SAY HIS NAME (Episode 3)

Damien’s breath came in bursts of fog, blooming in front of his face like little ghosts. He stumbled down the hallway, barely feeling the cold. The blood in his ears was too loud. He couldn’t stay in that room. He couldn’t stay with them. Georgia’s screams had burned into his brain. The smell of the blood. Chloe’s face, pale and wild, muttering about tributes like she was in a fever dream.

He needed air.

The back door creaked when he shoved it open. Snow hit him like sharp static, but he didn’t care. He ducked his head against the wind and stepped outside, bare feet crunching the thick powder. The world had gone completely white. Trees in the distance were frozen statues. The sky was a blank sheet. Even the house behind him felt like it had vanished.

He raised his phone, screen cracked from earlier. No bars. But maybe… maybe further out.

A faint light flickered through the snow ahead. He squinted. Near the edge of the garden, where the fence bowed out. Not a torch, but something paler. Moving.

He hesitated and looked back once. The house loomed in the dark, windows flickering with candlelight. Then he pushed forward, snow slapping against his jeans.

The light pulsed again.

As he got closer, he saw it wasn’t a torch at all. It was… a mirror. Freestanding. Propped against a tree, half-buried in the snow. His breath caught.

It was the one from the cellar. The same ornate frame. The one Emma had used.

He stepped closer, heart thudding. The mirror didn’t show him, though. The glass was just a black void. 

Then something shifted. A pale shape in the reflection.

His mouth went dry.

He blinked hard. It was his reflection, just slightly wrong. The eyes too wide. The mouth already half-open. Like it was mouthing something he hadn’t said yet.

He turned away, fast.

Wind howled behind him.

Then—

"Say it again."

The voice was soft. Playful. Damien froze.

“No,” he said aloud. “No, fuck off.”

"Just say it again."

He shook his head and backed away. But the snow pulled at his ankles. The wind dragged against his coat like fingers.

"Skinny Freddie…"

Damien gasped. The voice had come from him. His own lips. He hadn’t meant to say it, but it slipped out.

He turned to run, but it was too late.

From the trees, a long white hand darted out, fast as a whip. Fingers like branches, joints moving the wrong way. It caught his leg mid-step and yanked.

Damien hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of him. He clawed at the snow, boots kicking. The hand dragged him through the powder, across roots and ice. His scream ripped through the trees.

The last thing he saw was the mirror. His own reflection, still staring.

Still smiling.

And then the world snapped red.

Freddie took his legs clean.

Emma heard it first. A high, strangled sound from somewhere beyond the stairwell. Not exactly a scream. More like a breath caught mid-howl, ripped into pieces. The kind of sound you don’t make unless your body’s being broken.

She stood up fast, nearly tripping over the bedsheet knotted around Georgia’s thigh. The blood had stopped flowing, mostly. But Georgia hadn’t woken. She was breathing in shallow stutters, eyes flickering behind her lids like she was trapped inside some nightmare. Darcy hovered beside her, whispering nonsense. Rocking gently. Her hands were still soaked. Every time she looked down, she recoiled like it was new.

Emma turned toward the bedroom door. The others were arguing in low, bitter voices.

“He’s not gonna stop,” Chloe hissed. “He’s picking us off one by one. You saw what happened to Georgia. Now Damien’s gone.”

“You don’t know that,” Darcy snapped. “Maybe he made it out. Maybe he got help.”

Emma stepped into the hallway. “He didn’t.”

They turned.

“How do you know?” Chloe asked.

Emma held up Damien’s phone. The screen was smeared with snow, cracked in the corner. But it had been recording. The red light was still on.

She didn’t play it. 

“I found it by the back door,” she said. “Still warm.”

Darcy swallowed.

Elise was crouched by the window, her arms wrapped around her knees. She wasn’t shaking anymore. She wasn’t even blinking. Just staring through the ice-coated glass like she could see something no one else could.

“He’s close,” she said quietly. “I can feel it.”

Chloe’s hands were moving now. Twitchy. Unsettled. She flipped through the notebook in frantic bursts. Pages stuck together. Ink blurred.

“There’s got to be something in here,” she muttered. “A reversal, a way to send him back.”

“Back where?” Darcy snapped. “He lives in the fucking mirror, Chloe. You want to post him back to hell?”

Emma looked at Elise.

“Elise,” she said gently. “Are you okay?”

No answer.

“Elise.”

Nothing.

Then Elise let out a laugh.

It was short, sharp, too high in pitch. The sound bounced off the walls like something breaking.

Chloe moved toward her. “Elise?”

“I used to dream about him,” Elise said suddenly. Her voice was strange. Hollow and glassy. “Before I ever came here. When I was younger. I used to see him standing at the end of my bed. So tall. So thin. He never said anything. Just stared. And I knew he wanted something. I thought it was just a nightmare. Thought I’d made him up.”

She turned, eyes wide, shining.

“But then you said his name. And I knew it wasn’t just me.”

Chloe stepped back. “What are you talking about?”

“I think he’s been waiting,” Elise whispered. “All this time. Waiting for someone to bring him back.”

Darcy looked ready to slap her. “You think this is good news? That you’re, what, some chosen one for a demon who rips legs off for fun?”

Elise didn’t flinch.

“I think I understand him,” she said.

Then she stood. Calm. Too calm. She walked to the door.

“Elise—” Emma tried, reaching out.

But Elise was already moving. Down the hallway. Barefoot. Straight through the pool of melted snow where Damien must’ve stood last. She didn’t look back.

The door opened. The wind howled in like a scream and she was gone.

Chloe didn’t stop her.

Darcy slammed the door shut again, bracing her back against it.

“She’s lost it. She’s fucking gone.”

“She was already gone,” Chloe murmured. “He chose her a long time ago.”

Emma turned sharply. “What does that mean?”

Chloe held up the notebook. Her eyes were wild now as though she was possessed.

“It means he needs a vessel. A way in. And maybe we already gave it to him.”

Darcy let out a furious breath. “Oh, shut the fuck up with your riddles.”

Emma grabbed Chloe’s arm. “We need to focus. If Elise is out there, she’s going to die. Or worse.”

Chloe didn’t move. “Maybe that’s the point.”

“What?”

“She’s the sacrifice,” Chloe said. “The tribute.”

Darcy lunged. She shoved Chloe hard, the notebook flying from her hands.

“Don’t you dare talk about tribute like this is a game. This isn’t some ritual. We’re not fucking witches!”

The notebook landed open. A new page. Emma’s eyes snapped to it.

A fresh sketch.

Elise. Legless. Dragged through snow.

And below it, a new line.

“He’s bringing her back.”

The lights went out again. Darkness in an instant. Like a curtain dropped on the world.

Emma’s breathing tightened. She couldn’t see Chloe. Couldn’t see Darcy. Just the sound of Georgia’s soft, stuttering whimper from the bed and the wind clawing at the windows like it wanted in.

A noise echoed from downstairs.

Wet. Sloppy. Dragging.

Emma didn’t want to move. But she did. She reached for the torch on her phone with fingers she barely controlled. The light blinked on, throwing long shadows across the ceiling. Chloe stood frozen near the dresser. Darcy was already crouched low, one hand on the leg of the bed like it might keep her grounded.

The sound got louder.

Then they heard it: a creaking step.

He was on the stairs.

Emma’s voice cracked. “We need to hide. Closet—under the bed—something—”

But Darcy just stood.

“No more hiding,” she said. Her voice shook, but she held herself steady. “We hide, we wait, we bleed. I’m done.”

“Darcy—”

“I said I’m done.”

She walked to the door, pressed her hand to it, like she could feel him breathing on the other side. Then she flung it open.

The hallway was empty.

But there, at the top of the stairs, stood a shape. Half in shadow. Pale, too long, too still.

Emma’s phone flickered. The light dimmed.

Freddie stepped forward.

Darcy screamed and ran.

She made it three steps before he grabbed her.

A long, sinewy hand around her ankle. The other clamped her thigh.

He pulled without a sound. 

Her leg tore at the hip with a sound like wet canvas ripping. Bone snapped like dry wood.

Darcy collapsed, shrieking, her hands flailing at nothing. Blood pooled under her.

Emma watched, frozen in place, her voice lost to some part of her that had already begun to give up.

Chloe didn’t move.

Freddie turned his head slightly, neck creaking, like he was scanning the room. His eyes were milky, blind, but somehow they found you. Knew where to look. 

Then he stepped over Darcy’s twitching body and reached for Chloe.

But Chloe wasn’t afraid.

She stepped forward, slowly, arms loose at her sides.

“No,” she said, voice low and steady. “You don’t get to take me.”

Freddie paused. He tilted his head. Curious.

Chloe knelt. Picked up the notebook. Her fingers trembled as she flipped to the last page. The drawing of Elise. The blood-slick snow.

She looked up. “You came through this, didn’t you?” she whispered. “The words. The rhyme. The book.”

She stood.

And threw the notebook into the fireplace.

The flames ate it fast. Pages curled in seconds. Ink turned to smoke. The leather cracked.

Freddie just watched and laughed, then stepped forward again.

Chloe staggered back. “I burned it. I burned it.”

Emma’s light flickered again.

Freddie whispered: “It wasn’t the book that opened the door.”

Chloe froze.

Emma’s voice came out hoarse. “It was the mirror.”

Freddie smiled.

Behind them, the trapdoor to the cellar burst open.

The wind screamed through the room. Candles snuffed out. Georgia moaned on the bed. 

And crawling out of the cellar—

Elise.

Or what was left.

Her legs were gone. Torn at the hips. She dragged herself with her elbows, leaving twin trails of blood behind her.

“He promised,” she said, voice thin and broken. “He said I could stay with him.”

Emma backed away, mouth open.

Chloe screamed.

Freddie grabbed her by the shoulders, lifted her like a puppet, and tore her in half.

Blood sprayed the ceiling. Her legs dropped first. Then the rest.

Emma bolted. She didn’t remember grabbing Georgia. Nor did she remember yanking the bloody sheet tighter around what was left of her leg, or throwing open the trapdoor, or half-carrying, half-dragging her down the cellar steps. Her hands worked without thinking. Her body ran on pure instinct.

The house had turned against them.

Above, the walls groaned. Floorboards cracked. Freddie was moving slow and methodical, like he had all the time in the world. Emma kept glancing back over her shoulder, expecting to see Freddie descending the stairs, one leg at a time, wearing someone else’s.

The mirror still stood against the wall.

That same ornate frame. The same hairline crack running through the corner.

Emma laid Georgia down against the far wall. Her skin had gone waxy, mottled. She wasn’t really conscious, just murmuring something Emma couldn’t make out.

“You’re okay,” Emma whispered, wiping her forehead. “You’re okay, just stay awake.”

Then a thump echoed down the stairs.

Emma froze.

Another step. He was coming.

She turned to the mirror.

She didn’t know what she expected. Maybe her own reflection, wild-eyed. Maybe Freddie was already inside it, waiting to climb through.

But the glass didn’t show her at all.

It showed Chloe. Still alive and screaming.

Then her body crumpled. Torn in half.

Emma backed away, heart pounding.

The mirror went black, then shimmered, rippling like water.

She grabbed a broken chair leg from the corner. Raised it above her head.

The stairs creaked louder now. Almost to the bottom.

Emma screamed and smashed the mirror.

Glass exploded outward. Shards flew across the cellar like shrapnel. One cut her cheek. Another sliced her hand open.

The frame collapsed with a groan. The wall behind it was bare stone. And above, everything stopped.

Emma stood there, waiting. Watching the stairs. Blood dripping from her hand.

But nothing came. 

It was morning when she left.

The storm had passed. The sky was a white sheet. Sunless. 

Emma stepped barefoot into the snow. Her boots were gone. Everything she owned was gone.

Georgia hadn’t made it through the night.

She left her in the cellar. Folded a blanket over her chest. Closed her eyes.

And the others… she didn’t look for them. There was no point.

Her feet stung as she walked. Every step burned. She didn’t know where she was going. Just forward, away from it all.

She reached the edge of the street before she noticed her backpack. Slung over one shoulder.

She didn’t remember picking it up. She stopped. Opened it slowly. Inside was her phone, dead. A scarf. Her purse.

And at the very bottom, beneath a folded T-shirt and a cracked lipstick tube, the notebook.

Burnt at the edges, charred black. But whole.

She pulled it out with trembling fingers. The leather cover was warm.

On the last page, a new message had been written.

“He needed the mirror to get in.
But now he’s in your head.”

Emma closed the book and kept walking.

Behind her, the wind stirred.

A soft hum followed.

“The legs he loved, the ones they praised,
He took them all, and left them dazed…”

The final line wasn’t sung, but whispered.

Right behind her ear.