Entry 1 — The Mug

Journal of Isla Loren — March 17

 

Location: the white house above the Aiglin Sea

Weather: Salt wind, early fog, something waiting

Notes: possible hallucination, unconfirmed haunting, or me finally unraveling

Time: 10:42am

 

 

~

 

 

I wasn’t going to write any of this down. The whole point of being here was to start fresh, not spiral... But the mug moved again. I watched it. And when I said something out loud, the house creaked like it was listening. So…I’m starting from the beginning. From the first time I stepped over the threshold…

 

~

 

The first house I ever bought sat on a cliff at the edge of the world, wind-battered and bone-white, like something pulled from the edge of a dream.  

A crooked little structure leaning toward the sea like it was listening for something. Salt crusted the windows. Wind carved runes in the siding—cracks and etchings that hadn’t been there before.

It overlooked the Aiglin Sea, a body of gray-blue water that roared loud in winter and whispered lullabies in the warmer months. 

I told myself I needed the solitude. 

I told myself I needed the quiet. 

That I needed a new beginning.

 

~

 

They’d left a few things behind—Margaret and Thomas, the old couple who sold the house. A bookshelf half-full of sea-worn paperbacks. A birdcage in the kitchen corner, empty except for a tuft of green fluff and a single sunflower seed.

Button. The lovebird. I used to visit him on Sundays.

“He likes strangers,” Margaret once said, holding the door open while I cradled a lemon tart in both hands. “That’s rare for a bird. You must have soft bones.”

She’d winked, then handed me a cup of licorice tea. The mug had daisies on it. After moving in, I looked for it without thinking. And there it was, drying on the rack by the sink.

The first few days passed in a hush. 

No internet yet. Just boxes, tea, and the sea. 

I unpacked my craft supplies in the back room—Margaret’s sunroom—now mine. Driftwood, sea glass, broken jewelry, vintage buttons. I laid it all out on the big table, let it breathe. Started a scrap-collage on canvas. A whale in storm colors. Sharp lines, soft eyes.

Nights, I drank tea by the window and let the fog press in like a second skin. Once, I heard gulls in the middle of the night. Not cries, but the flutter of wings right outside the glass.

I told myself it was Button’s ghost, coming to say goodbye.

Then came the first wrong thing.

I woke early, maybe 5 a.m one day. Fog still obscuring the windows. I shuffled to the kitchen, flipped the kettle on, reached for my favorite mug—always in the sink.

It wasn’t there.

It was on the counter. Clean. Dry. Set exactly where Margaret used to put it.

I stared at it for a long time, kettle whistling behind me.

 

~

 

Next, the whale collage.

I’d left it unfinished the night before—half a tail missing, glue still drying. Now, the tail was gone. Not missing. Gone. The whole piece had shifted, rearranged into something clumsy, like a child had tried to finish it.

A single button—green, ridged like a leaf—pressed into the eye socket. 

Not one I remember owning. 

I walked room to room. Living room. Craft room. Bedroom.

The hallway mirror had moved.

Not relocated—just tilted. Slightly. Enough that my reflection looked… off. Like it was watching me before I looked up.

Don’t spiral.

I moved slowly through the house, breathing shallowly, checking doors and windows.

All locked.

No footprints. No open drawers. Nothing stolen. Just shifted. Rearranged. Like someone had lived a whole day in my absence and tried, sloppily, to put everything back the way they found it.

I checked my phone. No calls. No texts. I hadn’t left. I hadn’t blacked out. Had I?

I reached for the daisy mug.

Inside was a note.

Folded three times, sharp creases. My name written on the front. My own handwriting.

I opened it. It read:

Don’t trust the mirrors.

I looked up—slowly—at the kitchen cabinet door. Its glass panel reflected my face. Just mine.

I was still holding the note. Then the reflection smiled—but I didn’t.

 

~

 

I’ll write more tomorrow, if I can sleep. 

—Isla

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Entry 2 — Margaret's Garden