Centuries

In the sleepy town of Ashford, whispers of an ancient legend echoed through the generations. Some legends were told and forgotten, but one haunted the memories of those who dared to listen. A curse that promised remembrance for centuries, born from a single, fatal mistake.

Lila wandered through the old cemetery, the chill of dusk settling around her. She was drawn to a particular gravestone, weathered and ancient, yet the name engraved was as clear as if it had been carved yesterday: Evelyn Thorn. The townsfolk spoke of her in hushed tones, claiming she had sold her soul for eternal fame.

“Remember me for centuries,” Lila whispered, tracing the name with her fingers. She shivered, feeling a strange connection, as if Evelyn’s shadow loomed over her.

Lila’s teenage dreams were filled with ambitions, yet stifled by the mundanity of her surroundings. She felt out of place, misunderstood—until she discovered Evelyn’s diary hidden in the library’s archives. The entries spoke of a pact made under a blood moon, a promise of eternal remembrance in exchange for a single, irreversible mistake.

Evelyn had lived a life of grandeur, her name immortalized in stories, but at a terrible cost. The diary detailed her descent into madness, haunted by visions of those who had suffered because of her actions. Each page dripped with guilt and despair.

Lila, desperate for an escape from her ordinary life, felt a dangerous allure. She decided to summon Evelyn’s spirit, convinced that she could outsmart the curse. Under the same blood moon, she stood in the cemetery, reciting the incantation from Evelyn’s diary.

“Come on, come on and let me in,” Lila chanted, her voice trembling. The wind howled, and the air grew thick with malevolence. Shadows danced, and Evelyn’s ghostly form materialized before her.

“I never meant for you to fix yourself,” Evelyn whispered, her voice a chilling echo. “You look so pretty, but you’re gone so soon.”

Before Lila could react, Evelyn’s spirit surged into her, filling her with darkness. Memories not her own flooded her mind—centuries of pain, regret, and an unending cycle of horror. Lila screamed, but her voice was lost in the cacophony of Evelyn’s torment.

In the days that followed, Lila’s behavior changed. She spoke in riddles, her eyes haunted by shadows. She etched symbols into her skin, bruises like fingerprints marking her descent. Her friends and family watched in helpless horror as she succumbed to the curse, becoming a living vessel for Evelyn’s eternal suffering.

Lila’s story spread through Ashford, a cautionary tale for those who dared to dream too grandly. Her name, like Evelyn’s, would be remembered for centuries—not as a legend of gold, but as a warning of the price of fame.

As the years passed, the legend grew, and Lila’s gravestone joined Evelyn’s in the old cemetery. Side by side, they stood as frozen proof of the poisoned youth who dared to defy their fate.

“Some legends are told,” the townsfolk would say, their voices trembling with fear. “But you will remember them for centuries.”

And so, the cycle continued, each generation learning anew that some mistakes can never be undone.