The first time Camille saw the name, it was written in dust.

She had been cleaning out the attic of her grandmother's house, brushing aside cobwebs and brittle paper, when she noticed it - letters traced in the dust of an old vanity mirror. At first, she thought it was just a trick of the light, a swirl of debris catching the afternoon glow through the window. But when she stepped closer, her breath caught in her throat.

The name was written in smooth, deliberate strokes as if someone had pressed a single finger into the dust.

E L O R A

A faint shiver traced down her spine. The attic was stifling, filled with the scent of old wood and forgotten things. She glanced around, half-expecting to see someone standing in the dim corners, watching her. But she was alone.

She hesitated, then wiped the surface clean with her sleeve. The name vanished beneath the smudge, replaced by her reflection. She exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

Just dust.

But that night, the name returned.

She found it carved into the condensation on her bathroom mirror, faint but unmistakable. The letters dripped as though traced by something wet. Camille's stomach twisted. Had she written it without realizing it? Maybe in her sleep?

She pressed a hand to the mirror, the glass cool beneath her fingertips.

"?Who are you?" she whispered.

No answer. Just her own tired reflection staring back.

By morning, she had nearly convinced herself she'd imagined it.

Then she found the name in her book.

She had been flipping through the pages absentmindedly, sipping her coffee, when she saw it - E L O R A - etched faintly into the margins of a random chapter, as though someone had dragged a nail across the paper.

Her hands trembled as she slammed the book shut.

She wasn't imagining this.

Something was wrong.

The Second Night

That night, she dreamed of a girl with no face.

A shadowy figure stood at the foot of her bed, long hair drifting around a head that lacked features and presence. But somehow, she knew it was watching her. Waiting.

She woke up gasping, the darkness of her room pressing in too thick, too heavy.

A chill ran through her when she lifted her wrist and saw it.

A single word, raised and welted, traced delicately along her skin like an old scar.

E L O R A.

Her breath hitched. The letters burned, but there was no blood, no pain - just a deep, sinking wrongness.

The house was silent. Too silent.

Something was wrong.

Heart hammering, she stumbled out of bed, heading for the hallway light. The switch clicked uselessly under her fingers. The power was out.

In the darkness, she heard it.

A whisper.

Soft. Faint. Almost like a breath against her ear.

"?You remember now."

A cold shiver crawled down her spine. Her pulse pounded.

"No," she rasped, voice shaking. "I don't."

The whisper sighed, heavy with sorrow.

"Then why did you let me in?"

She turned, but the hallway stretched farther than it should have, the walls yawning into darkness. The air thickened, pressing against her skin. Her feet felt slow, weighted.

She needed to leave. Now.

With a trembling breath, she forced herself to move, gripping the banister as she stumbled toward the stairs. The wooden steps groaned beneath her weight, each creak echoing through the empty house.

Then she heard it.

A faint patter behind her.

Bare feet.

Her stomach lurched.

Don't look.

The air around her was different now, charged with something heavy, something waiting. She gritted her teeth and kept moving, forcing herself down each stair - until a whisper curled against her ear.

"You're not supposed to leave."

Cold fingers brushed the back of her neck.

Camille turned.

The Attic Door

The attic door stood open at the end of the hall, wide and waiting.

She hadn't left it open.

Something moved inside.

A shape - tall, thin, impossibly still - stood in the shadows, its form shifting as if the light couldn't hold it properly. And then, in a single unnatural step, it was closer.

Too close.

Camille's breath hitched. Her muscles locked.

The shape tilted its head, and for the first time, she saw a face.

Hers.

A perfect reflection, yet? wrong. The skin was smooth, too smooth as if stretched over something that wasn't quite human. The eyes were glassy, vacant, and when the lips curled into a knowing smile, Camille felt the ground tilt beneath her.

The whisper came again, this time inside her own head.

"You remember now."

A memory flickered - faint but undeniable.

The attic. The mirror. A promise whispered in the dark.

Her pulse pounded. She tried to run, but the walls blurred, and the stairs stretched away from her. The house folded in on itself, an impossible maze of doorways leading nowhere.

The thing wearing her face stepped forward, reaching.

Camille screamed.

And then - silence.

The Last Name

The next morning, the house was empty.

No, Camille. No signs of struggle.

But in the dust of the vanity mirror, a new name had been written.

C A M I L L E.

The reflection smiled.