Chapter 22 – The Mind Unravels

Somewhere beyond fire, beyond sleep, beyond time – she falls.

Max doesn’t know it yet.

While his boots touch steel and he heads towards a fiery and bloody showdown, she is already bleeding in a world without walls.

He thinks she’s resting. Healing.

But she’s not asleep.

She’s running.

…………………

Day 1.

When Liz opened her eyes, everything was still.

The ceiling was pale and familiar – off-white with faint cracks, the kind her mother always said she’d paint over but never did. Her room smelled like clean linen and a hint of lavender. Morning light filtered in through cream curtains, and somewhere outside, birds were singing.

It was… peaceful.

Too peaceful.

She sat up slowly, rubbing her arms. Her skin was unscarred. Her clothes – an old tank top and flannel pyjama pants – were clean. Her window overlooked the backyard. The world was still.

She stood. Her bare feet touched cool wood floors. She stepped toward the door and paused.

She couldn’t hear anything from the rest of the house.

Not the kettle. Not the news. Not her father’s slow shuffling footsteps. Not her mother humming.

It was… wrong.

Her hand hovered near the doorknob.

She twisted it.

The hallway was lit like a Sunday morning. Sunlight spilled over family portraits and framed scribbles from her childhood. But as she passed them, something tightened in her chest.

The faces were wrong.

Each photo had her eyes scratched out. Not digitally blurred – physically. As if someone had dug a fingernail into the paper and gouged them out.

Her mother’s face in every picture was a blur of ash. Her father’s was missing completely.

She moved down the hall, heart thudding.

The kitchen was clean. Spotless. Gleaming white counters and fresh flowers in a vase—red roses. Her mother hated roses. Said they were pretentious.

She turned slowly toward the oven.

The door was slightly ajar.

Inside, her mother’s favourite scarf was burning – a slow, silent flame eating away at the soft wool. There was no smoke. No heat. Just the steady flicker of fire that wasn’t fire.

Liz backed away.

The hallway behind her had lengthened.

What had been a three-meter corridor was now stretching, impossibly long, shadows dripping from the ceiling like water.

She turned back toward the kitchen—

—and the lights went out.

A low creaking echoed above her.

She turned slowly, heart thudding.

Then came the voice. Soft. Familiar. Crooked.

“Elizabeth? Why are you hiding from me?”

Liz froze.

Her breath hitched. The air around her seemed to glow, just faintly, like warmth returning to a cold room. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes.

No. It couldn’t be.

“Mom?”

Her voice came out fragile, like she hadn’t used it in years.

There was a long pause.

Then – footsteps. Bare, slow, careful.

And from the far end of the hallway, her mother stepped into view.

She wore the long cardigan Liz remembered – the navy one with threadbare sleeves – and the soft white slippers she always wore when padding around the kitchen before dawn. Her hair was up. Her face was gentle.

Smiling.

Liz’s knees almost buckled.

“Mom…? You’re here?” Her voice cracked on the second word.

Her mother tilted her head. “Of course I’m here, sweetie.”

“But…” Liz took a shaky step forward. “You… You died.”

She was shaking now. Her hands, her breath. “You burned. In the fire. I saw you. I saw—”

Her mother took a step closer.

“Shhh. I’m here now.”

Something about the voice made Liz pause.

It was the right timbre. The right pitch.

But it wasn’t layered with breath or warmth. It was… hollow. Like it had been recorded and played back through someone else’s throat.

Her mother’s eyes didn’t blink.

Liz took a slow step back.

The smile didn’t move.

“W-what… what is this?”

Her mother stepped forward again – too fluid now. The movements too clean. Her hand extended.

“You brought me back, remember?”

Liz’s breath caught.

“I—what?”

“You asked for me. You begged for me. And you opened the door.”

The smile twisted, ever so slightly.

And in that moment, Liz understood.

That wasn’t her mother.

Not her voice.

Not her eyes.

Not the way she moved, as if remembering how a person might walk.

Not the burning scarf.

Not the stretched hallway.

Not the words sewn into the air behind her: I miss you. I’m sorry. Please come back.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“You said you’d bring me back.”

Liz turned and ran.

The hallway pulsed like a throat. The family photos peeled off the walls in strips, revealing bone underneath. The floorboards screamed as she stepped. Not creaked – screamed.

The front door was just ahead now. Just a little further—

She grabbed the knob—

And it was cold. Wet. Her hand stuck to it like frostbite, and the doorknob pulled away with her skin. Blood dripped down her wrist.

She screamed—

And the hallway behind her answered back.

In her mother’s voice.

“Don’t run, Lizzy. You brought me home. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

…………………

Liz stumbled back.

Her heel caught the edge of the hallway rug, and she went down hard, palms slapping against the warped floorboards. The impact jolted through her wrists but she barely noticed.

Because the thing wearing her mother’s skin was still smiling.

“You opened the door,” it whispered, taking another graceful step. “And I walked through.”

Liz scrambled backward. “You’re not her.”

The figure blinked, slowly. “But I remember her voice. Her warmth. Her laugh. I remember the sound she made when the flames took her throat.”

“No.” Liz was shaking now, trying to push herself upright, feet slipping on the slick wood. “No, no, no—”

“You made a Contract, Lizzy.”

Her mother’s lips stretched into a too-wide grin.

“You asked for her back. And I answered.”

The hallway lights snapped off, plunging everything into red shadow. The air warped. It smelled of scorched hair and rotting sugar.

And then—

The walls ignited.

It didn’t happen gradually. It was instantaneous – as if the house had been soaked in gasoline and set alight in a single breath. Fire exploded up the curtains, raced along the ceiling, and poured down the walls in curling tongues of blackened flame.

Liz screamed and ran.

The thing behind her laughed in her mother’s voice, the cadence cracked and corrupted.

“Come back, sweetheart. We’re a family again.”

She ran through the burning hallway, choking on heat, her bare feet blistering with every step on the molten floorboards. Her skin was already slick with sweat and ash. The smoke was thick, heavy, greedy.

As she turned a corner, the photos on the wall melted, their ink running like tears. The faces stared at her with empty sockets.

She slammed into the kitchen doorway – and stopped.

It was worse in here.

The air was too cold now. The fire didn’t touch this room. The smoke hung still. It was frozen in place, like a paused scream.

And at the table sat her mother. Again.

But different this time.

April Jaeger didn’t move.

Her back was to Liz, but her skin was wrong – grey and waxy, with patches of hair missing. Her arms were stiff. Rigid. One hand lay on the table, the other cupped a steaming mug of coffee that steamed with black fog.

Her head tilted sideways slowly, cracking as it turned.

Then she smiled.

This version of April had no lips – just stretched skin, revealing gums and yellow teeth. Her eyes were gone. Hollow holes. Yet somehow… she was still smiling.

“Don’t cry,” she said with no voice. Her mouth didn’t move. The words just appeared in Liz’s head. “You got what you wanted.”

Liz staggered back.

April stood. Bones creaked. Her body moved in sharp, unnatural angles – like a broken puppet dragged upright by invisible strings.

“You brought me back. This is what love costs, my sweet girl.”

April’s face split, peeling downward like burned paper.

From inside her mouth, something stepped out.

A smaller shape.

Something crouched. Watching. Grinning.

It had her mother’s eyes but in the wrong place. One on its jaw. One on its chest. Its fingers were black bones. Its feet were cracked hooves. Its grin took up half its head.

The child-sized demon dropped onto all fours.

It sniffed the air.

And it laughed.

Liz turned and ran.

…………………

She didn’t get far.

The hallway twisted as she ran – bent left when it should’ve gone right, then doubled back into the living room. The walls buckled like lungs. The rug reached up like vines. Her own house betrayed her, folding in on itself, reshaping to keep her trapped.

And then it caught her.

The April-child-demon slammed into her from behind, all claws and teeth and heatless weight. Liz hit the floor hard, her face scraping across burned wood, splinters biting her cheek.

She screamed.

The thing giggled. Not like a child. Like a thing pretending to remember what laughter sounds like.

It ripped at her shirt – not to feed, not to kill, but to degrade.

Clawed fingers tore through fabric like paper. Her exposed skin scraped against jagged floorboards. Her shoulder burned where the creature’s talons sank in, digging just enough to bleed, not enough to kill.

“You wanted her back,” it cooed in April’s voice, just behind her ear. “You begged for her. You offered anything.”

Liz twisted, kicked, screamed but her voice broke in her throat. The air was too thin. Too cold now. Her lungs felt full of glass.

The thing licked her shoulder. Its tongue was wrong barbed like a cat’s, but longer than it should be. It tasted like rust and greed.

“You gave me the keys,” it whispered. “And now this body is mine to do with whatever I want...”

It leaned closer. Leering. Its breath didn’t fog the air.

It had no breath.

“I can be her again. If you like.”

And then it did something worse than hurt her.

It shifted.

Its skin peeled like clay, reshaping into a grotesque parody of April’s face. Familiar freckles over charred flesh. White-blonde-coloured hair, a mirror for her own. Her mother’s eyes in the wrong shape, her voice in the wrong pitch.

“Why don’t you love me, Lizzy?”

Liz shoved with everything she had. She screamed so hard her throat tore. The thing flew backward, hit the fireplace – and cackled.

She stumbled upright, bleeding, half-exposed, barely balanced on her raw feet.

She ran.

Naked. Crying. Scraped open and soul-bruised.

The house twisted again but she pushed through.

The hallway collapsed into ash, stairs folding like paper, the ceiling sagging like skin. Her hands reached for the front door—
And this time, it opened.

She stepped outside.

And the world was gone.

There was no sky. No stars. No sun.

Just a black forest of skeletal trees stretching forever, their branches curled like claws, swaying in a wind that didn’t exist. The ground was soft and wet beneath her feet – not mud, not soil, but something that breathed beneath her toes.

The house behind her crumbled in silence, sinking into the ground like it had never been built at all.

No rubble. No fire. Just absence.

The doorframe remained for a moment – standing by itself in the dark like a grave marker.

Then it, too, fell.

She turned in place, shivering, clutching the torn remnants of her shirt around her chest. Her blood still felt hot against the cold, pressing dark.

And somewhere – deep between the trees—

The child-demon laughed again.

…………………

She ran.

Branches clawed at her arms, ripping fresh lines into her skin. Her bare feet thudded against the soft, pulsing ground. It wasn’t earth. It was too warm, and it shifted like muscle beneath her steps.

The trees towered above her, lifeless, their limbs contorted into grasping fingers. There were no leaves. No wind. No path. Just endless dark, broken only by the pale red pulse that flickered somewhere deep between the trunks.

Behind her, the child-demon laughed.

“You can't run forever, Lizzy.”

Its voice was too high. Too loud. It echoed through the trees in a spiral, bouncing from every direction.

Liz stumbled over a root. Hit the ground hard. Her palms skidded through something wet and fibrous. She pushed herself up – her shoulder screamed. Blood dripped from a dozen cuts, from the bite mark on her arm, from her torn clothes.

She was bleeding into the forest, and the ground liked it.

It drank her in.

A thin vine slithered across her ankle. She kicked it away and bolted forward, breathing ragged, vision blurred with tears.

She didn’t know how long she ran.

Minutes. Hours. Days.

Time was wrong here. It folded in on itself.

And still, the voice chased her.

“You said you’d give anything…”

A second voice joined it now—her own.

“I miss her. I miss her. I miss her.”

She tripped again.

This time, she landed in a clearing.

A circle of dead trees surrounded her, their bark peeled like skin. In the centre was a reflection pool – black and flat, like glass. No ripples. Just her face, staring back at her.

But it wasn’t her.

Her reflection was smiling.

Liz staggered back—

—and something bit her heel.

She shrieked.

The child-demon had scuttled into the clearing on all fours, grinning from ear to ear. Its body twitched and convulsed with every movement, like it had too many joints and didn’t know how to use them.

Its mouth split vertically, opening like a flower made of teeth.

“You gave me your soul.”

It pounced.

Liz rolled, but not fast enough. Its claws raked across her back – four shallow slashes.

She screamed, swung wildly with her elbow. Her arm cracked against its face. It hissed.

She scrambled to her feet and ran – again.

Her body was breaking.

The trees blurred.

The ground stretched.

She stumbled into another clearing – and this one was worse.

Dozens of porcelain mannequins stood in the dark. Each one wore her mother’s face, lifeless and cracked. Some were upside down. Some headless. All of them stared at her with dead eyes.

And in the centre, the demon crouched – tilting its head.

It was chewing on something.

It dropped it as she entered.

It was her voice.

A bloody mass, pulsing. Still whispering: “Please… please bring her back…”

Liz turned and ran until her lungs gave out.

She collapsed beside a tree, knees in the dirt, arms wrapped around herself. Her breath came in wet sobs.

She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know where the demon was. She didn’t know if she was even alive.

“You're almost ready,” the forest whispered.

“Almost broken.”

…………………

Liz didn’t know how long she’d been crawling.

The forest hadn’t changed. Not once. No landmarks. No stars. No moon. No end. Just the rhythmic pulse beneath her knees – thump, thump, thump – like she was scuttling across the chest of something massive and asleep.

Her legs were shaking. Her arms stung with hundreds of tiny lacerations. Her throat burned from breathing the thick air.

Her body wanted to shut down.

Her soul wanted to die.

But her mind…

Her mind still whispered names.

Dad.
Chloe.
Alyssa.
Jack.
Dan.

She tried to say them aloud, but the words caught in her throat like thorns.

“Dad…” she croaked. It came out dry. Barely a sound.

“Dad?”

Her voice broke.

The darkness didn’t answer.

She pressed her back against one of the warped trees and sank slowly to the ground. Her knees curled to her chest. Her breath came in trembling gasps.

Somewhere far behind her, the demon giggled. Softly. Like a lullaby.

“Still not broken…”

She slapped her hands over her ears.

But the sound wasn’t coming from outside.

It was inside her head.

She bit down on her tongue until she tasted blood. She whispered again.

“Dad… I want to go home.”

Silence.

“Please. Please, someone…”

The trees leaned in.

The ground pulsed again – once, then again. A little faster now.

Like something was waking up.

Her arms wrapped tighter around herself.

“I didn’t mean to do it,” she whispered. “I just wanted to fix things. I just wanted her back. I didn’t know – I didn’t know it would be this.”

A low breath, hot and wet, moved past her cheek.

She spun, but nothing was there.

The trees laughed.

Or maybe it was her.

She buried her face in her arms and sobbed.

No one was coming.

No one knew she was here.

She wasn’t even sure she was still her.

Then – softly, behind her, the demon whispered:

“Let me in. And you won’t be alone anymore.”