Juliette couldn't stop staring at the mirror.
It stood at the end of the hallway, framed in dark wood and gilded gold. And yet, it wasn't the craftsmanship that held her breath. It was the chill that crept over her spine every time she passed it. The kind of cold that didn't touch the skin but crawled straight into the bones.
The reflection was always off.
Too slow.
Too still.
And sometimes… it watched her.
The morning after the reading of the will, Juliette stood in front of it again. The storm had passed, but a strange, red mist hovered over the garden like the earth itself hadn't recovered from the Crimson Moon.
Her reflection stared back, and for a moment, she didn't look like herself.
She looked older.
Wiser.
Haunted.
And then someone appeared behind her again.
Lucien.
She turned, half-expecting him to vanish like a trick of the light but he was there, leaning casually against the doorway with a cup of dark coffee in hand and that same unreadable expression on his face.
"You don't sleep much," he said.
"You don't knock much," she returned, folding her arms.
"I live next door. Not in your wardrobe."
He took a slow sip, the steam curling around his sharp jawline. The man looked like he belonged in another era, one of secrets and shadows. Everything about him was too precise. The way he moved, the way he paused before speaking, the way he always seemed to know more than he said.
"About last night…" Juliette said cautiously. "That mirror. I saw someone."
Lucien's gaze flicked to the glass. "You will."
"That's not normal," she snapped. "None of this is."
"No, it's not. But you're not normal either, Juliette."
Her stomach dropped.
"What do you mean?"
He stepped closer. "The women in your family have always been different. You feel things before they happen. See things others miss. Why do you think the curse never skips the women?"
Juliette opened her mouth to protest but nothing came out. As much as she wanted to call him insane, a voice deep inside whispered that he was right.
"I don't believe in curses," she murmured.
"You will," he said quietly, "when the mirror speaks your name."
The house shifted again after that.
Every hallway she walked seemed longer than the last. Some doors remained locked, even with the keys her grandmother left. The library, though open, held hundreds of books with no titles and pages written in a language she couldn't decipher.
But one afternoon, in the west wing she barely remembered from childhood, she found the music room.
It was dust-covered and forgotten, with a grand piano under a white sheet. Something drew her to it, maybe nostalgia, maybe something deeper. She pulled off the cloth, sat down, and let her fingers hover over the keys.
She hadn't played since her mother died.
Tentatively, she pressed a note. Then another. Soon the haunting melody her mother used to hum filled the air like a ghost rising from slumber.
She was halfway through the tune when she sensed him again.
Lucien.
He stood silently in the doorway, something unfamiliar flickering in his eyes, softness? Pain?
"That piece," he said, voice lower than usual, "where did you learn it?"
"My mother used to hum it," she said, fingers stilling. "She said it came from her mother. Said it helped her sleep."
He stepped into the room, slowly, carefully. "It's not a lullaby."
Juliette looked up. "Then what is it?"
"It's a warning."
She frowned. "A warning?"
He nodded once. "It's called La Lune Sanglante. The Blood Moon. Your grandmother composed it. The first time she saw the red moon rise, she claimed the melody just… appeared in her dreams. She said it had to be played before every full moon to keep the house asleep."
"The house?" she echoed.
Lucien stepped closer to the window. "This place... it's more than wood and stone. The bloodline anchors it. The music keeps the darkness beneath it quiet."
Juliette stood slowly. "Are you saying this house is alive?"
"No. I'm saying it's listening."
A sudden gust of wind slammed the doors shut.
Juliette jumped, but Lucien didn't flinch. He only watched her.
"Why are you helping me?" she asked. "You're not family. You could've walked away."
Lucien looked at her then, really looked. "Because I owe your grandmother more than I can ever repay."
Something passed between them, unspoken and heavy.
Juliette couldn't breathe. Not because she was afraid.
But because she wasn't.
For the first time in days, her pulse slowed. Her walls cracked. And that terrified her even more.
That night, the dreams came.
The same girl from the painting, Evelyn, stood in the garden beneath the crimson moon. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. Her eyes were wide with warning. She raised a finger, pointing toward the cliffside woods.
Juliette woke drenched in sweat.
She threw on a coat and slipped into the hallway, heart thundering.
Down the stairs.
Through the back doors.
Into the night air.
The wind howled, but she didn't stop. Something inside her pulled her forward, an invisible thread. The path twisted through the woods behind the estate until it led to an old mausoleum.
The door was half open.
She pushed inside, her flashlight flickering.
There were five tombs.
All women.
Evelyn. Margaret. Viola. Elara. Rose.
All died under the Crimson Moon.
And one space left, empty.
Her name was already engraved:
Juliette Amara Armand. Born April 14, 1991, Died…
The rest was blank.
Her knees buckled.
"What the hell is this?" she gasped.
A hand grabbed her shoulder.
She screamed but it was Lucien.
He looked grim, his coat soaked from rain.
"I told you not to come out here alone."
"You knew about this?" she hissed.
"I tried to hide it. The house never lets secrets stay buried."
She backed away. "You knew I was marked?"
He nodded. "You were marked the moment you were born under a crimson sky. You are the last Armand. The curse ends with you… or continues with your blood."
Back at the house, she sat by the fireplace, the flames dancing wildly.
Lucien poured her a glass of brandy.
"I don't want this," she whispered. "This legacy. This nightmare."
"No one ever does," he said gently.
She stared into the fire. "What happens if I leave?"
"You can try. But the curse won't."
Silence stretched.
Then, softly: "There's a way to end it."
Juliette turned. "What do you mean?"
Lucien leaned forward, eyes flickering with something ancient. "There's a ritual. Old magic. But it requires two things: a sacrifice… and a bond."
Her throat tightened. "What kind of bond?"
"Blood. Or love."
She scoffed. "I barely know you."
"And yet," he murmured, "you've dreamt of me."
She stilled.
He was right.
She had.
That same shadowed figure from her childhood nightmares… he had Lucien's eyes.
"But why you?" she whispered.
Lucien's voice was almost a confession. "Because I'm not just your neighbor, Juliette. My bloodline was cursed alongside yours. I am the descendant of the one who betrayed Evelyn Armand. The man who started it all."
Juliette's heart stopped.
"So… you're the curse."
He didn't deny it.
"I'm the price."