— What's wrong, my dear?
Amandinne watches her step away as Uncle Georges pulls her toward him in a protective gesture. Annabelle immediately takes a step back. She has heard that question hundreds of times. She has believed it hundreds of times. But not this time. Something is different.
— Well then, Amandinne, I'll leave them in your care. I have documents to prepare.
The mayor hastily disappears, his stocky silhouette fading into the shadows of the hallway before he closes the door behind him.
Nicolas straightens his back before speaking.
— Amandinne, thank you for taking care of our niece, but we'll be taking her home today.
She responds with a detached smile. With a smooth motion, she gestures for them to enter the church. Georges takes the lead, still holding Annabelle's hand firmly.
The heavy side door creaks open, releasing a breath of damp, icy air. The clear sky illuminates the stained glass windows, but the light fails to dispel the shadows lurking in the corners. The faded colors of the glass cast distorted shapes on the worn stone slabs. Every step Annabelle takes echoes in the empty space.
The scent of incense lingers faintly, but it is stale, like perfume left too long in a closed room. The empty pews seem to watch them, dark silhouettes waiting to come to life. The nave stretches in heavy silence. Annabelle feels her heart beat faster. Georges, beside her, remains impassive, but his hand on hers offers reassuring warmth.
Behind them, Amandinne enters in turn. Her gaze sweeps slowly from one pew to another, as if each corner might conceal an invisible witness. She tucks a strand of hair beneath her black bonnet.
Annabelle presses her lips together. That gesture—so subtle before—now seems unsettling.
— Come, Annabelle. This will be over quickly.
Nicolas' voice is gentle, but tinged with impatience. His hand briefly rests on her back, a gesture meant to be comforting. Annabelle slowly nods, without really understanding why her unease is growing.
Further ahead, a slightly open door reveals the darkness of the priest's office. A shadowy figure waits in the doorway. The mayor, austere, offers only a curt nod. He does not greet them, does not speak. Just a functional presence.
— Come in. We won't keep you waiting any longer.
But Annabelle does not move.
A chill runs down her neck.
Georges places a hand on her shoulder—light, yet firm. This warmth… It's not the one she used to seek. It's not Amandinne's.
It's the warmth of an uncle she barely knows but who, for some reason she cannot explain, does not back away.
And Amandinne, behind her, keeps smiling, exchanging a fleeting glance with the priest, who completely ignores her, before joining the mayor.
The office door closes behind them with a dull thud. The mayor sits on a wooden chair, his head slightly lowered. He slides a stack of documents across the desk, his movements slow and measured, as if handling something fragile.
— Here are the documents to sign.
He presents them to the two brothers, a faint, indifferent smile curling at his lips — the look of a man performing a trivial formality.
Georges and Nicolas step forward, reaching for the pens resting on the desk. Annabelle, standing slightly behind, watches in silence, the knot of unease in her throat growing heavier with each passing second.
Amandinne, standing by the window, seems lost in thought before breaking the silence with a calm yet piercing voice.
— You know, Annabelle's father's family never lives very long.
The words hang in the air like an eerie mist. She says it with unsettling ease, as if mentioning an insignificant detail.
The brothers, just moments away from signing, freeze, their pens hovering above the paper. Time seems to pause.
Amandinne lowers her head, her gaze locking onto Annabelle. A cold shiver runs down the little girl's spine. Her hands grow clammy as an inexplicable sense of danger coils within her. Slowly, she raises her eyes to meet Amandinne's.
Annabelle stares into her gaze. The woman's brown eyes darken abruptly, as though a shadow spills across them. Her pupils contract, shrinking to the size of a pinhead. Annabelle feels as if she's seeing them through a distorted lens, the irises appearing to expand unnaturally.
At first, it's a blurry, unsettling motion — something writhing deep within. A faint quiver that intensifies. A sinuous, ink-black worm twists and wriggles within the depths of Amandinne's irises. It squirms, ravenous and relentless. Its mouth gapes wide, revealing a jagged slit lined with hundreds of rotting teeth, stained with blood and decayed flesh.
A metallic taste floods Annabelle's mouth. Her throat tightens. Her heart pounds violently against her chest. She wants to look away, but something holds her captive. Her legs tremble. The world around her tilts, as though the mere sight of this abomination threatens to swallow her whole.
And then, in a blink, it's gone.
Amandinne smiles. A smooth, unwavering smile, as though nothing had happened. The air grows heavier. Annabelle remains frozen.
— HAAA!
Her voice cracks in a sharp cry, fear echoing through the small room. Before she can think, she hurls herself into Georges' arms, trembling, her face pale.
Georges, who had just bent down to retrieve the pen he'd dropped at the sound of her cry, stumbles as she clings to him. He wraps his arms around his niece, bewildered, though an instinctive protectiveness takes hold. His gaze shifts to Amandinne.
Amandinne, who had moments ago appeared so menacing, now smiles with an unsettling calm — a smile that no longer feels entirely human. The brothers, though visibly shaken by the abrupt outburst, are now on guard.
— What's wrong, Annabelle? Nicolas asks, his voice tinged with concern.
But she says nothing. Her wide eyes remain fixed on Amandinne, questioning whether she had imagined it all.
The priest, who had stood silently until now, barely glances at the scene, his expression unreadable. The mayor, on the other hand, looks disturbed, though he conceals it behind a mask of indifference. Yet his trembling hands betray him as he picks up one of the fallen pens.
The tension in the room thickens, the air heavy and suffocating.
Georges, still holding Annabelle protectively, swiftly retrieves the pen from the mayor's shaking hand. Nicolas furrows his brows, his gaze flickering uncertainly over the documents.
Annabelle clings tightly to Georges' long overshirt, her small fists clenched. She keeps her eyes lowered to the floor, as though afraid that meeting Amandinne's gaze once more might summon that monstrous vision back.
Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps on the hard wooden floor shatters the heavy silence. The office door creaks open with a sinister groan, and a frail-looking man appears, his breathing ragged, his face pale from the effort. He is dressed in a coat slightly too large for him, and flowers slip from his trembling hands the moment he steps inside. He freezes when he sees the two brothers, his gaze quickly shifting from the papers on the desk to Annabelle. A kind of dismay flickers in his eyes.
The man, his graying hair and time-worn face betraying his years, scans the room, his short, uneven breaths still audible.
— You... you're going to let her leave with them?
His voice trembles, like a cold wind sweeping through the stone walls of the church. The words hang, suspended in the air.
Georges lifts his eyes to the man, a faint furrow appearing on his brow, but before he can respond, the man steps forward, his hands trembling as they reach out toward Annabelle.
— You don't know who they are, do you? You... you don't understand what they have planned for her!
His voice, though frantic, carries a strange weight — a solemnity that chills the air.
Annabelle, who had felt a fleeting sense of relief at his arrival, feels her heart clench once more. She stiffens at the sight of the man's anguished expression, then slowly turns toward her uncles, uncertainty clouding her gaze. Her eyes land on Amandinne, and in that instant, everything shifts.
What she had once perceived as warmth, as gentleness, vanishes like a torn veil. A chilling dissonance floods her. Amandinne is no longer the person she thought she knew — it's as though she's seeing her for the first time.
Annabelle's hands clench tightly, the remnants of any fleeting comfort slipping through her fingers like a shattered dream. Amandinne's dark brown eyes deepen, darkening further, and then, with an icy smile, she watches. It's as though something else entirely has taken her place. A dull terror coils in Annabelle's stomach, her body stiffening under its weight.
The man, his eyes brimming with desperation, regains his breath before speaking once more, his voice now lower, graver — a warning.
— Her family... they've always been cursed. Every single one of them. The members of her father's bloodline died young, like withered corpses, drained before they could truly live. It's a curse that has haunted them for generations. They are not ordinary people. They... they lose their vitality too quickly.
He shakes his head as though trying to convince himself of the truth he has carried in silence for far too long.
Annabelle blinks, her thoughts spinning like a storm. Her gaze flickers between Georges and Nicolas — the only steady anchors in her crumbling world.
The faces of her uncles twist with uncertainty, yet neither of them move. Georges' warmth, the security of Nicolas' embrace — those remain, like a fragile thread tethering her to the present. But even that thread quivers under the weight of the man's words.
Outside, the wind rattles the stained glass windows, casting distorted shadows across the stone walls of the church.
The man takes a hesitant step forward, the anguish in his eyes intensifying.
— Annabelle...
He speaks directly to her now, his voice soft, almost pleading.
— You don't have to leave with strangers. Come live with us. I... I can give you a life far from all of this. Far from the curse.
A suffocating silence settles over the room. Annabelle remains frozen, the man's words echoing through her mind. She feels lost. This friend of her father — she barely knows him.
But then Georges' warmth surrounds her once more. Her uncle's presence, protective and steady, awakens a tangled storm of emotions. Nicolas, too, offers protection — a calmer, more thoughtful guardian. Despite the short time she's spent with them, she has grown attached.
In a voice so faint it is barely a whisper, Annabelle asks the man:
— May I speak to you alone?
All eyes turn to Annabelle, but Georges, veins straining on his neck as he holds himself back, wants to step forward to stop her. But Nicolas restrains him, the pressure in his hands firmly gripping his brother's arm.
Annabelle steps out of the office with the man, who closes the door behind him. He continues speaking, his words heavy with mystery and dark foreboding.
— The curse... it always strikes the members of her bloodline, over and over again. Each generation bears this weight. Every generation...
He seems to search for the right words, his eyes distant, as if reliving memories.
— Albert... my friend, he wanted to tell me about it before he died. But he disappeared so suddenly, as if his life had been sucked away by something.
Annabelle, trembling, takes a deep breath, her eyes opening to the reality of what she's hearing. She remembers the warmth in Georges' arms, the unwavering support of Nicolas. They want what's best for her. She's not ready to leave them. She also feels the fear of Amandinne, and wants to leave the village as quickly as possible, even if it means leaving everything behind.
— I will follow them, she says, her voice trembling but firm.
The man sighs before responding.
— As you wish. I wanted to do one last thing for your father. I ran as fast as I could when I heard the villagers saying you were going to leave with your mother's family. I was going to visit your father's grave. I'm truly sorry I wasn't there.
He reaches out to stroke her hair, but she steps back sharply. Indeed, he had not been there. He pauses for a moment before standing up to leave, giving her one last warning.
— Be careful, you never know when the reaper may come.
When she returns to Georges and Nicolas, a collective sigh of relief fills the room. The two brothers, in one synchronized movement, sign the papers that had been left hanging, their hands trembling but resolute. They take their copies, ready to leave this place filled with tension.
The three of them leave the room together. Annabelle turns around and catches a glimpse of Amandinne. She stands in the doorway, back to the mayor and the priest. Georges and Nicolas are looking ahead and do not see her. That's when Amandinne smiles again, but her smile becomes disproportionate, swallowing half her face. Her teeth seem to change shape, elongating and becoming sharp, as though ready to tear into prey.
She finally understands. This is not Amandinne.