Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX4W857J3PPJ3KYZJD057W

The air in Richmond Park hung thick with the scent of damp earth and something older—something that didn’t belong to the world Rory knew. She adjusted the strap of her backpack, the weight of the Heartstone pendant pressing against her sternum through her hoodie. The standing stones loomed ahead, their gnarled roots twisting like fingers into the soil. They weren’t marked on any map, not even the ones tourists used to navigate the park’s trails. But she’d found them anyway, guided by the pendant’s faint, insistent pulse. She shouldn’t have come at night. The thought slithered in, unwelcome. The pendant had led her here, its crimson glow steady against her skin, warmer than it had any right to be. *Find the grove*, the note had said. *Before the next full moon.* No signature. No explanation. Just the pendant, left on her doorstep like an offering. Rory exhaled through her nose, her breath curling in the cold. The standing stones formed a rough semicircle, their bark blackened as if scorched by something that hadn’t been fire. She stepped between them. The world shifted. Not a sound. Not a breeze. Just a sudden, sickening lurch, like the ground had tilted beneath her feet. Rory’s stomach clenched. She reached out, her fingers brushing the rough bark of the nearest oak. It was warm. Too warm. Like flesh. She yanked her hand back. The grove stretched before her, a clearing bathed in silver moonlight that didn’t come from the sky. The trees here were wrong—too tall, their branches knotted into shapes that made her eyes ache. Wildflowers bloomed in impossible colours, their petals glowing faintly, pulsing like a slow heartbeat. The air hummed, a low vibration that thrummed in her bones. Rory swallowed. “Hello?” Her voice didn’t echo. It just… dissolved. She adjusted the strap of her backpack again, her fingers brushing the pendant. It burned now, a sharp, insistent heat. She pulled it free, the silver chain cool against her palm. The gemstone glowed, its crimson light casting jagged shadows across the ground. A twig snapped. Rory’s head snapped up. Nothing moved. The trees stood silent, their leaves still. But the sound had come from her left, from the edge of the clearing where the shadows pooled like ink. She took a step back. “Who’s there?” Silence. Then—a whisper. Not a voice. Not words. Just a sound, like wind through dead leaves, but wetter. Closer. Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. She turned slowly, her boots sinking slightly into the soft earth. The pendant’s glow flickered, dimming for a second before flaring brighter. Something was wrong with the trees. Their bark wasn’t just blackened—it was *moving*. Not swaying. Not in the wind. The grooves in the wood shifted, twisting like living things. Rory’s breath hitched. She took another step back, her heel catching on a root. She stumbled, her free hand shooting out to steady herself. Her fingers sank into something soft. She jerked her hand away. A face stared up at her from the ground. Pale. Too pale. The skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, the eyes sunken and black. The mouth was a lipless slit, stretched into a grin that didn’t reach the hollows of its cheeks. It didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just *lay there*, half-buried in the earth, its fingers—long, too many of them—curled into the soil like it had been *planted*. Rory’s scream died in her throat. The thing’s fingers twitched. She scrambled back, her boots slipping in the damp earth. The pendant seared her palm, its light flaring so bright it hurt. She clutched it tighter, her knuckles white. The whispering came again, louder now. Not from the thing on the ground. From the trees. From the flowers. From the *air itself*. Rory turned and ran. The grove didn’t let her. The path ahead twisted, the trees shifting like a living maze. She skidded to a halt, her chest heaving. The standing stones were gone. The way out—*gone*. A branch creaked behind her. She didn’t look. She bolted left, her boots pounding against the earth. The pendant’s light flickered, casting wild shadows. The whispering grew louder, a chorus of voices that weren’t voices, a sound that slithered into her ears and coiled around her thoughts. *Stay.* *Stay.* *Stay.* Rory gritted her teeth. “Fuck that.” She veered right, ducking under a low-hanging branch. The grove seemed to *breathe* around her, the trees leaning in, their leaves brushing her arms like skeletal fingers. She swatted at them, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might burst. A hand closed around her ankle. Rory screamed. She kicked out, her boot connecting with something solid. The grip loosened. She tore free, stumbling forward. The pendant’s light flared again, so bright it burned her eyes. She squinted, her vision swimming. The standing stones. They were there. Just ahead. The way out. Rory didn’t hesitate. She sprinted, her lungs burning. The whispering rose to a shriek, a sound that wasn’t sound, that *vibrated* in her skull. She didn’t look back. She didn’t stop. She crashed through the stones, her shoulder slamming into the rough bark. The world lurched again, that same sickening tilt. She gasped, her knees hitting the damp grass of Richmond Park. Silence. Real silence. The kind that came with the night, with the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of London traffic. Rory’s hands trembled. She clutched the pendant, its glow fading to a dull pulse. She was out. She was *out*. But as she pushed herself to her feet, her breath ragged, she realised two things. The pendant was colder than it had ever been. And the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist—*the one she’d had since she was a child*—was gone.