Mischief

Derek was never one to believe in legends or local warnings. He was the kind of guy who thought every spooky tale was just a scare tactic to keep tourists in line. So when he planned his solo hiking trip through a remote Native reservation, he scoffed at the pamphlet that mentioned ancient spirits and cursed waters. “Marketing,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.

The sun was high when he stumbled across a small, hidden grotto tucked behind some thick brush. It wasn’t on the map, but that only made it more exciting. A clear pool of water shimmered inside, reflecting the sunlight through the cave's mouth like it was glowing from within.

As Derek approached, he heard a voice behind him—an old native man with a staff, calling out frantically:
"No! No! Mischief!"

Derek paused, confused. He gave a half-smile, thinking the old man was accusing him of goofing around.
“Relax, man. I’m just checking it out,” he called back. “No mischief here.”

But he was wrong.

The moment he dipped into the water, he felt a strange coldness seep into his bones. His vision blurred. His limbs tingled. And then... the world twisted.

When he pulled himself out of the pool, panting and dizzy, he staggered to a puddle to see his reflection. What stared back wasn’t Derek. It was a young woman—wide-eyed, beautiful, and completely unfamiliar. His hands, now slender and soft, trembled.

Panicking, he turned to see the old man again, now solemn and quiet.

"That is not a pool," the man said. "That is her grave. A girl once wronged and left to die. Her spirit remains—vengeful, powerful. She curses every man who dares to enter these waters… turning them into a mirror of who she was. They become... her."

Derek blinked, the weight of what just happened sinking in. A shiver ran down his now delicate spine.
The old man’s final words echoed in the grotto:

"You ignored the warning. I said: no. No mischief. But now... you are Miss Chief."