The first time I saw my own name carved into a gravestone, the man standing beside it whispered, “I’ve been waiting for you for a hundred and twelve years.” Rain streamed from the black sky and soaked through Evelyn Hart’s coat as she stared at the weathered stone hidden deep within the abandoned cemetery. Her pulse hammered against her ribs. The grave was real. The name was hers. Not similar. Not close. Exactly hers. Even the birth date matched. Yet the death date was impossible. It was carved nearly a century before she had been born. She turned toward the stranger standing among the crooked graves. Lightning flashed, illuminating sharp…

The voice beneath the ice knew Amelia’s name long before she heard it for the first time. It came on the coldest night of winter, when the river cutting through the town of Frost Hollow had frozen into a sheet of silver glass. Snow drifted beneath a sky crowded with stars. Amelia was walking home from work when a crack echoed across the ice. Then a man’s voice rose from somewhere beneath the frozen water. “You are late.” She froze. The river stretched empty in every direction. No footprints. No boats. No people. Yet the voice came again, calm and heartbreakingly familiar. “I waited longer than this last time.” Fear…

The woman in the mirror blinked three seconds after Mara did, and that delay was the first sign that her life no longer belonged entirely to her. At first she convinced herself she was exhausted. She had spent weeks restoring a centuries old mansion perched above the cliffs of Windhaven, a place abandoned for so long that ivy had swallowed entire walls and sea mist drifted through broken windows like wandering spirits. Long hours and little sleep could explain strange perceptions. Yet the next night, the reflection smiled while Mara stood perfectly still. Terror shot through her body. She stumbled backward. The smiling woman remained inside the mirror. Same dark…

The dead man sitting at the back of Lena Cross’s bookstore had been buried three days ago, and the worst part was that he was reading a novel as if nothing unusual had happened. Rain hammered the windows while customers drifted between shelves, unaware that the man turning pages near the fireplace had a funeral photograph currently circulating across town. Lena stared at him from behind the register, her pulse thundering. She remembered the funeral because she had attended it. Everyone had. The town of Briar Hollow was too small for tragedies to remain private. She remembered the black roses on the coffin. She remembered the grieving family. Most of…

On the morning of her wedding, Isla found a photograph of herself kissing a man she had never met, and the date stamped beneath the image was thirty years in the future. Her hands shook so violently that the frame slipped from her fingers and shattered across the dressing room floor. Outside, church bells rang through the coastal town of Ravenshade. Guests were arriving. Her fiancé was waiting. Yet all Isla could do was stare at the photograph lying among broken glass. The woman in the picture was unquestionably her. Older, perhaps, but unmistakably her. The man standing beside her had dark windswept hair and striking gray eyes. His hand…

The day Rowan Hale saw her own reflection smile back at her, she knew something waiting beneath the frozen lake had finally learned her name. The reflection appeared only for a second. Rowan stood on the shore of Blackmere Lake as snow drifted through the pale afternoon sky. The woman in the water wore Rowan’s face, Rowan’s eyes, Rowan’s dark hair. Yet while Rowan stood motionless, the reflection smiled with unbearable sadness before vanishing beneath the ice. A crack split across the frozen surface. Then silence returned. Rowan stumbled backward, her pulse racing. She had lived in the remote mountain town of Ashcroft for nearly three years, hiding from a…

The obituary appeared three days before Evelyn died, and the most terrifying part was that every detail inside it was correct except the date. She stared at the yellowed newspaper clipping spread across her kitchen table while rain tapped softly against the windows. Her name was printed in faded black ink. Her age. Her profession. Even the tiny coastal town where she lived. The article described the accident that would supposedly claim her life on October twenty third. The only problem was that October twenty third was still three days away. At first she assumed it was some elaborate prank. Then she noticed the date printed at the top of…