her throat. Swallowing hard, she stammered out her purpose.

Sibyl's fingers, gnarled like old tree roots, skimmed the surface of the crystal ball. Shapes swirled within its depths, and as she stared into them, her voice emerged in a slow, measured whisper:

"That is your past life..."

Then, abruptly, she fell silent.

The seconds stretched unbearably. Just as Eileen opened her mouth to press for more, Sibyl suddenly tossed her a black obsidian cross.

"Wear it. Even when you sleep," she rasped. "Unless you want trouble."

Eileen frowned, ready to demand an explanation, but the woman spoke no more. With no other choice, she left.

From that night on, the whispers ceased.

—

A month passed.

By then, she had nearly forgotten about the incident.

That evening, after a game of tennis with friends, she returned home, intent on taking a shower. As she removed the cross, she noticed a fine crack running along its surface. Frowning, she set it aside, making a mental note to have it repaired the next day.

She never got the chance.

That night, the silence shattered.

The voice returned—louder, rawer, more desperate than ever.

In her dream, Eileen walked forward, drawn by an unseen force. Her steps carried her through darkness until she reached a desolate execution ground.

There, beneath the pale moonlight, a broken gallows stood in eerie solitude. A woman was bound tightly to its frame, her disheveled hair clinging to her gaunt face. The tattered hem of her dress fluttered in the cold wind, exposing deep, brutal bruises.

Her skin was deathly pale.

Her lips were cracked and bloodless.

Her hollow eyes stared out, devoid of hope—lifeless, yet burning with silent anguish.

A shudder gripped Eileen, and she took a step back.

Then, the woman's head snapped up.

Her gaze locked onto Eileen's.

Her parched lips parted.

"Elaina... you have finally returned."

Eileen's pupils contracted.

Fear crawled up her spine.

She screamed—

And the world went black.