The icy cold water was a relief for reasons that had nothing to do with the summer heat. It was the shock I craved: the chill that made me feel something other than grief.

My skirts were tied up above my knees, so the current swept freely around my bare legs.

But the initial chill faded; my skin adjusted to the temperature, and the heavy weight returned to settle over my heart.

I let out a sigh and began pulling clothes from the basket, one at a time, into the water with me. Normally, this was work I did with friends—gossiping and singing to pass the time—but today, I had chosen a time when I knew I’d be alone. Keeping up a normal conversation felt impossible while weathering the torment of my thoughts. So, I focused on the task. 

Grab from one basket, wash, wring out, place in the second basket. Repeat.

When the last piece of laundry was put away, I leaned back, hands on my hips, stretching out my aching spine.

That’s when something caught my eye.

I paused, wiping my brow with my sleeve as I tried to decipher what I was seeing through the current.

Something glinted in the sunlight—a small object lodged between the rocks.

I frowned at it for a long moment, then curiosity got the better of me. Dunking my hand into the water, I felt around until I found the smooth chill of metal, and brought it to the surface.

It was a pendant, with intricate golden knotwork wrapped around a dark gem. When I lifted it to the sunlight, I saw swirling clouds within the stone that seemed to move. It was… enchanting, in a way that nearly convinced me to keep standing there, staring.

It had to be valuable.

I hesitated only a moment before tucking the brooch into my apron pocket. Perhaps it  was an odd sort of luck after such a dark time.

After hanging the laundry to dry on the lines, I stepped inside the house, once again struck by how empty it felt. It was as if the loss had seeped into the walls, turning the home into a quiet, darker shell of what it once had been.

I had never married, and was the only one of my friends my age who hadn’t. I had thought of it, of course, but I simply never had the chance. My mother had been ill for so many years, and until her passing, she needed my care. 

After she was gone, again I was needed. My father, drowning in grief, relied on me to keep him afloat. Only… yesterday, I buried him. Almost a year to the day after losing his wife, my father's heart gave out.

Now, I was alone in our family home, a home that no longer had a family.

Alone, for the first time in my life.

Chores helped distract me during the day, but eventually, the sun fell, and there was nothing left to do but sit by the hearth with a book.

Despite the burning peat, a chill settled over the house. 

Outside, the wind howled, and the old walls creaked and groaned.

I pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders just as a soft thump echoed from the other room.

It was barely audible, but it sent my heart hammering in my chest.

It could’ve been nothing—a draft, maybe. So why, then, did I have the strangest feeling of being watched?

I shook my head.

“It’s just the grief,” I whispered. “Your emotions are playing tricks on you.”

Still, I stood to investigate.

Apart from the hearth, the only light came from a single oil lamp beside my chair. As I moved further into the house, the shadows lengthened and the darkness crept closer.

Passing the kitchen table, something fell from atop it, narrowly missing my foot.

A knife.

I scolded myself for not cleaning up after dinner and placed it back on the table, promising to handle the dishes in the morning.

As expected, there was nothing on the far side of the room. Just my father's writing desk—though I suppose it’s mine now.

I sighed and turned to return to my chair when I noticed something odd.

The portrait—the one my parents had taken when they were freshly married, which had hung above the fire ever since—was now tilted.

A thought crept in: What if it was him? What if his spirit lingered—angry, or unsettled?

“Father?” I called into the stillness, my voice trembling.

Immediately, I felt foolish.

What was I thinking?

I didn’t believe in ghosts. Even if I did, I’d followed all the proper customs. The mirrors were still covered—there was nothing that could trap his soul on the way out.

Another sound. This time, a soft rapping from the corner of the room.

I tried to ignore it.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It is just the house settling.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A branch, perhaps, tapping against the house in the wind.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Father…?” I asked in a whisper.

The sound stopped.

Tears pricked my eyes, though my heart thundered. “Is it you, Father? Why would you haunt me? What have I done?”

No answer.

My parents stared down at me from above the hearth, and I felt so small beneath their gaze.

“I always did everything I could to make you proud,” I told the painting. “Maybe… maybe I could’ve done more to stop your drinking, but there was only so much I could carry! I know you were mourning mother—but so was I! Then you left too! I was here for you, and you left me! What else did you want me to do? What else could I have done?”

Still, no answer.

My breath hitched, and I turned away from the portrait.

Wiping tears from my eyes, I blinked. The pendant from the river was lying on the floor.

I could have sworn I left it on the mantle.

I picked it up. Its surface was cold—unnaturally so. My skin crawled as a wave of dread swept over me.

The room seemed darker. 

The shadows grew longer. 

Whispers curled around me—faint, indistinct.

Another sound—louder this time—from the window. The curtains fluttered, though the window was still firmly closed.

My hands trembled.

This wasn’t my father. Something else had come into my home. Something that didn’t belong.

No. I would not allow it. 

This home was all I had left, and I wouldn’t let anything take it from me.

Long ago, my mother had made a charm of juniper and hung it above the door in the kitchen. I yanked it down and whispered an apology to her as I tossed the bundle into the flames.

The first wisp of smoke curled into the air—and the pendant twitched in my hand.

I recoiled, dropping it.

The silver object vibrated violently, the room filling with a low hum.

The juniper was smoldering now, releasing a pungent smoke. I thrust my hand into the hot cloud and pulled towards the pendant. Curls of smoke swept downwards.

The shape of the pendant shifted.

A wisp of blue fog rose from it, twisting until it took on a ghastly form—a face, contorted with fury. Its mouth stretched wide. Eyes like voids glared at me from the haze.

I stumbled backward, hitting the chair as the spirit let out an unearthly wail. I desperately wanted to cover my ears—but instead, I grabbed the fire poker. 

The hook of the poker grasped the burning bundle, and I pulled. The smoking mess spilled out onto the floor, and brought the smoke with it. 

With a final shriek, the Dracae darted up the chimney, its vaporous form fleeing into the night with a violent gust.

And then—nothing.

Silence. 

Of course I cleaned my mess before the fire could spread, but then I simply sat on the floor. It was as if every ounce of energy had been drained from my body. 

I shook all over, though I did not know if it was from terror or relief. 

It was gone.

I was alone again. Alone in this house.

But it was still home. It held memories—good and painful—and I would protect it.

We had each other. And for now, that was enough.