Chloe Gomez's POV:

The moment I hit the ground, the breath was knocked out of me, replaced by a blinding flash of pain.

Something in my pocket hit the floor with a loud clack, making a crisp cracking sound before snapping in two. My vision spun, darkness swirling around me as I lay there, completely dazed for a moment.

A skeletal, bony hand clamped down on the back of my head with astonishing, terrifying strength. It twisted violently, as if trying to rip my head straight off my neck.

"Ahhh!" A scream tore from my throat, raw and desperate.

I clawed wildly at my own head, desperately trying to protect myself, but the hand was relentless, twisting and pulling at my skull.

As the monster wrenched my head, it let out an eerie, broken moan. The pain was excruciating, searing through my skull like fire.

In that moment of absolute, blinding terror, I blurted out a cry: "Mom!"

Suddenly, the pressure vanished.

The hands let go. The moaning stopped.

I lay there, gasping for air, my head throbbing in agony, my entire body shaking uncontrollably.

The thing—whatever it was—seemed to recoil, scurrying back into the shadows with a frantic rustling sound.

I didn't understand.

Why did it stop? Why did it run away? My brain was still swimming in shock and pain, struggling to process what had just happened.

My eyes fell on the broken pieces scattered across the floor. It was my mother's old pocket watch, the one she always kept pinned to her apron. It was a gift from my father, a rare luxury for us.

The glass face was shattered, but the locket inside had popped open, completely intact. Inside was a tiny, faded photograph.

I carefully picked up the pieces. It was a picture of me and my mom, taken years ago. We were smiling, our faces pressed close together.

I stared blankly at the photo. I looked at my eyes in the picture, then at my mother's eyes, and then back into the darkness where the monster had retreated.

An idea sprouted, blooming rapidly in my mind.

It was afraid of our eyes. My mother's eyes. My eyes.

The true meaning of the taboo—the forbidden gaze—suddenly became terrifyingly clear.

It wasn't to protect us. It was to protect the "Prophet."

Or perhaps, to protect them from us.

The "Prophet" was terrified of being looked at!

Despite my exhaustion, despite the sweat soaking my clothes, a cold thrill ran down my spine. I knew its weakness.

The photo was old, taken on the day of the town's spring festival. It was a rare, happy time for us. My mother, usually so stoic and distant, was smiling that day, her arms wrapped tightly around me.

She had changed so much after my dad died. After his death, the town—led by the powerful Anthony Horn—had ostracized her, whispering that she was "morally corrupt" because she rejected wealthy suitors.

They called her shameless, but I knew she was strong. she stuck to her principles, even if it meant plunging us deeper into poverty.

I used to think she didn't love me, that she just wanted to marry me off the second I was old enough.

Yet, when I was in mortal danger, her name was the one on my lips. My mother. Always my mother.

A faint whisper, barely audible, tickled my ear.

"Chloe... Chloe..."

Someone was calling my name.

Was I hearing things? I strained my ears, craning my neck into the darkness, but the sound faded, swallowed once again by the suffocating silence.

Chloe Gomez's POV:

I tiptoed toward the front doors, my heart still hammering aggressively against my ribs.

I peered through the narrow crack in the heavy wood.

The dirt road outside was completely deserted, bathed in pale, freezing moonlight. Not a soul in sight.

My fingers brushed against a small alcove built into the inside of the doorframe. There was something hidden there: a handful of incense granules and a cheap lighter.

An idea—a desperate, insanely risky plan—flashed through my mind.

Burn the incense.

The Prophet couldn't stand being looked at.

If I knew exactly where it was hiding, I could use my gaze—or my mother's photograph—to scare it back. Then I could escape.

I crept carefully toward the nearby censer.

My heart was in my throat. Taking a deep breath, I lit the incense and deliberately knocked the burning embers onto the floor, letting them scatter.

The once dark and dreary stone floor was instantly dotted with tiny, glowing specks of fire. It was an eerie, terrifyingly beautiful sight.

As the embers settled, I saw them. Faint, dark patches where the incense had been violently and instantly snuffed out. They formed a jagged, fan-shaped trail of darkness radiating from behind a large bookshelf.

It was right there. Behind the shelf. I found it.

Suddenly, the bookshelf began to shake violently.

Old, moldy books and yellowed papers rained down, scattering all around me. The creature was agitated. Highly agitated.

I looked closely at the fallen papers and realized they were old photographs—some black and white, some heavily faded.

They showed scenes of normal town life, blurry faces, generations of townsfolk.

But something was horribly wrong. The eyes of some of the people in the photos had been violently scribbled out with black ink.

And then I saw it. A more recent photo.

My mother. Younger, but unmistakably her.

She was holding a baby wrapped in a blanket.

My blood ran ice cold. The baby's eyes had been crudely, viciously blacked out with ink.

It was me.

That baby was me.

Chloe Gomez's POV:

That photograph made my blood curdle. The baby in my mother's arms, its eyes blotted out by black ink. It was undeniably me.

A deep chill seeped right into my marrow.

Why were my eyes crossed out? What did it mean? What was so terrifying about my eyes that they had to be censored, even in a photograph?

A sinister realization slithered into my mind.

That creature, the Prophet... it wasn't just hiding behind the shelf. It had lured me here. It wanted me to find these photos. It wanted me to see myself.

What was it planning to do to my eyes? The thought paralyzed me with a fresh wave of terror.

I was trapped. Utterly alone. In the pitch black. Facing a monster that seemed to know my deepest secrets. Panic clawed at my throat like a physical hand.

Then, a memory surfaced.

My mother, kneeling before the Prophet's statue, praying frantically, her face drenched in tears. No, not praying—weeping. She had sobbed aloud, a raw, harrowing sound of absolute despair.

And the Prophet, whatever it was, had shown her mercy.

I dropped to my knees, the freezing stone biting into my skin. Tears spilled from my eyes—real ones this time, not faked.

"Please!" I sobbed, my voice raw and breaking. "Please, don't hurt me! I didn't mean to! I just wanted the money. For the black veil."

"They told me to take your veil, and they'd pay me."

"Please, don't hurt me."

The rustling behind the bookshelf stopped. A dead, suffocating silence fell over the room, broken only by my ragged, gasping sobs.

Then, a skeletal hand slowly reached out from behind the pile of fallen books. It was so thin it was almost translucent, the fingers impossibly long.

Clutched in its grasp was a folded piece of black silk. The veil.

It slowly, deliberately placed the black silk on the floor, then retreated back into the impenetrable darkness behind the shelf.