Being a Half Blood For Real

---

The bus coughed to a stop at the edge of a quiet, fog-wrapped town. Cindy Moran looked out the window, her breath catching as she took in the eerie streets of Santa Fe-silent, old, and almost forgotten by time.

Welcome to your new home, she thought grimly.

The driver grunted something, tossing her suitcase down onto the wet pavement with a thud. Cindy stepped off the bus, the cold biting through her sweater as mist curled around her boots. She wrapped her arms around herself, glancing at the old iron street sign that read:

Ravenshade Road.

The only soul waiting for her was a tall woman in a long black coat, holding a dark umbrella. Her hair was silver-gray, pinned neatly in a bun, and her piercing eyes seemed to study Cindy like she was a puzzle.

"You've grown," the woman said in a flat tone.

"Aunt Martina," Cindy murmured. They hadn't seen each other in nearly ten years-not since her parents died in the fire.

"Let's go. It's not safe to linger," Aunt Martina said sharply. She turned and began walking without another word.

Not safe? Cindy frowned. This was a sleepy mountain town, not some horror film. But then again, everything about this place felt...off.

They walked for what felt like hours before they arrived at a towering iron gate hidden behind a thick curtain of trees. Ivy twisted around the black bars, and beyond the gate stood a massive, decaying mansion cloaked in shadow.

"This... is where I'll be living?" Cindy asked, stunned.

Aunt Martina didn't answer. She simply unlocked the gate with a silver key and gestured for her to follow.

The mansion loomed ahead-three stories high, its walls made of dark stone, with windows like hollow eyes staring back at her. The roof was steep and jagged, its corners curling like claws toward the sky. The fog didn't just cling to the building. It poured from it.

The front door creaked open with a groan.

Inside, it was colder. Dust covered everything, and the chandelier hanging above the foyer swayed slightly... even though there was no breeze.

Aunt Martina moved swiftly down the hall. "You'll stay on the second floor. The first is mine. The third..." She stopped, turning slowly to look at Cindy. Her eyes were sharp. "Is off-limits. Understood?"

"Why?" Cindy asked, voice small.

"You are not to question the rules of this house."

And just like that, her aunt disappeared into the dark hallway, her heels echoing ominously.

---

That night, Cindy couldn't sleep.

Her room was large and old-fashioned-canopy bed, tall arched window, bookshelves full of yellowing novels-but it smelled like something had died in the walls. Her phone had no signal. No Wi-Fi. The lights flickered. The heater was broken.

She sat curled in bed, blanket up to her nose, as the wind howled outside.

Then she heard it.

Footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate. Just outside her door.

Her body froze.

She waited-expecting to see a shadow pass under the crack of her door. But nothing came. No knock. No sound. Just the creaking wood under something-or someone-moving.

Cindy slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the door, holding her breath. She opened it a crack.

The hallway was empty.

But the footsteps didn't come from this floor. They were above her.

On the third floor.

The floor she was forbidden to go to.

---

The next morning, Aunt Martina acted like nothing happened. She gave Cindy a cold breakfast, pointed to the small town map, and told her to explore. "Don't talk to anyone about this house," she warned.

By noon, Cindy found herself walking through the heart of Santa Fe-a quiet town with old buildings, strange antique shops, and locals who watched her a little too closely.

She felt like an outsider. No one smiled. No one said hi. Even the trees seemed to lean toward her, whispering things only her bones could hear.

She wandered into the forest just past the school building, following a narrow path that twisted through the trees. There was something calming about the silence.