The Charred Locket

After Maeve and I had been dating for eight months, we moved into a creaky Victorian house on the edge of the lumber town of Pine Hollow. We shared a love for obscure horror films and a belief in the otherworldly. I’d often record EVPs on my phone, and she’d sift through them, finding whispers in the static that others called imagination.

Our bedroom was once her grandmother’s sewing room. Maeve confessed that she’d always felt a chill there, especially near the old dresser. She told me stories of seeing black shapes drifting down the hallway when it was her childhood room. I laughed it off, but a part of me believed.

Her parents left for a two-week cruise, entrusting us with their aging husky, Moose. Maeve had night shifts at the mill, leaving me alone in the house with the dog and an unsettling quiet. The first few nights were fine, but by the third, I felt an itch at the back of my neck, as if unseen eyes were tracking me.

Maeve and I never argued, but suddenly I’d snap at her for trivial things, and then a wave of sadness would wash over me, leaving me in tears. She’d hold me, confused, and I’d apologize, blaming stress from work.

One evening, as I was making dinner, I found an old, charred locket in a kitchen drawer. It was a cameo of a woman with a stern face, and inside was a lock of singed hair. I felt a sudden urge to wear it, and when I did, my mood brightened, and the house felt lighter. Maeve noticed my calm and asked about it. I couldn’t explain. She shuddered and warned me to put it back. I did, but that night I dreamed of a fire in the kitchen, and a woman screaming.

Maeve’s best friend, Celeste, came to visit for a weekend. She was psychic, or so she claimed. She felt the house, and when she saw the locket, she paled. She told us it belonged to Lila Hargrove, the original owner, who died in a fire in the 1920s, accused of witchcraft by the townsfolk. The locket had been the only thing found on her body.

Celeste warned me that wearing the locket had latched me to Lila’s vengeful spirit, which was why I felt those emotions. Maeve was furious I hadn’t told her, but I didn’t believe it. That night, our dog Moose began howling at the kitchen door. I went to investigate and saw a figure through the window—a woman in a burnt dress, reaching out.

I screamed, and Maeve came running. She saw it too. We tried to leave, but the doors locked by themselves, and the phone lines were dead. The locket was back on my neck, burning cold. The spirit grew stronger, filling the house with the smell of smoke and ash. We barricaded ourselves in the bedroom, but Lila’s whispers came through the walls, promising that our souls would keep her company.

Maeve, remembering Celeste’s advice, grabbed the locket and threw it into the fireplace. The flames turned green, and the house shook. When the locket finally melted, the temperature rose, and the pressure lifted. But as we looked at each other, we saw the reflection of a charred woman behind us in the mirror. We fled that night, and never returned.

Months later, we moved to a new apartment, but a parcel arrived addressed to Maeve. Inside was the locket, pristine and unbroken. We burned it again, but it reappeared the next day. We’ve been burning it ever since, but every night, I wake up to the smell of smoke, and in the corner, I see a woman watching, waiting for the day we give in.