The Forgotten Name

The villagers of Eldhollow spoke of the old mansion only in whispers. Perched at the edge of the woods, half-swallowed by ivy and mist, it was said to be cursed. No one had lived there for decades—not since the last of the Greve family vanished without a trace.

But seventeen-year-old Elara didn’t believe in curses. She believed in history, and more importantly, in answers.

When she arrived in Eldhollow that summer, sent to live with her aunt after her parents’ death, the village felt like it had been frozen in time. The streets were cobbled, the houses timbered, and the people suspicious of outsiders. Her aunt warned her, “Stay away from the woods, and whatever you do, don’t go near Greve House.”

But Elara had already seen it—its broken spire rising above the trees, almost beckoning.

Inside her aunt’s attic, she found more: old newspaper clippings, dusty books, and a cracked photograph of a girl who looked disturbingly like her, with the name "Isolde Greve" scribbled beneath in faded ink.

A forgotten name.

Elara couldn’t stop thinking about it. Why did she resemble a girl who lived a hundred years ago? Why had the Greves disappeared? That night, drawn by a strange pull she couldn’t explain, Elara ventured out under the full moon toward the mansion.

The iron gate creaked open at her touch.

Inside, the house was cloaked in dust and silence. Cobwebs laced the chandeliers, and paintings watched her with eyes that felt too alive. One of them, a portrait of a young woman in a crimson dress, made her freeze. It was the girl from the photo.

The plaque beneath read: Isolde Greve, 1886–1903.

She died at seventeen—the same age as Elara.

Upstairs, she found a nursery. Time had not touched it; toys were neatly placed, a rocking horse poised mid-motion. Then she saw the mirror.

It was tall, silver-framed, and not dusty like the rest. When Elara looked into it, her breath caught.

Her reflection... moved differently.

She stepped forward. The mirror image stepped back.

The room behind the reflection was not the one she stood in—it was brighter, with sunlight streaming through tall windows. And in the center stood Isolde.

“Who are you?” Elara whispered.

Isolde smiled. “The same as you, once.”

Suddenly, the mirror rippled like water. Elara stumbled back, but a cold hand reached out and grabbed her wrist.

Isolde’s grip was ice. Her eyes now glowed pale white. “I only want my name back,” she whispered.

Elara yanked free and ran, heart thundering in her chest. She didn’t stop until she reached her aunt’s house. Breathless, she slammed the door shut and slid to the floor.

Her aunt was waiting.

"You saw her, didn’t you?"

Elara stared. “You knew?”

“I hoped you wouldn’t go near that place,” her aunt said softly. “But you’re her blood. Same face. Same age. It always calls one of you back.”

“One of us?” Elara asked.

Her aunt retrieved an old book bound in cracked leather. Inside were pages of family trees. At the center of one was Isolde Greve, with no death marked beside her name—just a strange symbol: a spiral of thorns.

“You’re descended from Isolde’s sister,” her aunt said. “Our line. But Isolde... she was different. She dabbled in old things—rituals to preserve youth, power, memory. She made a pact. To be remembered forever.”

“But she died.”

“No,” her aunt said grimly. “She was erased. Her name was stolen from history. Her pact failed. Now she waits, caught between mirrors, searching for someone with her blood to take her place. To give her a name again.”

Elara felt suddenly cold. The reflection. The pull. The way her own memories had started to blur around the edges since she left the house.

“She’s trying to take me.”

Her aunt nodded. “Unless you stop her. There’s a way.”

The next night, Elara returned to the mansion, not with curiosity this time—but purpose. In her bag, she carried the items her aunt instructed: a locket with her own name, a vial of salt, and a mirror shard blessed with firelight.

The house was waiting.

This time, she went straight to the nursery.

Isolde was there in the mirror, her face brighter, her eyes eager.

“You came back,” Isolde said, almost lovingly. “It’s easier if you let me in.”

Elara held up the locket. “You had your time. I won’t give you mine.”

Isolde’s smile faltered. “I was forgotten. Lost in shadows. You don’t know what it’s like—no name, no voice, no self. Only mirrors to whisper to. Only others to steal from.”

“You made a choice,” Elara said. “Now I’m making mine.”

She smashed the mirror shard against the full mirror’s frame. Light burst from the impact, flooding the nursery. Isolde screamed—a sound not of pain, but of rage.

“I am Isolde Greve!” she shrieked. “I am—”

But her words melted into silence. Her image dissolved like smoke.

And then, the mirror cracked. From top to bottom. Like a wound finally closing.

When Elara returned home, her head felt clear again. Her memories intact. Her name solid on her tongue.

She checked the photo in the attic—Isolde’s face was gone. Just an empty chair.

The house, the mirror, the curse—they were fading into myth again. The name forgotten once more.

But Elara remembered.

And sometimes, in the corners of glass, she swore she saw someone trying to remember herself.