Chapter 23
I’m hunched over the canvas, the smell of linseed oil and turpentine thick in the air, clinging to the back of my throat.
My fingers are stained with charcoal and deep, bruised purples, and my heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I’m shaking, just a bit, but it’s a fucking electric kind of shaking.
For seven years, I’ve lived my life in a blur of covered glass and averted eyes.
Seven years of treating every reflective surface like a fucking landmine.
I can’t even look at a puddle in the street without feeling the bile rise in my throat. Because every time I’ve dared to peek into a mirror, I haven't seen myself. Not really. I see them.
I dip my brush into a mixture of titanium white and a grey so cold it looks like a corpse's skin. I start with the frame—a heavy, ornate Victorian mirror, the kind of thing that looks like it belongs in a funeral parlour. I paint the gold leaf peeling and rotting, the wood curling like burnt skin.
Then, I move to the glass.
I don't paint a reflection; I paint a haunting. I sketch two figures standing right behind where I should be. My sisters. My identical, beautiful, dead fucking sisters. I paint them with a translucent, shimmering quality, their skin a sickly, iridescent pale. Their eyes are the worst part—wide, vacant, and leaking a dark, viscous fluid that looks like old blood. I paint their wounds exactly where I remember them getting butchered at. I paint their mouths open in silent, eternal screams, their fingers reaching out, pressing against the inside of the glass as if they’re trying to claw their way back into the world of the living.
I remember the sound of my own screaming every time I saw them. The way I’d smash the glass or run until my lungs burned, the sheer, blinding terror of being hunted by my own face.
My hand slips, a streak of crimson splashing across the canvas, and suddenly I’m not in the studio anymore.
I’m back in that fucking house. It was so dark then—a suffocating, heavy kind of dark that felt like it was trying to swallow me whole.
I can smell the metallic tang of blood and the scent of stale beer.
I remember looking up. I remember the weight of the silence, broken only by the wet, rhythmic sound of something dripping. And then I saw him. My father.
I didn't look at the floor first. I looked into his eyes.
And there, in the dark, dilated pupils of the man who was supposed to protect me, I saw my own reflection.
A tiny, terrified version of myself mirrored in his gaze, framed by the glint of the butcher's knife he was still gripping.
The blade was slick, dripping red, and behind him—just barely in the periphery of that reflection—were my sisters.
They were sprawled on the floor, their dresses soaked through with gore, their lives slipping away in little, shuddering gasps.
I saw the exact moment the light left their eyes, mirrored in the eyes of the monster who killed them.
A sob catches in my throat, and I violently smear a handful of black oil paint across the bottom of the painting.
I don't use a brush for this part; I use my bare palms, dragging the darkness upward, swallowing the feet of the ghosts.
I want the void to take them. I want the darkness to be as thick and oppressive as it was that night.
I paint the reflection in the mirror not as a person, but as a fracture. I draw jagged lines cracking through the center of the image, splitting my sisters' faces in half, mirroring the way my own mind felt like it had been shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.
I step back, breathing hard, my chest heaving.
The painting is a fucking nightmare rendered in oil and pigment.
It’s grotesque, it’s haunting, and it’s the most honest thing I’ve ever created.
I look at the canvas and for the first time in seven years, I don't want to scream.
I just want to burn the whole fucking world down until there's nothing left but the ash and the truth.
I trek through the carnival, the air thick with the smell of fried dough, ozone, and something metallic that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
The neon lights of the rides flicker in the distance, but I keep my eyes locked on the coven's tent.
It looms like a great, black lung, breathing in the shadows of the night.
As I approach, a man stumbles out of the tent. He looks absolutely fucked—eyes glazed over, mouth hanging open, wandering around like he’s forgotten how to use his own legs. He’s completely disoriented, a total zombie. I don't give him a second glance; I just step past him and slip inside.
The interior is dim, smelling of dried herbs and old wax.
I don't wait for an invitation; I just march in and sink into a chair.
The light is low, provided by a few flickering candles scattered across a heavy wooden table and lining the walls.
The table is cluttered with weird shit—skulls, crystals, bundles of sage, and jars of things I really don't want to identify.
Six figures sit around the table, their faces hidden behind heavy black veils. The silence is oppressive, the kind that makes your ears ring.
"Right," I snap, my voice echoing in the small space. "First off, take the fucking veils off. And second, do me a massive favour and don't try to freak me out by talking in that creepy-as-fuck unison. Just... don't."
A soft, melodic chuckle ripples through the air. It’s Oana. "Ophelia," she says, her voice smooth as silk. "We were expecting you."
I lean back, crossing my arms. "Course you were. You lot probably see everything in this godforsaken place, don't you?"
At a silent signal, they all reach up and pull back the black veils. One of the witches strikes a single match and touches it to a candle. In a sudden, supernatural rush, every single candle in the tent ignites at once, bathing the room in a warm, eerie glow.
They’re just as I remember when they switch: skin the colour of bleached bone, eyes a piercing, unnatural green, and those fucking shark teeth that make them look like they could rip my throat out if I say the wrong thing.
Then, they do it anyway. They lean forward, their voices merging into one singular, haunting vibration that rattles my teeth.
"Welcome, child of blood and shadow. The veil is thin, and your heart is heavy."
I don't even flinch. After everything I've been through with Rhys, them speaking as one isn't going to make me piss myself. "Yeah, yeah, very spooky. Look, I really need your help. It doesn't have to be tonight—I've got some shit to settle first, some revenge to finish—but soon. I need answers."
Oana’s eyes glint. "You want to speak to her sisters," she says, her voice returning to its individual tone.
I nod, my chest tightening. "Every time they show up, it's just a glimpse.
A flicker in a mirror, a cold breeze. They never stay.
I need to know how they are... why the fuck they haven't moved on to the afterlife yet.
" I swallow hard, the image of my mother flashing in my mind.
"And once I finish my mum's last request...
I need to be sure she's actually gone. That she's finally at peace. "
The six witches exchange looks, their green eyes shimmering in the candlelight.
"The bond of triplets is not easily severed by a blade," one of them whispers.
"The trauma of the slaughter left a stain on the soul," another adds, her voice raspy.
"They linger because they are tethered," a third says, leaning in. "Not just by death, but by the love and the horror you still carry."
"We can bridge the gap," the fourth declares. "We can open the door for a conversation."
"But it will require a price of spirit," the fifth warns.
Oana smiles, showing those rows of jagged teeth. "We agree, Ophelia. We will help you find them. We will let you speak to the ghosts of your blood." Then, her expression turns playful, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Of course... the Ringmaster has to know first."
I frown, my brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "Who the fuck is this 'Ringmaster' everyone keeps talking about?"
The witches all stop. They stare at me with expressions of pure, unadulterated disbelief, as if I’ve just asked who the fucking King of England is or why the sky is blue.
"Rhys," Oana says simply.
I blink, my brain stalling for a second. "Rhys?"
The sisters burst out laughing, a discordant, cackling sound that fills the tent.
"Who do you think keeps this circus alive, drag??" Oana mocks gently.
I freeze. I know Rhys owns the carnival. I know he calls every single shot, controls every breath taken within these grounds, and treats the whole place like his personal playground. But I never thought people had a nickname for him. A title.
The Ringmaster.
I stare at them, wondering if Rhys even knows they call him that. The thought of him—obsessive, psychotic, beautiful Rhys—as the master of ceremonies for this nightmare carnival feels... fitting. And terrifying.
The witches don't laugh this time. Instead, their expressions shift, becoming something more solemn, almost reverent. They lean in closer, the candlelight casting long, dancing shadows across their pale faces, making their shark-like teeth glint with a predatory edge.
"You think you're just a girl and her madman, drag?," Oana whispers, her voice humming with a strange vibration. "But the world outside this carnival... the fringes of the city where the desperate and the damned linger... they talk. They whisper."
I shift in my seat, feeling a sudden prickle of unease. "Talk about what? We aren't exactly putting out press releases."
The other witches begin to speak, not in that jarring unison, but in a layered, overlapping chorus, their voices weaving together like a dark tapestry. They aren't just telling me a story; they're reciting a legend.
"They speak of the night-terrors," one rasps.
"The ones who come when the moon is bled dry," another adds.