Chapter One
CLARA
The train rattled softly as it wound its way through the countryside. I rested my head on the window and looked on, the faint sound of wheels against tracks a steady backdrop to my thoughts.
I watched as the sprawling fields and clusters of trees blurred by and faded into the horizon. The scenery looked nothing like London—nothing familiar or what I was used to—but somehow it felt like it this was exactly where I was supposed to be.
It felt like I was going back to a place I should have always been, like I was finally finding the perfect soil to grow my roots.
I’d grown up hearing stories about this area from my parents and maternal grandparents.
The village I was moving to was tucked away in Eastern Europe—the same place where my family had once lived.
And although my father had also come from Eastern Europe, there had never been stories of a place he’d once called home. I’d long since realized he’d run away from something, and talking about it, fondly or not, triggered him.
My maternal and paternal grandparents had left Romania long before my parents were born, and while they’d never spoken much about why they’d decided to leave, they carried the memories with them close to their hearts.
But underneath the reminiscences of childhood times, I had always sensed a shadow of something dark and unspoken that lingered in their words, hidden like a dirty secret they were terrified to utter.
The older I got, the more I kept thinking about why they left…what they were hiding. And when I’d become an adult with the means to find out those secrets, it became an obsession I couldn’t let go of.
Maybe I’d inherited their darkness, too?
The why and how and what ifs had a grip on me. As a child, I would dream about what my ancestral home looked like. What did it smell like? What about the people there? Did they keep to themselves? Were they friendly in passing?
I’d become so engrossed with finding out everything I could that I had dreams about it all—memories and images I'd never experienced of winding forests and crumbling castles. They looked like the pictures I’d found online, ones of this ethereal place that seemed haunted yet was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life.
And under it all, there was this hum of something I couldn’t name. My dreams weren’t nightmares, but even if they were wonderful at first, they always turned unsettling.
Like fate was giving me a warning to stay away.
But when I got the opportunity to intern at the Primejdie Art Gallery in the same village where my grandparents had lived, I jumped at the chance.
I paid little attention to the fact the gallery was named after an immediate sense of harm.
And I took the paid housing and board with the position as a sign. It was time for me to leave—much to my maternal grandmother and parents' stern disapproval.
But I explained to them that this was the kind of opportunity artists fought for, and folklore or things they kept hidden and never shared with me couldn't persuade me from turning it down.
So here I was, watching the scenery whiz by me for long hours before the train pulled into a small station surrounded by clusters of red-tiled roofs and winding cobblestone streets.
Most of my stuff was shipped and arrived last week at my tiny guesthouse owned by a widow named Anca. I gathered my suitcase and purse and disembarked the train, just standing on the platform for a second, taking my surroundings all in.
The town was even smaller than I’d expected.
It was the kind of place that felt untouched by time, secure in the way things had always run, cursing away any kind of modern convenience.
The streets were lined with narrow buildings, their exteriors painted in soft pastel colors with window boxes empty, as this time of year killed off any new life.
People walked slowly, most transferring trains or getting off the one I’d just exited.
My one-bedroom guesthouse had been arranged by the gallery. I glanced at my phone to see the time, but when I felt someone stop in front of me, I glanced up to see an older man holding a sign with my name scrawled across it.
“Clara Popescua?” the older man asked.
“That's me,” I replied. I reached down for the handle of my suitcase.
“I’m Gheorghe. Your driver.” His voice was deep and gruff, his face weathered with age and a life of working hard.
I instantly heard his distinct Romanian accent. The same one my grandparents had. Although I spoke the language fluently, their dialect was slightly different, as it occurred with villages and little towns, and the way his words flowed made me miss my family.
He grumbled something under his breath and took my suitcase from me. “It’s nice to meet you. Follow me.” He wasted no time ushering me into his car, a tiny, rattling vehicle that smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and age.
The drive to the guesthouse took less than ten minutes, the streets winding in a way that felt almost maze-like and had my car sickness rising.
Anca’s guesthouse was tucked at the edge of town and only a short walk to the gallery. It was a one-story stone building with dead foliage and vines creeping up the sides.
Gheorghe grabbed my suitcase and started heading to the front door before I even got out of the car. He pulled out a big ring of keys, found the one he needed, and opened the door before stepping aside to allow me entry. It creaked as it swung inward, and I followed inside.
The space was cozy with a small bed, a desk by the window, and an antique wardrobe that was hand carved and reminded me of the one my grandmother had in her home. My items I’d had shipped here sat off to the side, the boxes dirty and beat-up from the trip.
He set my bag on the ground by the front door, muttered something about Anca being around shortly to introduce herself, and then he was gone before I could respond.
I stood in the center of the room and looked around.
The outside had seemed ancient and made me think the inside probably was, too.
But I was pleasantly surprised that it wasn’t at all how I'd envisioned it.
The walls were painted a soft cream, and a stack of folded blankets sat neatly on the foot of the bed. I glanced out the window. The view overlooked the forest on the edge of town, its dense trees stretching toward the distant hills. Something about the sight sent a shiver through me.
There was a soft knock on the front door, and I went over to answer it. An older woman stood on the other side. She was so tiny that she was dwarfed by her thick cardigan and over-sized dress.
“Good morning,” she said in a soft, sweet, elderly voice. “I’m Anca.”
I smiled and held out my hand. She shooed it away and stepped inside, pulling me into a soft hug. I wasn't tall by any means, standing at five foot five, but I felt like a giant compared to her.
When she pulled back, she walked around the room and explained everything to me.
She said she did the grocery shopping weekly, and if I needed anything other than essentials to just let her know and she’d get it on her trip.
After she gave me the short tour, she talked about the town and the people, and I told her about my grandparents, who had moved to the States—but my grandfather had passed years ago—and had lived just in the next village over.
“You’ll love it here,” Anca said, her smile kind. “The gallery is just a short walk away, and the town has everything you’ll need.” With one more wave and a smile, she left me alone.
That afternoon, I explored the village on foot. The gallery itself was breathtaking—a restored 18th-century building with vaulted ceilings and intricate hand carved moldings.
Inside the gallery, the air smelled faintly of oil paints and varnish, and the walls were lined with pieces from local but also well-known artists.
It was easy to see why the Primejdie had such a reputation. The art was a breath of the old world.
The rest of the town was equally captivating, and I imagined my grandparents walking similar streets when they were younger.
Tiny cafés with patio seating spilled onto the streets, and an old bookstore beckoned me with the promise of being taken to another world and time. I shamelessly spent an hour walking its narrow aisles, tracing my fingers over the spines of books I recognized and ones in languages I didn’t know.
But even as I wandered the town and visited all the shops, something felt...off. I couldn't place what was different. It wasn’t an eerie or threatening feeling, but there was definitely a heaviness in the air, like the town carried something I couldn’t quite see.
My grandmother’s voice played in my head about dangers that lurked in the shadows and misty corners of the mountains that surrounded her village.
And as the sun dipped lower beneath the horizon, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, though I didn’t see anyone paying attention to me.
That night, as I drifted off in this foreign house, my strange and ethereal dreams came back.
I stood in the middle of a forest, fog rolling around my legs, this unusual light illuminating just ahead. I could make out the faint outline of something—a man—towering in the distance. I didn’t know who he was, couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was the most dangerous man I’d ever seen.
“Come to me,” a voice so deep and distorted echoed in my head.
The air was charged, heavy, and hummed with something unnatural.
I woke with my hands gripping the sheets, the air sawing in and out of my mouth, and sweat covering my body. My heart raced as the darkness of my room pressed in around me.
“Come to me.”
I squeezed my eyes shut as that monstrous voice kept playing in my mind.
I didn't know why I was here, what drew me to this place, but I knew without a doubt I would find out soon.