Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR0PGZZC6BPZNTP0628NCG

The standing stones appeared exactly where Eva's cryptic text message said they would be, tucked into a forgotten corner of Richmond Park where the paths narrowed and the streetlights gave up trying. Rory checked her phone again—no signal, naturally—and pocketed it with a resigned sigh. The oak stones rose from the earth like arthritic fingers, their bark-covered surfaces catching the moonlight in ways that made them seem to shift and breathe. She'd come because Eva had been insistent, bordering on frantic. *Found something you need to see. Tonight. Don't bring anyone.* That last part especially worried her. Eva's messages were usually breezy, full of emojis and terrible puns. This one had the clipped urgency of someone looking over their shoulder. The pendant under Rory's shirt had been warm all evening, that faint pulse of heat against her sternum growing stronger as she'd taken the Tube from Southwark. Now, standing before the grove, it felt almost hot. She stepped between two of the standing stones. The air changed instantly—thicker, sweeter, with an underlying scent like honey left too long in the sun. Wildflowers carpeted the ground despite it being late October, their petals luminous in the darkness. The city sounds—traffic, distant sirens, the ever-present hum of London—cut off as completely as if someone had closed a door. Rory's breath misted in front of her face. Had it been this cold a moment ago? "Eva?" Her voice sounded wrong here, too flat, absorbed by the clearing rather than echoing. "This isn't funny." The flowers rustled though there was no wind. She pulled out her phone, thumbed on the flashlight. The beam seemed weak, barely penetrating a few feet ahead. The grove was larger than it had appeared from outside, the standing stones forming a wide circle that enclosed maybe half an acre. At the far end, she could just make out what looked like a low stone altar, though the shadows clung to it stubbornly. Her delivery experience had taught her to trust her instincts, and right now every instinct was screaming at her to turn around. But Eva's message had been desperate. If her friend was in trouble— Something moved at the periphery of her vision. Rory spun, the phone's light sweeping across empty space. Just flowers. Just grass. Just the standing stones with their bark-rough surfaces that seemed to have more texture than she remembered, patterns that might have been faces if you looked at them wrong. She walked deeper into the grove, feet crunching on things that weren't quite dead leaves. The pendant was definitely hot now, uncomfortable against her skin. She reached up to adjust it and froze. There were footprints in the soft earth. Fresh ones. Small, barefoot, with too many toes. Rory's hand instinctively went to her pocket, fingers closing around her keys. Not much of a weapon, but better than nothing. She followed the prints, phone held high, trying to watch everywhere at once. They led toward the altar, weaving between patches of flowers that seemed to lean away from the trail. "Eva, if you're here, I need you to answer me." She kept her voice level, controlled. Panic was useless. Panic got you hurt. "I got your message. I came." A sound drifted across the clearing. Soft. Musical. Not quite singing, not quite speech. It came from everywhere and nowhere, and it made her teeth ache. The footprints stopped at the altar. Rory approached slowly, the wrongness of the place settling into her bones like cold. The altar was old stone, worn smooth by time or hands, and carved with symbols that hurt to look at directly. They seemed to squirm when caught in her peripheral vision. On top of the altar lay Eva's phone. Rory's heart kicked against her ribs. She reached for it, then stopped. The screen was on, displaying their text conversation, but the timestamps were wrong. The messages Eva had sent—the frantic summons, the coordinates—were dated three days from now. "No," she whispered. "No, that's not—" The musical sound came again, closer now. Behind her. Rory turned slowly. The standing stones had moved. She was certain of it. They formed a tighter circle now, leaning inward like a crowd of curious giants. Between them, the darkness was absolute, a physical thing that pressed against the boundaries of her phone's light. And in that darkness, things moved. Not toward her. Not yet. Just back and forth, patient, methodical. She caught glimpses—something pale, something that might have been a hand but had too many joints, something that watched with eyes that reflected her light back in colors eyes shouldn't be. The pendant burned. Rory grabbed it through her shirt, hissing at the heat. The crimson stone was glowing now, pulsing in time with her hammering heart, and its light pushed back against the darkness in ways her phone's LED couldn't. That's when she understood. The pendant didn't just pulse near Hel portals. It warned her. Protected her. It was warning her now. "I'm leaving," she said to the darkness, to the things moving within it, to the grove itself. Her voice shook but held. "I'm taking my friend's phone and I'm leaving. Whatever this is, whatever you want—" The musical sound cut her off, and this time she understood it wasn't a sound at all. It was laughter. The flowers began to wilt. All at once, a wave of decay spreading outward from the altar like a stain. The sweet smell turned rotten. The temperature plummeted, and Rory's breath came in harsh clouds. She grabbed Eva's phone, shoved it in her pocket, and ran. The standing stones loomed as she sprinted toward them, and for a horrible moment she thought they'd closed completely, that there was no gap, no way out. But the pendant blazed against her chest, almost painfully hot now, and where its light touched the stones they seemed to flinch backward. She threw herself between them, felt that syrupy air tear like cobwebs, and tumbled onto the hard-packed earth of Richmond Park. The sounds of the city rushed back—beautiful, mundane, real. She scrambled to her feet, spinning to look back at the grove. The standing stones stood silent and ancient and perfectly still. Between them, the clearing was dark and empty. No flowers. No altar. Just ordinary grass and ordinary night. But as Rory backed away, heart still racing, she saw them. Dozens of footprints in the soft earth around the stones. Small, barefoot, with too many toes. They circled the entrance again and again, like something had been pacing there for hours. Or days. Or years. She ran for the main path, and didn't stop until she reached the lights.