Chapter 1
The taxi rolled to a stop with a soft jolt.
"Miss, we're here."
The driver’s voice pulled you from your thoughts like a sudden gust of cold air, and you blinked out of your reverie just in time to see the flickering neon sign outside your window.
Greendale’s Best Motel.
The phrase was laughable. It was also the truth.
You reached into your purse, fingers brushing the worn leather of your wallet before handing over a crumpled twenty with a murmured thanks. The door creaked open, and the cool air hit your face as you stepped out, luggage in hand. You didn’t look back as the taxi drove off. Your eyes stayed fixed on the building in front of you — too clean to be sinister, too quiet to feel like home.
Check-in was quick. The woman behind the desk asked too few questions, like she’d long since stopped caring who came and went. You managed some polite small talk, feigned a smile, and headed to your room with the key in hand and a hollow thud echoing in your chest.
You dropped your suitcase on the bed and stood there for a long moment, silent.
Greendale.
You’d told yourself you’d never come back here. That you’d severed the last thread the day you left — quietly, without a goodbye, without a note. Cowardice was easier when it dressed up like self-preservation. But six years later, here you were again.
And why?
Your fingers found the small daisy charm at your neck—a golden thing, dulled over time.
For her.
You hadn’t slept on the flight. Your nerves wouldn’t let you. But the idea of a nap now seemed absurd. Time felt like a living thing—and it was slipping through your fingers faster than ever.
So you stood in front of the mirror and took your time. You fixed your makeup with steady hands and a restless heart, ran a final glance over your outfit, and stepped back out into the quiet streets.
The walk to Baxter High was short. Short, but just long enough to let the anxiety take root.
Would she recognize you?
You hadn’t changed that much. Your features had matured, your walk had steadied, your gaze was heavier now—more woman than girl. But still you wondered.
Would she be happy to see you? Or would she hate you for disappearing the way you did?
You bit the inside of your cheek. You could still remember the sound of your own silence that last day—how heavy it had felt in your chest. You’d been so sure that if you said goodbye, the words would betray you, that you’d spill every feeling you’d buried deep. You hadn’t trusted yourself. You hadn’t trusted her.
So you left.
And somehow, those feelings—the ones you thought time would smother—had only sharpened in the distance.
Your hand trembled as you pushed the school’s front door open. You told yourself it was nothing. Just nerves. Just old ghosts stirring in the daylight. What’s the worst that could happen, right?
Your mind conjured a thousand answers. You ignored them all.
It was fine. It would be fine.
It was only her.
Only Mary.
Just the thought of her name pulled the corner of your mouth into a smile. Your feet moved on their own, guiding you down familiar halls to an even more familiar classroom door.
But then you paused.
Something caught your eye.
A nameplate — dark letters etched in gold.
Principal Wardwell.
Your brow arched. That was new. Though, given what you remembered of Hawthorne, it wasn’t exactly shocking. He'd once asked you out for a drink the same day you’d graduated — like he’d just been waiting for the legal green light. The thought made your stomach twist.
You pushed the door to the front office open, heart thudding in your ears.
"Mrs. Meeks?" you asked, your voice softer than you intended. The woman looked up, unimpressed.
"I—I’m a former student," you rushed to explain. "I came to see Miss Wardwell. I didn’t know she was principal now or I’d have called first. If she’s busy, I can come back another—"
She held up a hand, silencing your ramble without a word, and turned toward the inner office. She knocked once before disappearing inside.
You waited. Seconds stretched. Time turned syrup-thick.
When Mrs. Meeks returned, she gave a curt nod. "Principal Wardwell will see you now."
Your breath caught.
"Thank you," you murmured, smoothing your shirt even though it didn’t need smoothing.
You walked to the door. Placed your hand on the knob. Turned.
And the world stopped.
She was there.
Not the Mary you remembered.
Gone were the high-neck sweaters and knee-length skirts. Gone were the oversized glasses and soft-spoken smiles.
In their place was something altogether different.
A tight black dress. Legs crossed carelessly on her desk, heels so high they looked like weapons. Her hair was down, tumbling past her shoulders in dark waves. Red lipstick painted her mouth like a threat.
"Miss Wardwell," you breathed, like her name alone might anchor you.
And maybe it did.
Because for a second, her expression shifted. The confidence flickered. And behind it, something else stirred.
Recognition.
Inside Mary’s body, Lilith paused.
That face.
She’d seen it before — not in memory, but in the artifacts left behind by the woman she wore. A photograph in a drawer. A note, handwritten on the back.
To the world’s best teacher. Thank you for everything.
The name on the signature had been simple. Sweet.
“Daisy,” she said aloud, and it cut through you like sunlight.
She remembered.
Somehow, through the fog of years and silence, Mary remembered you. That silly nickname, that moment in spring with the fresh-picked bouquet, the way you’d looked at her like she hung the stars.
She remembered.
And for a heartbeat, that was all that mattered.
You smiled. The kind of smile you hadn’t worn in years.
You thought maybe it would all be okay.
If only you’d known how wrong you were.
"I'm glad you haven't forgotten about me," you murmured, half teasing, though the tension in your shoulders betrayed the weight behind the words. You took a tentative step forward, then another.
Lilith tutted softly, lowering her legs from the desk with deliberate grace. She stood slowly, like a queen descending from her throne. “Forget you?” she echoed, her voice dripping with honeyed steel. “How could I ever forget my favorite student?”
That smile — coy, cutting, familiar — curled on her lips, and your chest ached. How many nights had you replayed the way it used to soften when it was just the two of you? You’d missed it more than you’d ever admit aloud.
You dropped your gaze and cleared your throat, the air in the office suddenly too tight to breathe. “I… I’m sorry for the way I left. For not saying goodbye.”
She crossed her arms, a slow, sinuous motion that made you falter mid-apology.
“I wish I could explain why. I want to, actually. I want to tell you everything and—”
But a low chuckle slid between you and the words, and when you looked up, she was smiling — amused, unfazed, utterly in control.
“Darling,” she said, brushing past your nervous energy like dust on her sleeve, “I’m terribly busy today. But…” She turned to the door, one hand already on the handle. “Dinner at my house tonight? Bring wine. Something red.”
You blinked. “You still live in the cottage?”
She glanced over her shoulder, lips parting into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Still the same address.”
And just like that, she was opening the door for you. Dismissal cloaked in politeness.
You hesitated on the threshold, caught in the dissonance of recognition and unfamiliarity. She was different. Sharper. Colder. It made your heart ache with something close to jealousy — of the time you hadn’t been there for, of whoever might’ve filled the space you left behind.
“I’ll see you tonight then,” you said quietly. “Thank you… Miss Wardwell.”
She didn’t answer, just watched you go. You floated down the hallway, your mind spinning so fast you forgot to even nod to Mrs. Meeks on the way out.
As the door clicked shut behind you, Lilith exhaled sharply and pressed her fingers to her temple.
Possession was always… inconvenient. Wearing a stolen body came with its share of annoyances — chief among them, the original owner. Mary was still in there. Always watching. Always whispering.
The first week had been intolerable. Screaming. Begging. Praying until her throat was raw. Then silence. For months. Lilith had assumed she’d finally broken.
But then you had walked in.
The moment you spoke, Mary stirred — dazed at first, as if waking from a dream. Then she'd heard Lilith call you Daisy, and all hell had broken loose inside her mind.
Lilith closed her eyes.
And descended.
The mental space was familiar — a cold, dimly lit room with no windows. Mary was cowering in the corner, her back pressed to the wall like she thought she could slip through it.
“Shut up,” Lilith snapped, her voice reverberating like thunder in the tiny chamber.
Mary flinched. “You… you demon!”
“Oh, how original,” Lilith said with a smirk, prowling forward. “You’ve had months to come up with something better.”
She stopped inches away, reaching out to idly brush a curl from Mary’s face — the same face they now shared.
“I’ve met your Daisy,” Lilith murmured.
“She’s not mine,” Mary spat too quickly.
“Mm. You gave her the nickname though, didn’t you? Seems rather personal.”
Mary’s silence was answer enough.
“How close were you?” Lilith tilted her head. “Close enough that she knows where you live. Tell me, how many of your students did you invite into that cozy little cottage of yours?” She gave a cruel smile. “Or was it just Daisy?”
Mary’s face flushed a deep, shameful red. “It wasn’t like that. She was bright. Talented. We talked about books, that’s all.”
“Oh please,” Lilith drawled, rolling her eyes. “That girl is so desperately in love with you, it radiates off her like heat. Even I can feel it.”
Mary opened her mouth to protest, but Lilith kept going.
“No need to worry,” she said smoothly. “I’ll take care of her now.”
“Stay away from her!” Mary’s voice cracked like ice underfoot. She stepped forward — brave, for once.
Lilith turned, slowly, like a wolf humoring a cornered animal. “Or what?”
“I mean it. Don’t touch her.”
Lilith’s smile turned feral. “I’ll do as I please. And if she’s lucky…” she paused, savoring the threat, “maybe she’ll survive the night.”
She blinked.
The mental room faded, and she was back in the office — alone, except for the faint, muffled sound of Mary sobbing in the recesses of her own mind.
Lilith smiled to herself and adjusted her lipstick in the reflection of the office window.
Tonight would be fun.