Temiloluwa_Aina

Some secrets refuse to stay buried.

When investigative journalist Maya Ellison returns to her coastal hometown after her estranged mother's mysterious death, she plans to settle the estate quickly and leave the fog-drenched cliffs behind. But the moment she steps into the crumbling Victorian house, she begins to hear strange sounds—echoes of voices long gone, whispers in the mist.

As Maya digs deeper, she uncovers a string of unsolved disappearances stretching back decades—all linked to her mother’s enigmatic past and the town's shadowy history. The deeper she goes, the more she’s pulled into a tangled web of secrets, lies, and ghostly warnings.

With the help of a reluctant local detective, Maya must confront her past, unearth the truth behind the fog, and expose the darkness lurking beneath the surface—before she becomes the next echo

Echoes in the fog

The fog lingered even after she shut the door, curling at her ankles like smoke from an unseen fire. Maya stood frozen in the entryway, her pulse still thundering in her ears. Every instinct screamed to leave, but something stronger held her there—curiosity, guilt, or maybe the subtle pull of the house itself.

She wandered into the hallway, stopping at the mirror her mother had always kept covered. The sheet had fallen halfway, revealing a sliver of her reflection. But something was wrong.

Behind her stood a little girl in a white nightgown, face half-hidden in shadow.

When she looked back, the mirror was empty—just her pale, shaken face.

Her knees gave out, and she sank to the floor. The memories were coming faster now, like broken glass piercing through the fog of her mind.

Fifteen Years Ago

Maya was eight when she first saw the girl.

It was the middle of the night. Rain lashed the windows, thunder rolling like distant drums. She crept down the hallway for a glass of water, her teddy bear clutched tight. That's when she heard the singing.

A soft lullaby, out of tune. Drifting from behind the locked door.

She pressed her ear against the wood, heart pounding.

A small voice whispered, "Come play with me."

Maya had run back to her room, terrified—but she hadn't told her mother. She knew better. Her mother would only mutter about "keeping the door shut" and burn more sage in the hallways.

The next day, Maya returned to the door and slid her favorite crayon drawing under it—a picture of two girls holding hands in a field.

When she came back later, the drawing was gone.

And in its place was a porcelain doll.

Maya clutched her arms, cold settling deep in her bones.

"I drew her," she whispered to herself. "I knew her."

A loud thud upstairs made her flinch. The sound came again—slow, steady footsteps pacing above her. No one else was in the house.

She grabbed a flashlight and crept up the stairs, each step groaning under her weight. The hallway was dim, the air tight. Her breath came in shallow puffs.

Inside, the rocking chair was gone.

The wallpaper was peeled entirely off one wall, revealing something new: a hidden doorway—narrow, framed in rotted wood, just wide enough for a child.

A breeze drifted out from the dark beyond it. Cold. Damp. Carrying with it the faintest echo of that lullaby.

The Girl in the Mirror