Beneath The Surface

Chapter 3: Ghost Of The Past

Back home, Mia sat cross-legged on the dusty floor of her childhood bedroom, the faint light from the hallway spilling across the warped floorboards. Her hands trembled as she stared at the article she'd photocopied from the library archives—Girl Found on Shore: Identity Unknown. Her own face—albeit younger, smaller, soaked and terrified—stared back at her from the grainy black-and-white image. It felt like looking at a version of herself from another life.

The date on the article was August 12, 1999. That would’ve made her six years old—just a few weeks before her seventh birthday, if her birth records were to be believed.

But nothing felt certain anymore.

She dragged a shaky hand through her hair and tried to breathe. The timeline didn’t add up. She had always believed she'd lived in Crestwood her whole life, that Eleanor had been her biological mother, and that they simply drifted apart over time. But now, her foundation was crumbling beneath her.

And to make it worse, the journal that might’ve explained everything had vanished.

Her phone buzzed on the floor beside her.

Unknown Number: “Stop digging.”

No punctuation. No context. Just that. Again.

Mia jumped to her feet and peered out the bedroom window. The street was dark, empty except for the flickering lamplight casting long shadows on the sidewalk. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her—just out of view, just beyond the curtain of night.

The house groaned with old age and silence. Every floorboard creak echoed too loudly in the stillness. She went room to room, locking every window, double-checking every door. Nothing else had been stolen, nothing disturbed—only the journal was missing.

Whoever broke in had known what they were looking for.

And that terrified her more than anything.

In the morning, she called the police again and requested to speak to someone in charge. Detective James Weller, the man who’d come by earlier that week, agreed to meet her at the station. His face was tired, but he offered a reassuring nod as she sat down across from him.

“This journal,” he said, folding his hands, “can you tell me again what was in it?”

“It was mostly sketches—symbols, cryptic phrases. My mother… Eleanor… she was an artist, but this was different. It wasn’t just art. It was like a code. Notes, ideas. And something about memories being borrowed.”

He nodded slowly. “You said earlier you thought the girl in the 1999 article might be you.”

“I don’t just think it anymore. I’m sure of it.”

He leaned back in his chair and studied her. “Have you talked to anyone who might confirm your early history? Doctors, teachers, family?”

Mia shook her head. “I don’t have anyone left. Eleanor was all I had, and now… I don’t know what’s real.”

“I can try to get access to hospital records from that case,” Weller offered. “But it’s been over twenty years, and with privacy laws…”

“I need to know who I am,” Mia interrupted, her voice cracking slightly.

Weller nodded again. “I’ll do what I can.”

Back at the house, she needed to do something—anything—to keep herself from unraveling. So she turned to the one thing that had always grounded her: painting.

She returned to her mother’s studio at the back of the house, where the air was thick with turpentine and old memories. Easels leaned against the walls, many holding half-finished canvases. Eleanor had painted feverishly, obsessively, as if haunted by some invisible force.

Mia pulled a large canvas into the center of the room and began to paint.

Her hands moved without conscious thought, guided by instinct. Dark blue strokes bled into black, forming the outline of a turbulent sea. A small figure appeared in the corner, struggling to stay afloat. Behind her, shadowy forms—indistinct and ominous—rose like ghosts from the water.

When she finally stepped back, she felt cold all over.

She hadn’t intended to paint that.

Later that evening, while digging through a trunk of Eleanor’s old belongings, Mia found a locked wooden box. The key didn’t seem to be anywhere in the house, so she took a screwdriver from the kitchen and forced it open.

Inside was a bundle of letters, all addressed to “Mira.” The handwriting was unmistakably her mother’s.

Mira.

The name from the locket. The name she’d begun to remember.

Her hands trembled as she unfolded the first letter.

“You were never supposed to remember, but I always feared you would. I loved you as if you were my own. Maybe you were. Maybe I stole you. But I couldn’t let him take you again. I couldn’t let you become what he wanted you to be.”

The next letter repeated the same plea: “Forgive me. I lied to protect you.”

Mia dropped the letters onto the floor, her vision swimming.

Had Eleanor kidnapped her?

Or had she saved her?

That night, Mia’s dreams grew more vivid.

She was underwater again, lungs burning, reaching for a surface that never came. All around her, whispers pressed against her ears like currents. A name echoed in the deep.

Mira… Mira… Then: “She must forget.”

When she bolted awake, she felt the echo of water in her ears, and the taste of salt on her tongue.

The next morning, she drove to the address listed on Eleanor’s old correspondence: a PO box on the edge of town. The clerk behind the counter was elderly, his glasses resting low on his nose.

“You got anything for Box 187?” she asked.

He eyed her. “Haven’t had anyone pick up from that box in years. Hold on.”

He returned with a stack of unopened letters—some yellowing at the edges.

Mia flipped through them.

Several were addressed from someone named Isaac Calder.

She swallowed hard and opened the first.

“You think you can keep her from me forever? She is mine, Eleanor. Mine by blood and design. You forget who made her.”

Each letter grew more threatening, more unhinged.

The final one read:

“You can’t hide her forever. Eventually, the mirror will crack, and when it does, I’ll be waiting.”

Mia drove straight to the police station.

Weller listened carefully as she handed over the letters.

His expression darkened. “Isaac Calder,” he muttered. “The name’s familiar. Hold on.”

He disappeared into the back room, returning fifteen minutes later with a thin folder.

“Isaac Calder was a psychiatrist—ran a private research program in the ‘90s. Controversial methods. Government pulled his license. Then he vanished.”

“What kind of research?” Mia asked.

“Memory manipulation. Experimental therapies. Rumors of… children being used in trials.”

Mia went still. “You think I was one of them?”

“I don’t know. But it’s possible Calder’s trying to finish what he started.”

She felt like the walls were closing in. “He’s watching me. I know he is. The break-in, the texts. The journal wasn’t stolen—it was retrieved.”

Weller nodded grimly. “We need to find him. Fast.”

That night, Mia didn’t sleep. She sat by the window, staring into the dark, waiting for a figure she hoped wouldn’t appear.

But as the hours stretched into early morning, a familiar silhouette appeared on the sidewalk across the street.

Tall. Lean. Still.

Watching.

She turned off the light, her body trembling.

Then, slowly, she reached for her mother’s old tape recorder.

There were still several unplayed cassettes tucked in the back of the studio.

One of them was labeled: “Mira – Final Recording.”

She clicked play.

Eleanor’s voice, soft and broken, filled the room.

“If you’re hearing this, I’m gone. And if he’s back, then so is the danger. You were never meant to remember. But if you do, don’t run. Don’t hide. Find the lake. That’s where it began. That’s where the truth lives.”

The recording ended with a sob.

Mia stared into the night.

The lake.

It was time to go back.