cursed Hearts

Zelda The air in my home had grown oppressive, heavy like storm clouds pressing against the earth. I knew the signs, though I hated admitting them. I was no amateur. I’d studied demonology since I was old enough to read the sigils scrawled in my mother’s journals. I knew the weight of lingering energy, the subtle hum of a place that wasn’t quite right. But this wasn’t just lingering energy. This was deliberate. Watching. Waiting. The mirror over the mantle was the worst. It used to comfort me, its ornate frame a reminder of simpler times when my mother would polish it with old rags and hum songs I never learned the words to. Now, it loomed over the room like a predator, its surface too smooth, too still. And the voice—it never stopped. I hadn’t heard it in three days, but that didn’t comfort me. I could feel it, like a storm brewing on the horizon. Quiet wasn’t peace. Quiet was the calm before everything fell apart. When the news about Darren came, my chest felt like it had been crushed. It wasn’t grief. I’d barely cared about him since we broke up. But the circumstances? His body shredded like meat in a grinder? That wasn’t normal. And my reflection... It had smiled at me. I wasn’t imagining things. Something was here. Something was wrong. And it wanted me. I clutched the iron dagger harder as the mirror rippled again, just faintly. Almost a taunt. The weight of the blade steadied me, but my voice still trembled when I spoke. “You’re not going to win.” The laughter that followed was soft, a rich baritone that felt like a brush of silk against my skin. “Little one,” the voice murmured, “you don’t even know the game.” --- Marco She was a masterpiece. I watched her through the mirror, the way her dark curls clung to her damp neck, the way her lips pressed into a firm line as she clutched that silly little iron dagger like it could save her. She was angry tonight. I liked her angry. Zelda Moore had been under my watch for months now, though she didn’t know it. Not really. She suspected something was wrong—she was clever, after all—but she hadn’t pieced it together yet. That’s what made her so delightful. Most humans broke under the weight of fear. They spiraled into madness, their souls unraveling like cheap thread. But not her. No, Zelda didn’t run. She stood her ground, staring into the abyss with those fiery, defiant eyes that made my skin hum with anticipation. She hadn’t figured out the truth yet. That I was hers, bound to her by the ritual she performed so recklessly. That she had drawn me here, not because I wanted her blood, but because I wanted her. And I always got what I wanted. The boy—Darren, or whatever his name was—had been a nuisance. A distraction. I’d watched him paw at her in memories she tried to bury. Disgusting. I’d ended him quickly, efficiently, though not without a little artistry. A touch of theatrics to keep Zelda on edge. She deserved my best. “Leave me alone!” she’d screamed at me earlier, her voice raw with desperation. As if I ever could. I laughed softly now, my reflection rippling as I let my influence stretch through the mirror. It was a small act of mercy, really, giving her glimpses of me before I decided to fully manifest. The anticipation was delicious. She would see me soon enough. Not as the monster she feared, but as the man I could become for her. It would be a shame to break her too quickly. No, Zelda needed to be molded slowly, delicately, like glass held over a flame. Too much heat too fast, and she’d shatter. Too little, and she’d never soften. Patience, I reminded myself. After all, what was time to someone like me.