บททั้งหมดของ The Wedding Night Curse: บทที่ 81 - บทที่ 90

Alika’s POVI didn’t move.Not even when Sybilla floated closer—dragging that other me behind her like a puppet on invisible strings.It was me. But not.Her eyes were hollow. Skin pale, lips bloodless. She wore the same dress. The same necklace Ethan gave me on our first night. But the look on her face... it wasn’t mine. It was the face of someone who had already decided.“This is the version of you,” Sybilla said calmly, “who chose to finish it.”The sword in her hand—my hand—dripped with something that wasn’t blood, but something older. Darker. The kind of liquid that dreams about dying but never gets to.Ethan stepped forward, placing himself between me and the shadow version of myself. His voice was quiet. “She’s not real, Alika.”Sybilla laughed softly. “She’s real enough to do what you can’t.”And then she vanished.Only the other me remained.And she charged.Ethan shoved me back just as the sword came down. He caught it with his bare hands. Blood sprayed across the wall behin

He woke up because of the smell.Smoke and iron. Not firewood. Not meat.It was the smell of spirit.Reverend Nathaniel McKee, eighty-two years old, hadn’t preached in over thirty years. He lived on the east side of the hill, far from the old manor. But ever since dusk, the dogs had gone silent. Even the owls vanished.He stood on the porch of his wooden cabin, gripping his cane, breath short and uneven. A black fog rolled down from the manor. It wasn’t mist—this wasn’t weather. This was something thicker. It crawled like a net.The church bell rang by itself. Once. Then twice.Nathaniel’s hand trembled as he opened the last page of his old scripture, a page he had sworn never to read again—not since the last sacrifice in the village. But the words were calling now. The air itself was starting to vibrate.> "...and when the curtain of fog is lifted, the body will separate from the soul. But the ones left unredeemed shall return... wearing the face they died in."He stared north. Towar

Alika’s POVMy hand trembled as I unwrapped the black cloth on the stone altar. Inside, a silver blade gleamed—engraved with ancient markings. Seven circular lines pointing to a single center. This knife wasn’t just a tool. It was a key. I could feel it in my bones. The metal was ice-cold, as if it hadn’t been touched since the beginning of time.Ethan stood beside me. Silent. Empty-eyed. But still Ethan. At least, physically. I knew some part of him was still fighting inside. I wanted to call his name. To hold his face. But there was no time.Across the altar, Sybilla sat. Her wedding dress stained with dirt and blood, yet her face was calm. Too calm. Like she already knew how this would end.“You ready?” I asked Ethan.He nodded slowly, like a machine programmed to agree.Sybilla chuckled softly. “How cute. You still think he’ll fight me?”I didn’t answer. Instead, I met her stare. “The three of us—we have to finish this. You know that.”Sybilla stood, walking slowly around the alta

It started with the ripples. The lake had always been still. Quiet. Sometimes there’d be fog in the early morning, but nobody cared much. As long as you stayed away at night, the lake didn’t bother you. That’s what Grandpa always said. But that day, just after noon, the surface started moving—like something underneath had woken up and wanted out. A little boy—Rafi, age seven—stood at the edge, one sandal sinking into the wet grass. He wasn’t supposed to be there. His mom had told him to stay inside and eat his soup. But he heard something. A sound like humming. Like someone was crying from far away. Rafi knew better. But still… he came. And when the first black stone pushed up through the water, he didn’t run. He stared. More stones followed—wet, mossy, forming a curved staircase rising from the lake. The water around it shimmered like oil, reflecting shapes that didn’t match the sky. The humming grew louder. Rafi looked behind him. No one. Dad was still gone. Grandma had go

Alika’s POVMy body was trembling. One hand still clutching the stone floor, the other clawing at my throat. That little girl—my other self—had stopped strangling me. Not out of mercy.But because something beneath the altar had started to breathe.A deep, guttural inhale. Like the air itself was being devoured.The stone beneath us cracked, slow and deliberate, with a glow that pulsed between black and violet. I could feel it hum through my palms. That girl—the one with my eyes—turned to look at the source, then back at me.“If you go down there,” she whispered, “you won’t come back.”I couldn’t speak.She didn’t blink. She didn’t move. Just stood there in her blood-soaked dress, her bare feet splattered with soot and salt.I left her behind.My feet carried me forward like I was possessed, descending the narrow steps hidden beneath the altar. My breath fogged as the air turned cold. The spiral tunnel felt older than death itself. Carved into the damp stone were tiny handprints—some