Three Wishes Before Midnight: Monster Love Stories

1.2 Eternity

Part 1.2 - Eternity: Mona’s Story

“If time could stop at the most perfect moment—should it?”

The silk of the handkerchief was a cold promise against my skin. I kept my hand pressed to my chest, half-expecting the fabric to melt away like a phantom’s touch, but it remained, a tangible piece of an impossible encounter.

“Boo.”

I jumped, spinning around so fast my wings knocked over a stack of empty red cups, earning a grumpy, "For f**k's sake!" from the unwilling barman.

A skull mask was inches from my face, its hollow eyes staring into mine.

“Sera, I swear to God—”

She lifted the mask, grinning. “You looked like you were having a religious experience. So, did you get his number, or just his soul?”

“Neither,” I muttered, my heart still thumping a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “He was just asking for directions to the nearest crypt. I kindly assisted him.”

Sera’s eyes narrowed playfully. “Uh-huh. And did you happen to notice that his very distinctive, very crimson pocket accessory is now missing?” She gestured toward the empty space on the bar where the handkerchief had been.

My face flushed. “It must have gotten knocked on the floor or something.”

“Right. The floor.” She didn’t believe me for a second. "It's in your cleavage, isn't it? Cheeky girl. This angel is falling further and further."

I stepped on her foot, she flicked my forehead, and then we both laughed before she spoke again.

“Come on, let’s find Izzy. She owes me a shot for ditching us.”

We pushed our way through the thickest part of the crowd, the air hot and smelling of sweat and cheap perfume. We found the back door propped open, leading out into a yard lit by a massive bonfire that sent sparks spiraling up into the black sky. And there, in the center of it all, was Izzy.

She was a blur of bunny ears and competitive spirit, lining up a ping-pong ball with intense focus. Across the makeshift table stood three guys from the rugby team, their massive shoulders and thick necks making them look like a trio of trolls guarding a bridge.

Izzy sank the shot, and her side of the crowd roared.

She pumped a fist in the air, her face glowing with victory and bonfire light. She was getting her wild night.

“Looks like she’s busy,” I said, a little relieved.

“She’s living her best life,” Sera corrected, watching her with a proud smile. “Which reminds me…”

Before she could finish, my phone buzzed from within my cleavage (nature's pocket). I fumbled for it, a familiar dread coiling in my stomach. The screen lit up with a name I knew too well: Ethan.

The noise of the party seemed to recede, replaced by the frantic hammering in my own head. My thumb hovered over the screen. Part of me—the stupid, hopeful, masochistic part—wanted to answer. To hear his voice, even if it was just to hear him apologize for the hundredth time before doing the exact same thing again.

My parents had a strict ‘no dating until college’ rule, so when Ethan showed up freshman year, all charm and soulful poetry, he wasn’t just a boyfriend; he was the boyfriend. The first. He’d been my first everything, including the one thing I hadn’t been ready for.

He’d been so patient, so understanding, right up until the moment he wasn’t. It had been clumsy, painful and quick, leaving me feeling more hollowed out than connected. I’d spent the last year thinking maybe that’s all s*x was—a biological transaction dressed up in pretty words.

It made it so much easier to forgive other things, like finding him in the library stacks with a freshman from his poetry seminar.

They were ‘just talking about Whitman.’ The apology that followed had been a work of art, a masterpiece of shame and promises.

And like an i***t, I had almost believed him. That’s what he was good at: making me doubt my own eyes. Answering now would be an invitation for the whole toxic cycle to start again.

I must have looked as haunted as I felt, because Sera’s expression hardened. Before I could make a decision I’d regret, she snatched the phone from my hand.

“Absolutely not,” she declared, her voice sharp. “The ghost of Halloween Past is not invited to this party. I'm going to cast stupid-ass Ethan back to hell where he belongs!”

She turned and bolted, a flash of red cancan dress disappearing back into the mansion.

“Sera, give it back!” I yelled, but she was already gone.

Fueled by a hot spike of panic and fury, I plunged after her. I shoved past a guy in a cheap werewolf mask and sidestepped a couple making out against a wall. The strobe lights turned the moving bodies into jerky, disjointed figures, and the music was a physical wall of sound I had to push through. I caught a glimpse of her red dress turning down a long, dark hallway I hadn’t noticed before and followed, my boots slipping on the sticky floor.

“Sera, this isn’t funny!”

The hallway was dimmer, the music fading slightly behind me. I rounded a corner and stopped. She was gone. There were just two closed doors on either side and a tall, grandfather clock at the end of the hall, its pendulum frozen.

Frustrated and out of breath, I tried the door on my right. Locked. I tried the one on the left. The old brass knob turned under my hand with a heavy click. I pushed it open and slipped inside, just wanting a moment of quiet to catch my breath before I hunted my friend down.

The door swung shut behind me, and the world went silent.

The chaotic thunder of the party was gone, muffled into a distant, rhythmic heartbeat. The air in here was cold and still, carrying a scent that was completely alien to the rest of the house: old paper, polished leather, and that same dark, clean cologne from the bar.

My eyes adjusted to the gloom. It wasn’t a bedroom or a den. It was a library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined every wall, their spines packed tight. Moonlight streamed through a tall, arched window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. In the center of the room sat a massive, carved mahogany desk. It was an island of order in a sea of collegiate chaos.

And it was absolutely out of place in this house.

Drawn by a force I didn’t understand, I stepped further inside. My gaze fell upon an object lying open on the desk, right in a patch of moonlight. It was a book, but not a modern one. It was a diary, bound in dark, cracked leather, its pages yellowed with age. The script inside was elegant and archaic, a looping cursive that felt both strange and deeply familiar.

My breath hitched. I shouldn’t be here. This was private. But my feet moved on their own, carrying me closer until I stood before the desk. My fingers trembled as I reached out, a strange sense of recognition, of belonging, washing over me.

My fingers brushed against the page.

The paper was impossibly fragile, crisp, and dry like an autumn leaf. A shiver traced its way up my spine, a feeling not of cold, but of profound recognition. The looping, elegant script seemed to pull at a memory buried too deep to grasp. My eyes scanned the page, landing on a passage dated centuries ago, the ink faded from black to a soft, sepia brown.

My own voice was a ghost in the silent room as I whispered the words aloud.

“October returns. The veil thins, and with it, the echo of her soul. I search for her in the crowds of the living, for the tragic grace in her eyes. Will she remember the promise we made in the shadow of the pyre? Will she remember me? Will she forgive me? My Desdemona…”

The name hung in the air, a chord struck in the absolute stillness. My Desdemona. It wasn’t a character in a play; it was a name spoken with a longing so deep it felt etched into the very fabric of the room. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. This was impossible. A prank. Some elaborate, historical LARP I’d stumbled into.

And then the world changed.

The distant, thumping bass line of The Killers didn’t just fade out—it was sliced away, replaced by the slow, mournful notes of a string quartet. A violin wept a melody that sounded a hundred years old. The muffled shouts and drunken shrieks from the party outside the door dissolved, melting into a low, genteel murmur of conversation, punctuated by the clinking of glasses. The very air in the library seemed to shift, growing heavier, scented now with beeswax and drying roses.

I looked up from the diary, my blood running cold. My hand was still pressed to the ancient page, but my ears were straining, trying to make sense of the impossible sounds filtering through the door. The chaotic, 21st-century kegger had vanished. In its place was a phantom ball, a ghost of a party from another time.

And I was trapped in the heart of it.