The Strings Between Us

The Caster's Return

HorrorLand was never quiet, not truly — but tonight, a strange hush had fallen over the castle.

It was the kind of silence that came before a storm.

Belinda felt it in her bones as she followed Slappy through the stone halls of the west wing, their footsteps echoing under towering stained-glass windows. The moon beyond them was pale and bloated, bleeding white light across the floor.

Slappy's throne room was no less imposing than it had been the first time she saw it.

High, vaulted ceilings loomed above dark stone columns carved with ancient faces. Braziers crackled with violet flame, casting eerie shadows across the monster guards lining either side.

At the far end, atop a raised platform draped in red velvet, was his throne — a hulking, gothic creation of black wood, twisted iron, and inlaid bone. Regal. Brutal.

Utterly him.

The moon had risen high and silver, swollen in the black sky.

It hovered directly above the castle now — glowing down through the enchanted ceiling of the throne room, casting pale light over the stone altar, the circle of runes carved in chalk, and the pedestal where the spellbook lay open, its pages humming with power.

Belinda stood, her hands trembled slightly as she touched her wind-up key. It had been spinning slower lately.

The spell was ready.

All she had to do was let go.

Slappy stood across from her, dressed in ceremonial black. A long coat with silver embroidery, his green eyes dark with focus.

"You okay?" Slappy asked without looking at her.

She nodded, though her pulse said otherwise.

They had finally gotten the spellbook — the key to her freedom, her humanity, her old life — and yet something in her twisted every time she thought about it.

Something that felt too much like doubt.

"Once the moon reaches its peak," Slappt said softly, "the spell will bind. You'll be human again. No trace of the curse will remain."

Belinda looked down at her fingers — porcelain still, doll-like, delicate. She clenched them slowly, uncertain.

"And I'll forget this," she said.

"Yes."

"Will you?"

He paused.

"No," he whispered. "I never forget anything."

He then climbed the stairs up onto the throne platform, settling into his chair like he belonged there — legs crossed, fingers steepled, green eyes piercing.

Belinda remained a few steps below, heart drumming.

"You don't have to stand down there, you know," he muttered, voice softer now. "You've more than earned your place at my side."

She looked up at him.

"And what place is that?"

He didn't answer right away.

Before he could speak, the air in the throne room changed — like the pressure in the room had dropped, as though something heavy was about to descend.

The fire dimmed.

The monsters lining the hall stiffened, hissing low.

Belinda's breath caught in her throat as she turned toward the center of the room, where a swirl of mist was rising, curling upward like a serpent made of fog.