Moonveil High seemed to breathe differently the next morning—heavier, darker, like something ancient had been awakened. The air clung to the trees like mist, and the usual hum of school chatter was replaced by an underlying tension that Amara could feel pulsing beneath her skin.
She walked the halls with purpose, her senses open, her mind replaying the shimmer she'd seen around Miss Voss. The curse was real. Her mother's grimoire had confirmed it. And now, Amara couldn't shake the feeling that something—or someone—was watching her every step.
Miss Voss.
No... not just her. Something inside her.
Amara made her way to the library during free period, bypassing a group of girls whispering in the hallway. She caught fragments of their gossip—"Did you see her eyes?" — "She doesn't blink..." — "She's too perfect."
They were talking about Miss Voss.
Inside the library, the scent of aged paper calmed her nerves. It was quiet, peaceful—the kind of quiet where magic could whisper through the silence if you listened closely.
She found a seat tucked between the mythology and folklore shelves and pulled out her journal. Her mother had taught her to document signs, feelings, dreams—anything that hinted at magic. She drew a circle in the center of the page and began filling it with what she knew:
Miss Voss arrives at 8:00 a.m.
Her aura shimmers—unstable.
Possible transformation nightly.
Pregnant form seen wandering the halls at night (rumored).
Reflection does not match real-time movement.
Tied to dark spirit—witch?
She stared at the page, then flipped back to the grimoire. Her fingers brushed across a faded page titled: "Witches of the Hollow Moon."
The text read:
"A witch, once betrayed by her lover, cursed the women of his bloodline to carry her unborn child every night under the waxing moon. Her wrath filled their wombs with shadow, and her child—never born, never dead—became an eternal burden. Only the gaze of the Seer can expose the lie."
Amara's pulse quickened.
Could Miss Voss be from that bloodline? Or worse—had she become the host of the witch's unborn child?
A sound at the end of the aisle froze her.
Soft footsteps. Deliberate. Slow.
She quickly closed the grimoire and peeked through the bookshelf slats.
Miss Voss.
Her emerald eyes scanned the shelves with eerie calm.
And for a fleeting second—Amara swore those eyes looked straight at her through the books.
The shimmer flashed again.
Miss Voss smiled… and walked away.
Amara's heart thudded in her chest.
She knows.
—
Later that day, Amara sat on the school's rooftop with Micah, the only person who hadn't treated her like a stranger since day one. The sky above was streaked with gray clouds, and the wind tugged at their jackets.
"You're serious about this?" Micah asked, chewing on the straw of his drink. "You think Miss Voss is cursed?"
"I know she is," Amara said, voice steady. "And there's something inside her. Something... unnatural. It's like she's wearing her body like a costume."
Micah looked skeptical. "You think she's possessed?"
"No. I think she made a deal. A long time ago. With something dark."
Micah let out a breath. "Okay, let's say I believe you. What are you going to do? Walk up to her and ask if she's hosting a demon fetus?"
Amara's eyes narrowed. "I'm going to catch her in the act."
Micah blinked. "You're serious."
"I'm staying late tonight," she said. "I want to see it. I want proof. And if I get it, I'll make the whole school see what she really is."
Micah frowned. "You sure that's a good idea? She might not like being exposed."
"I don't care," Amara said. "She's hiding something that could hurt people."
He sighed. "Alright. Then I'm staying with you."
She turned, surprised. "You don't have to—"
"I know. But if something goes down, you're not facing it alone."
A smile tugged at Amara's lips. "Thanks."
"Besides," Micah said with a grin, "this is the most excitement this town's had in years."
—
That night, the school was quiet as death.
The halls were darker than usual, the emergency lights barely flickering to life as Amara and Micah crept through the corridors. Their footsteps echoed softly, and every creak of the floorboards felt like a scream in the silence.
They hid behind the staircase near the faculty wing, peeking toward the teacher's lounge.
8:00 p.m.
A sudden gust of cold air blew down the hallway.
Amara felt the pull again.
It was happening.
A faint glow appeared down the hall, and from the shadows emerged Miss Voss.
But she wasn't the same.
Her elegant figure was distorted—her belly round and swollen, her posture slower, heavy with weight. Her skin shimmered with an unnatural glow, her eyes half-lidded with something like sorrow… or ecstasy. Her hands rested on her stomach like she was protecting it from the world.
Micah gasped. "She's…"
Amara clutched his sleeve. "Stay still."
Miss Voss walked silently, her bare feet brushing the cold floor. Her black dress clung to her changing form, and as she passed under the light, her shadow stretched unnaturally long behind her.
She paused.
Then turned… and stared directly at their hiding spot.
Micah's breath caught in his throat.
But she didn't move.
She simply smiled. A slow, knowing smile. One that promised danger.
Then she walked on.
—
Back at Amara's house, they sat in silence. The weight of what they had seen clung to the air.
"She's not human," Micah whispered.
"She's cursed," Amara said. "And she's not just carrying a child. She's carrying something ancient. Something magical. And I think… it's growing stronger."
Micah looked shaken. "What do we do?"
Amara closed her eyes, her mother's voice echoing in her mind.
"If you see it… you must choose. To stay silent, or to stand and fight. But remember, child—magic never leaves quietly."
"I'm going to confront her," Amara said, opening her eyes. "But not just yet. I need to know more. Why she was cursed. What she's carrying. And who she made the deal with."
Micah nodded slowly. "You're really your mother's daughter, you know."
Amara looked out the window.
The moon hung full and silver in the sky.
And somewhere in the darkness, Elara Voss cradled her unborn curse… waiting.