AI The air smelled wrong the moment Rory stepped past the standing stones.
Not *bad *, exactly—just thick, like the breath of something old and patient, exhaled through the damp earth. The scent of crushed wildflowers clung to her boots, too sweet, too heavy for late autumn. She paused, fingers tightening around the strap of her backpack. The trees here grew too close together, their gnarled branches knitting a canopy that swallowed the moonlight whole. She should’ve brought a torch. Should’ve told Silas where she was going . Should’ve done a lot of things, really , but Eva’s voice had been frantic on the phone—*"Rory, you have to see this, it’s the same as your pendant, I swear to God"*—and so here she was, stumbling into Richmond Park at half-past midnight like some fool out of a Gothic novel.
Her breath fogged in the cold. She exhaled sharply, watching the mist dissipate between her gloved fingers. The pendant at her throat pulsed once, warm against her skin. That was new. It had never done that before, not in the three months she’d had it. Rory touched the crimson stone, tracing its edges with her thumb. The glow inside it flickered , like a banked ember stirred to life.
A twig snapped behind her.
She spun, heart hammering. Nothing. Just the trees, their black trunks slick with moisture, their roots twisting like serpents beneath the undergrowth. The grove was silent—too silent. No owls, no rustling hedgehogs, not even the distant hum of traffic from the A3. Just the slow *drip, drip * of water from somewhere deep in the shadows.
*"Right,"* she muttered. *"Just a deer. Or a fox. Or a bloody badger."* She adjusted her backpack and stepped forward, boots sinking into the damp loam. The wildflowers here were wrong , too—vibrant bluebells and foxgloves in full bloom, their petals luminescent in the dark. They shouldn’t have been alive, not in November. Not like this.
The pendant pulsed again, hotter this time. Rory swallowed. Eva had said the carvings on the standing stones matched the ones on the pendant’s silver chain. *"Like, exactly the same, Rory. I took photos. You have to see."* And now Eva wasn’t answering her phone.
Another sound—this one a whisper , like fabric brushing against bark. Rory froze. The hair on the back of her neck stood up . She wasn’t alone.
"Eva?" Her voice came out thinner than she intended. No answer. Just the wind, sighing through the leaves. Or—no. Not the wind. The sound was too deliberate, too *shaped *. Like a breath held just a second too long before being released.
She reached into her pocket, fingers closing around her phone. The screen lit up , casting a pale blue glow over the forest floor. No signal. Of course. Rory exhaled through her nose and tucked it away. The pendant’s warmth was bordering on uncomfortable now, pressing against her sternum like a second heartbeat.
A shadow moved .
Not hers. Too tall, too *wrong *. It flickered at the edge of her vision, a dark smear against the darker trees. Rory turned her head slowly , muscles locked tight. Nothing. Just the grove, just the flowers, just the—
A handprint.
Fresh. In the mud at the base of an oak, fingers splayed wide, as if someone had braced themselves against the trunk. The skin of her wrists prickled. She crouched, squinting. The print was too large to be Eva’s. Too large to be *human *. The fingers ended in points, like claws, or—
*"Rory."*
Her name, hissed from the dark.
She was on her feet in an instant, backpack swinging wildly. "Who’s there?" The words echoed , swallowed by the trees. Silence. Then—
Laughter.
High and thin, like a child’s, but wrong , *wrong *, the kind of sound that slithered down your spine and coiled in your gut. It came from everywhere and nowhere, bouncing between the trunks until Rory couldn’t tell if it was in her head or outside it. Her hands shook. The pendant burned.
"Show yourself," she demanded, voice steadier than she felt. A branch creaked above her. She didn’t look up .
Something rustled in the undergrowth. Rory backed toward the standing stones, her pulse a frantic drumbeat in her throat. The wildflowers parted—no, *moved *, bending away from something unseen. A shape emerged from the dark, low to the ground, too many limbs, too many *joints *. It scuttled forward, then stopped, cocking its head. The laughter came again, wet and clicking.
Rory’s breath hitched. The thing was *wearing * Eva’s scarf.
The wool was filthy, torn, but unmistakable—deep green with a frayed edge, the one Eva had knitted herself last winter. Rory’s stomach lurched . "Eva?" she whispered.
The thing tilted its head the other way. Moonlight glinted off something pale and rounded—an *eye *, too big, too glossy, like a beetle’s. It blinked. A row of needle-thin teeth gleamed in the dark.
Rory bolted.
Branches whipped at her face, tearing at her hair, her clothes. The grove seemed to shift around her, the trees leaning in, the path twisting like a living thing . She didn’t dare look back. The laughter followed , skittering at her heels, closer now, *hungry *. Her lungs burned. The standing stones were just ahead, the boundary, the way *out *—
A hand shot out of the dark and grabbed her wrist.
Rory screamed, jerking back, but the grip was iron, fingers digging into the scar on her left wrist. The pain was white-hot, searing . She twisted, swinging her free arm wildly, and connected with something solid. A gasp. A *human * gasp.
"Eva?" Rory choked out .
The grip loosened. A figure stumbled into the pale light filtering through the trees—Eva, her dark curls matted with leaves, her coat torn at the shoulder. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown black with terror. "Rory," she breathed. "Oh God, Rory, *run *."
Rory didn’t hesitate. She grabbed Eva’s hand and dragged her toward the standing stones. The laughter swelled behind them, a chorus now, a hundred clicking throats. The ground trembled . Roots burst from the earth, snaking across their path. Rory leapt, yanking Eva with her. The roots lashed out , catching Eva’s ankle. She went down with a cry.
"Get *up *!" Rory hauled her friend to her feet, her own breath coming in ragged bursts. The stones were right there, just a few more steps—
A shadow detached itself from the trees.
Tall. Too tall. Limbs too long, fingers too many, its body a shifting mass of darkness and *teeth *. The thing that wasn’t Eva’s scarf was draped around its neck like a trophy. It smiled.
Rory’s blood turned to ice.
Eva screamed.
And then—
A *crack *, like thunder, like the world splitting open. A gust of wind howled through the grove, tearing at the trees, the flowers, the *thing *. The standing stones *glowed *, a searing white light, and the boundary between the grove and the rest of the park *ripped *. Rory felt it like a physical force, a hook yanking her backward. She hit the ground hard, Eva landing beside her with a grunt.
Silence.
Then— birdsong. Distant, normal, *real *. Rory gasped, rolling onto her back. The sky above was the right color. The air smelled like petrol and damp earth, not like *breath *. She clutched the pendant. It was cool now, dark.
Eva was crying . Rory sat up , crawling to her side. "Hey. Hey, it’s okay. We’re out ." Her hands shook as she checked Eva for injuries—no blood, no broken bones, just bruises, just fear.
Eva grabbed her wrist, her nails digging in. "It’s not over," she whispered. "Rory, it *followed * us."
Rory turned.
A shadow stretched across the grass, too long, too *wrong *. It pooled at the base of the standing stones, thick as oil, creeping toward them.
And from the dark, the laughter started again.