Beneath The Hollow Moon

. . . The world should have wept with her. But the skies remained dry as dust, the wind too still, as if nature itself refused to mourn the death of Gregory Vance. (Why?....) Aurelia stood alone before the obsidian coffin, her black veil fluttering faintly against her cheek. The silence around her was heavy, not sacred — suffocating. The kind of silence that wraps around your throat and squeezes until breathing becomes remembering, and remembering hurts too much. (Why!!?....) The funeral had ended an hour ago. The guests had gone, drifting away in sleek black cars, their pitying glances sharp as razors. None of them knew the truth. None of them saw what she saw. Liora had begged her to come back inside. Her younger sister’s voice trembled with fear more than grief, and Aurelia couldn't blame her. There had been too much darkness at the funeral — not in the sky, but in the people. Especially Miranda, the stepmother. And Ivy, her daughter. Two shadows clinging to a legacy they hadn’t earned. Aurelia let her gaze drop to the coffin. Her father's coffin. It was closed now, sealed with brass and velvet, bearing the family crest she once traced with her finger as a little girl, believing it meant something noble. The insignia felt hollow now, just like the title they kept calling her at the service: "The heiress." But if she was truly the heiress, then why had Miranda smiled at the will reading? Why did Ivy’s fingers tighten possessively around the house keys when she thought no one was watching? (What did we do to deserve this!!!?) Aurelia’s breath fogged in the still air. She stepped closer to the coffin, her boots crunching lightly over the crisp dead leaves that had blown in from the cemetery path. She laid her hand gently on the smooth lid, with her fingers trembling wildly. “Daddy,” she whispered. “What did you do?” It wasn’t just that he died. It was how he died. A sudden fall. A fractured neck. No witnesses. A closed casket, despite his body being “untouched.” That was the first lie. She’d seen the bruises on his throat when the medical examiner thought she wasn’t looking. She’d seen the strange markings carved faintly under his collarbone — faint, almost ritualistic, like a brand. When she asked about them, they were dismissed. "Old scars," they said. Gregory Vance didn’t have old scars. He was vain enough to have had them removed. “Are you really in there?” she murmured now, the thought creeping like frost into her skull. “Or did they bury something else?” She had alot of questions that started to overwhelm and fill her with dread. Behind her, a dry twig snapped. !!! She spun, eyes scanning the hedges that lined the outer edge of the Vance mausoleum garden. Nothing moved. But she could feel that someone was watching. She should’ve been used to it by now. For weeks, she’d felt things breathing just behind her shoulder. Mirrors reflect places that weren’t there. Dreams that ended with a wolf’s howl in the distance. Ever since the night that he died. Her fingers curled into a fist. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the sealed envelop her father left for her. She hadn’t opened it yet. Couldn’t. But it pulsed with a presence that made her fingertips buzz. It wasn’t addressed like a letter. Just one word. "Veil." The name of the house. The ancestral home hidden behind wrought-iron gates and ancient pines. “Veil Manor,” her father once said, “has secrets deeper than our bloodline. Some doors aren’t meant to be opened.” She never believed him. Until the doors started whispering. A cold breeze stirred the edges of her veil. This time, she didn’t turn. She knew she wouldn’t see what was behind her, so she decided to accept it as it is. Inside the manor, the scent of funeral flowers had turned sour. Liora was waiting in the parlor, seated uncomfortably on the loveseat, her dark curls messy and eyes glassy and empty. She was younger by three years, softer, but her grief was deeper than most gave her credit for. “You stayed out there too long,” she said without looking up. “Miranda's asking questions?.” Aurelia shut the door behind her. “Let her.” Liora glanced at her sister, then at the envelope in her hand. “You didn’t open it.” “I will. When I’m ready.” Liora bit her lip. “I heard Ivy laughing. Right after the service. Do you think... do you think she knows something?” “She knows a lot more than she should.” Aurelia sank into the armchair across from her. “Ivy’s always been Miranda’s shadow. And Miranda’s always been a liar.” “But the will—” “Was altered. I know that!!” Her voice dropped. “Dad told me he changed it six weeks ago. After she tried to have him committed.” Liora’s eyes widened. “He did!?” “He said he was cutting her out. Said he saw her for who she really was.” “Then why… why would the will still name her executor!?” “I... I don’t know!. But I’ll find out.” Silence fell again. Outside, the wind had returned, howling faintly through the chimney. It sounded like voices in the flue, murmuring things they shouldn’t know. Liora drew her knees to her chest. “Do you remember the story he used to tell us? About the first Vance?” Aurelia nodded slowly. “He said she wasn’t fully human. That she came out of the woods, wrapped in a silver pelt, and claimed this land by blood.” “I thought he was just trying to scare us.” Aurelia stared into the flames. “He wasn’t.” That night, sleep came like a thief, and left just as quickly. Aurelia woke with a gasp, the echo of a growl fading from her dream. Her shirt was damp with sweat, the sheet tangled around her legs. She sat up slowly, listening. Something had woken her. Something inside the house. Not Liora. Not the staff. She felt like someone or something was calling for her. She crept barefoot to the door, the door handle cold against her fingertips. The hallway was dark, the sconces unlit. Only the moonlight spilled in through the stained-glass windows, casting strange shapes onto the floor. She stepped into the corridor. Her father's study door was ajar. Her breath caught. He always locked that door. Always. Heart pounding, she approached it, slowly, quietly. The air around it felt different — like it hummed with the weight of memory and shadow. She reached out and pushed the door open. The room was empty. But the fire was burning. And on the desk lay something that hadn’t been there before: A single white lily. And beneath it, in the dust-covered leather blotter, were claw marks. Five of them. Deep. Fresh. As if something had stood right where she was, moments ago, and raked its talons into the wood. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind. “If anything happens to me... don’t trust the house.” She turned, breath quickening, and the envelope in her pocket burned hot against her skin. Whatever was happening... it had already begun.