Novels by felistas moyo

(Elias’s Point of View)I watch as Avery stares at the lake, her fingers trembling by her side, and I feel the knot in my chest tighten. It’s never easy to explain what the Watcher is, let alone why it’s still here, still watching. I should have stopped her the moment she came to this cursed place. Should have kept her away from this town, from this fate. But I didn’t. And now it’s too late.I’ve watched her since the day she walked into this house. She doesn’t know it, of course. She doesn’t know how closely I’ve been watching, how deeply this bloodline runs in her veins. But I know. I know what she is.More than that, I know what she’s about to become.The wind picks up again, whipping through the trees, pulling at her hair like invisible fingers. I want to warn her, want to tell her to stay away, but the words get stuck in my throat. The curse is relentless. I’ve learned th

The fog has thickened by the time I arrive, the low mist curling around the trees, like it’s trying to hide the secrets that lie beneath the surface. My car comes to a stop at the edge of the lake, its waters black as oil, reflecting nothing. The moon is hidden behind the thick clouds, leaving everything in a dull, oppressive darkness.I can feel it—the pull, that invisible thread that ties me to this place, this water. There’s something here, something ancient, something I don’t understand but can’t escape. I leave the car running, its engine a steady hum behind me, and step out onto the soft, damp earth. My boots sink into the mud with each step, but I don’t care. I’m walking towards the water, towards the source of all this, and I can’t turn back.As I reach the shoreline, I stop. The air is cold, the kind of cold that cuts through you like a knife. It wraps around my chest and throat, tightening until I can’t br

I’ve heard of Gatlin Hollow. It’s one of those towns people whisper about. Not quite forgotten, but its name feels old, worn out by the years. The kind of place you drive through and forget about the second you cross the county line. If you ask anyone, they’ll tell you it’s full of people who are as twisted as their family trees. It’s all fire and ash and secrets buried deep in the ground.But I have to go there. I’m standing at the gas station just outside of town, staring at the road ahead. The tires of my car screech as I turn down a dirt road that winds through a forest of skeletal trees. The sun is setting, blood-red and heavy in the sky. It’s like the world knows I’m stepping into something I can’t turn back from.The address Ruth gave me was vague, just a name and a description: “spiritualist bookstore.” I’m starting to feel the weight of the whole town on my shoulders as I drive deeper into

I used to think my family had no legacy. That we were the footnotes in someone else’s story—the offshoots, the accidents. But now I’m starting to think we were erased on purpose.After that night in the cellar, I don’t sleep. I don’t eat much, either. Elias gives me space—probably out of guilt. Or fear. Maybe both. We barely speak, and when we do, it’s clipped, cold, transactional. Good.But I can’t sit still.I’ve been staring at the letters for hours, scattered across the bed like puzzle pieces made of ghosts. Elara Maddox. Ellis Maddox. The Watcher. The line between madness and legacy feels paper-thin.And then there’s the word from that dream—or whatever it was:You’re a return.Not just a bride. Not just a stand-in.A return.I don’t know what that means, but I can’t find the answer in

*Avery*I don’t scream.I can’t. My throat locks up the moment the flashlight flickers out, sealing me in pitch-black silence. No light. No echo. Just a thick, pressing void that tightens around my skin like a second, unwelcome body.I should be panicking. I should be clawing up the stairs, pounding at the trapdoor, screaming for Elias. But none of that comes. The fear is too deep—older than me, older than this room. It’s not panic. It’s recognition.I feel it again. That presence. Watching me from the corner that shouldn’t be there. From the shadow that crawls just outside the edge of sense.You’re a return.Those words weren’t in my ears. They were in my bones.“Who are you?” I whisper.The shadows shift, and in the hush that follows, I don’t hear a voice—but I see something.A flicker of a memory. Not mine.A girl stands in this room. Maybe sixteen, maybe seventeen. Her dress is faded, her hands stained with dirt and blood. She looks like me—but she isn’t me. Her eyes are wide, too

*Avery*I wake to silence.Not the comfortable kind, where the house is still and safe, but the other kind—the kind that comes before something breaks. The kind that holds its breath.The air feels heavy, like I’m underwater. I blink against the morning light leaking through the curtains. I don’t remember falling asleep here on the couch. I don’t even remember trying to.But I do remember the footprints outside my door.I sit up slowly, heart ticking a little too fast, and notice something off in the room. The shadows are… wrong. Elongated in directions the sun doesn’t follow. And the scent in the air—damp earth and something iron-sweet—lingers like a warning.I check my phone. Dead.Of course.I get up, blanket falling from my shoulders, and notice my feet are bare and cold against the hardwood floor. I walk down the hallway, pausing at the front door.It&rs