1917: A Family of Joy, Hope, Faith and Grace [Part 2]

The house settled into a strange rhythm in the days after we arrived, as if it had been waiting for us, for the family to return to its long-forgotten halls. At first, I tried to hold on to the sense of comfort I’d imagined it would provide—a sanctuary from whatever chased us on the mainland. But the longer we stayed, the more elusive that comfort became. Something gnawed at the edges of my thoughts, making me feel like I was losing grip on the reality I once held so firmly.

Hope

It started with the dreams.

At first, they were calming, soft, like the lullabies Mother used to sing to us when we were small. In my dreams, I would see the figure—a tall, dark silhouette draped in a long coat, its face obscured by the mist that now seemed to bleed into everything on the island. At first, it wasn’t frightening. It would stand at a distance, watching, as if protecting me from something worse, something I couldn’t quite see. I felt safe under its gaze, cocooned in its silent presence.

But slowly, that feeling of safety began to slip away.

In one dream, I saw it move closer, the black coat billowing out behind it as it approached. I called out, but my voice felt trapped in my throat, strangled by the thick air. The figure didn’t speak, but I could feel its intent—the same way you sense a storm coming from the shifting winds and darkening skies. A threat, hidden beneath layers of false calm.

I woke up shivering, even though the air in the room was warm and thick. I turned in bed to see Grace’s shadow huddled in her own bed across the room, her back to me. She hadn’t slept well either. I knew it from the way she curled into herself as if trying to disappear.

The house groaned around us, the sound deep and hollow, as though it was alive and stretching after a long sleep. I listened, my heart pounding in the darkness, and tried to tell myself that the figure from my dreams wasn’t real. It was just the house—old, creaky, unfamiliar.

But the dreams returned every night.

Joy

Joy stood at the narrow window, watching the dense fog roll over the shoreline like a heavy blanket, concealing everything it touched. Her breath fogged the glass, and she wiped it away absently with the sleeve of her wool sweater, her mind a whirl of anxieties and whispers she couldn’t silence.

The house, this place—her place—was meant to be a haven, a fortress against the unknown. But as the days passed, she felt less certain. The walls felt too thin, the rooms too exposed, and the creeping mist that curled around the house like skeletal fingers unsettled her deeply.

Her gaze drifted toward the girls. They were supposed to be safe here. She had brought them here to escape—what, she wasn’t even sure anymore. But they were not safe, she thought bitterly.

Faith passed behind her, quiet as ever, and Joy’s shoulders stiffened.

“Are you ready?” Joy asked sharply.

“Yes, Mother,” Faith replied, her voice even, emotionless. She stood still, waiting for her next command.

Joy glanced at her daughter and felt a mixture of pride and resentment rise in her chest. Faith was so obedient, so willing to follow without question. She had molded Faith into the perfect daughter—one who listened, one who trusted her without hesitation. But there was something disquieting about it now. Faith's passivity was too complete, too… hollow. She didn’t question. She didn’t push back.

Joy’s hand trembled as she brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ve laid the salt lines outside the windows?” she asked, her voice tight with expectation.

“Yes, Mother. I followed the instructions exactly.”

Joy’s jaw clenched. “Good. We have to keep them out. We have to be vigilant.”

Faith nodded, her face unreadable, then moved toward the door to begin her next task. Joy watched her go, her hands twisting in her lap. She knew that Faith would follow her commands without hesitation, but that didn’t soothe the dread creeping into her mind. Something was still wrong—something was watching them.

Grace

Grace tried to make herself as small as possible, pressing into the shadowed corner of the kitchen as her sisters moved about. She was used to being ignored, and in a way, she preferred it that way. When the attention fell on her, it was never kind, never gentle. She had learned long ago that it was better to go unnoticed than to be noticed for all the wrong reasons.

Her hands shook as she fumbled with the bread knife, trying to cut the stale loaf Mother had set out for their dinner. The knife slipped, and she hissed as it nicked the skin of her palm, a thin line of red blooming on the surface. She watched the blood pool for a moment, feeling a strange sense of detachment. Pain didn’t bother her much anymore—not in the way it used to. She had grown accustomed to it. It was something she understood.

She pressed a dishcloth to the cut, her breath shallow as she glanced toward the kitchen door, half expecting her mother to appear and scold her for the accident. But no one came.

In the dim reflection of the kitchen window, she caught a glimpse of movement—just a flicker, the briefest shadow passing behind her. Grace froze, her heart hammering in her chest as she turned to look.

There was nothing there.

But she felt it—felt the presence of something, someone. The same figure she had seen every night in her dreams, standing in the distance, watching her. Only this time, it felt different. Closer.

And in that brief moment, Grace felt something else. A strange sort of kinship. The figure, the entity—it didn’t mock her like the others did. It didn’t turn away in disgust or frustration. It was silent, yes, but it was patient. Understanding. Merciful.

Grace’s lips parted as a tear slipped down her cheek, though she wasn’t sure why. She wiped it away quickly, the dishcloth smearing the blood from her palm. No one could see her like this. No one would understand.

Hope

Something was wrong with Mother.

At first, I thought it was just the stress from moving, the weight of everything that had happened back home. But it wasn’t just that. It was something deeper, something that had wormed its way inside her and taken root. I could see it in the way she looked at us—especially Grace.

Mother had always been harsh with Grace, harsher than she needed to be. But now, it was different. Every time Grace made a mistake—every time she tripped over her own feet or fumbled with something—Mother’s expression darkened, her eyes flashing with something I couldn’t name. It wasn’t just anger. It was fear. Or maybe it was both.

And Faith... Faith had always been quiet, but now it was like she wasn’t even there. She moved through the house like a ghost, following Mother’s every command without question, without hesitation. I watched her spread salt along the windowsills, her face blank, her hands steady. She didn’t ask why. She didn’t question whether it would work. She just obeyed.

I tried to stay optimistic, to tell myself that it would get better, that we would settle into this place and find peace. But the dreams kept coming, and the house seemed to grow darker with each passing day. I felt it in the walls, in the floors, in the way the shadows stretched just a little too far.

And then there was Grace.

She was slipping away. I could see it in her eyes, in the way she clung to the edges of the rooms, always just out of sight, always trying to disappear. But I couldn’t help her. I didn’t know how.

The house breathed with us, around us, as though it was alive, as though it knew what was happening within its walls. And every day, I felt the air grow thicker, the shadows darker, and the figure in my dreams move just a little closer.

Something was wrong.

And for the first time, I was afraid.