Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQFCH16MG9279Q8H71XPJE

The air in Richmond Park was too still. Rory Carter stepped past the last of the standing stones, her boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. The oaks loomed around her, their gnarled branches twisting like skeletal fingers against the bruised twilight sky. She shouldn’t have come at dusk. She knew that now. But the pendant had grown warmer against her skin with every mile closer to the Grove, its faint pulse insistent, almost eager. And Rory had never been one to ignore a mystery. She adjusted the strap of her backpack, the weight of the pendant pressing against her sternum through the thin fabric of her hoodie. The silver chain was cool against her collarbone, but the gemstone itself radiated a heat that seeped into her skin, a slow, creeping warmth that made her fingers twitch. She shouldn’t have taken it. Not really. But the note left with it—*For when you’re ready*—had been too cryptic to ignore. The Grove was supposed to be empty. That’s what the old books said, the ones she’d dug up in the British Library after hours, their pages yellowed and brittle with age. *A place between, neither here nor there.* But the air didn’t feel empty. It felt *watchful*. Rory exhaled, her breath curling in the cold. The standing stones marked the boundary, their surfaces etched with runes she didn’t recognize, their meanings lost to time. She traced one with her fingertips, the stone rough beneath her skin. A shiver ran down her spine. Not from the cold. From the way the runes seemed to *shift* when she wasn’t looking directly at them, as if they were alive. She pulled her hand back. The Grove stretched before her, a clearing bathed in the last dying light of the day. Wildflowers bloomed in impossible colors—deep violets, blues like crushed sapphires, whites that glowed faintly in the gathering dark. The scent was wrong, too. Too sweet, too thick, like perfume left to rot. It cloyed in her throat. Rory swallowed hard and stepped forward. The moment her boot crossed the threshold, the world *hitched*. Not a sound. Not a movement. Just a sudden, sickening lurch, like the ground had dropped out from beneath her for half a second before snapping back into place. Her stomach twisted. She staggered, her free hand flying out to brace against the nearest oak. The bark was smooth beneath her palm, unnaturally so, like polished bone. She yanked her hand away. The Grove was silent. No birds. No rustling leaves. No distant hum of London traffic. Just the sound of her own ragged breathing and the too-loud thump of her pulse in her ears. Rory forced herself to straighten. She was being ridiculous. It was just a clearing. Just an old bit of folklore. She’d come here for answers, not to jump at shadows. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the pendant. The crimson gemstone glowed faintly in the dim light, its inner light pulsing like a slow, steady heartbeat. She held it up, turning it this way and that. The note had said it would guide her. But to what? A twig snapped. Rory’s head jerked up. Nothing. Just the trees, their branches swaying slightly in a breeze she couldn’t feel. She exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around the pendant. *Get a grip.* She took another step forward. The flowers at her feet *twitched*. Rory froze. They weren’t moving. Not really. But the petals—deep, velvety things, the color of dried blood—seemed to *lean* toward her, as if straining for something. She crouched slowly, her breath shallow. The stems were too thick, too *veiny*, pulsing faintly beneath her gaze. She reached out, hesitated, then brushed her fingers against one. The petals *shuddered*. A sound escaped her—a sharp, involuntary gasp—as the flower *unfurled*, its petals peeling back like lips to reveal a dark, glistening core. Not a stamen. Not pollen. Something *wet*. Something that *moved*. Rory recoiled, her hand flying to her mouth. The pendant burned against her skin, its pulse quickening. She stumbled back, her boot catching on a root. She went down hard, her palms slamming into the earth. The impact sent a jolt up her arms, but she barely felt it. Her eyes were locked on the flowers. They were all doing it now. Every single one. Unfurling. *Breathing.* The Grove wasn’t silent anymore. A low, wet *clicking* filled the air, like a thousand tiny mouths working in unison. The sound slithered into her ears, into her *bones*, vibrating through her until her teeth ached. She scrambled to her feet, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The pendant was *scorching* now, its glow casting long, wavering shadows across the ground. She shouldn’t have come here. The thought was a scream in her skull. She should have left the damn pendant where she found it. Should have burned the note. Should have— A *laugh*. Rory’s blood turned to ice. It came from everywhere and nowhere, a sound like wind chimes made of glass, high and bright and *wrong*. It echoed through the Grove, bouncing off the standing stones, wrapping around her like a noose. She spun, her heart hammering against her ribs. “Hello?” Her voice was a whisper. A plea. The laughing stopped. The silence that followed was worse. Rory’s fingers clenched around the pendant. The gemstone was *pulsing* now, its light flickering like a dying flame. She didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t know what any of this meant. But she knew, with a certainty that settled like lead in her gut, that she wasn’t alone. Something was here with her. And it was *watching*. She took a step back, then another. The standing stones were behind her. If she could just— A *rustle*. Not from the trees. Not from the flowers. From the *ground*. Rory’s breath hitched. She didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to *see*. But her eyes were drawn downward anyway, as if pulled by some unseen force. The earth was *moving*. Not an animal. Not a root. The *dirt itself*, shifting, *seething*, like something beneath it was trying to break free. She stumbled back, her boot sinking into the soft earth. The pendant’s glow flared, casting long, skeletal shadows across the ground. And then she saw it. A *hand*. Pale. Too long. The fingers *twisted*, the knuckles swollen and wrong, the nails blackened and sharp as knives. It burst from the earth with a wet, sucking sound, the fingers curling into the air like a spider’s legs. Rory’s scream lodged in her throat. The hand *twitched*. Then another emerged beside it. And another. And another. The Grove *heaved*, the earth splitting open like a rotting wound. Hands clawed their way free, pale and glistening, their fingers digging into the dirt as they pulled themselves upward. Rory’s back hit one of the standing stones. She pressed herself against it, her nails digging into the rough bark. The first figure *sat up*. It was *human*. Or it had been, once. Now it was a *thing*, its body too long, too *bendy*, its limbs jointed in all the wrong places. Its skin was the color of old parchment, stretched too tight over its bones. Its face— Rory’s stomach lurched. Its face was *smooth*. No eyes. No nose. Just a lipless mouth, stretched too wide, too many teeth glinting in the pendant’s flickering light. It tilted its head, as if listening. Then it *smiled*. The sound that came out of it was a wet, clicking giggle. Rory’s breath came in ragged gasps. The pendant was *burning* now, its light casting jagged shadows across the Grove. The figures were *standing*, their bodies unfolding like broken marionettes. They turned toward her in unison, their heads tilting at the same angle, their too-wide mouths stretching into identical grins. The pendant’s glow *flared*. And then— Silence. The figures *froze*. The Grove held its breath. Rory’s pulse roared in her ears. She didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare *breathe*. Then, from the darkness beyond the standing stones, a *voice*. “Aurora.” It was a whisper. A sigh. A name spoken like a secret. Rory’s blood turned to ice. She knew that voice. She *knew* it. But it couldn’t be. Because Evan was dead. She’d made sure of it.