Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX5W4NJ9E4AGRG8KM2YEZX

The bike’s tyres crunched over frost-bitten gravel as Rory Carter killed the engine. The silence that followed wasn’t natural—it pressed against her eardrums, thick as wet wool. She swung a leg over the saddle and stood, rolling her shoulders to ease the ache from the ride. The air smelled of damp earth and something older, something that didn’t belong in Richmond Park at midnight. She shouldn’t have come. The thought slithered in, unwelcome. She’d been here before, of course—delivered takeaway to the posh houses skirting the park’s edge, even cut through the woods on her way back from the pub when she was too knackered to go the long way. But never at night. Never *alone*. The standing stones loomed ahead, their gnarled roots twisting like arthritic fingers from the earth. They marked the boundary of the Grove, or so the rumours went. Rory had heard the stories—whispers in Silas’ bar about folk who wandered in and came out different, or not at all. She’d laughed them off. Until the pendant had started burning against her skin. She fished it out now, the silver chain cool against her palm. The crimson gem pulsed faintly, its glow seeping between her fingers like a slow heartbeat. *Wrong*, her instincts screamed. But the note had been clear: *Midnight. The Grove. Bring the pendant.* No signature, no explanation. Just the promise of answers about the nightmares that had started plaguing her sleep—visions of a city that wasn’t London, of streets that writhed like living things. Rory exhaled, her breath fogging in the frigid air. “Right. In and out.” She stepped forward. The moment she crossed the threshold, the world *shifted*. Not a sound, not a movement—just a sudden, sickening *wrongness*, like the air had been stretched too thin. The trees here were too tall, their branches knitting together overhead in a canopy so dense it blotted out the stars. Wildflowers bloomed in impossible colours, their petals glowing faintly in the dark. The pendant flared against her chest, its heat searing through her jumper. She should’ve turned back then. But Rory had never been one to run. She pressed on, her boots sinking into the damp earth. The silence wasn’t empty—it *listened*. Every snap of a twig underfoot, every rustle of leaves, echoed like a gunshot. She told herself it was just the wind. Just the park playing tricks. Then she heard the whispering. Not words. Not quite. A low, rhythmic murmur, like voices speaking just below the threshold of hearing. It came from everywhere and nowhere, slithering between the trees. Rory’s fingers twitched toward the knife in her boot—useless, probably, but the weight of it grounded her. “Hello?” Her voice sounded too loud, too brittle. The whispering stopped. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She turned slowly, scanning the darkness. Nothing moved. Nothing *breathed*. Then—a sound. A wet, clicking noise, like something dragging itself through the undergrowth. Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. She took a step back, then another, her free hand groping for the nearest tree trunk. Bark bit into her palm, rough and real. The clicking grew louder. She didn’t want to look. But she *had* to. A shape emerged from the shadows. Tall. Too tall. Its limbs were too long, its joints bending in ways that made her stomach lurch. It moved in jerks, like a marionette with cut strings, its body swaying as if fighting against an unseen current. The face— Rory’s breath hitched. It had no face. Just smooth, featureless skin where eyes and a mouth should’ve been. But it *watched* her. She *felt* it. The pendant burned hotter, its glow casting jagged shadows across the ground. The thing tilted its head, and the whispering started again, louder now, a chorus of voices hissing from its lipless mouth. *You shouldn’t be here.* Rory’s fingers closed around the knife. “I was invited.” The thing stilled. Then, slowly, it raised one too-long arm and pointed behind her. She didn’t want to turn. But she did. The Grove had changed. The standing stones were gone. In their place stood a circle of figures—tall, slender, their forms wreathed in shifting mist. Their faces were sharp, angular, their eyes too bright, too *knowing*. Fae. The word slithered into her mind, unbidden. One of them stepped forward. A woman, if she could be called that. Her hair was the colour of moonlight, her dress woven from what looked like spider silk. She smiled, and Rory’s skin crawled. “Aurora Carter,” the woman said, her voice like wind through dead leaves. “We’ve been waiting.” Rory’s grip tightened on the knife. “Who the hell are you?” The woman’s smile widened. “Isolde. And you, little thief, have something that belongs to us.” The pendant pulsed against Rory’s chest, its heat bordering on pain. She didn’t answer. Didn’t breathe. Isolde’s gaze flicked to the thing behind Rory. “Take it from her.” The faceless horror lunged.