Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPX4T2S28HS6P7BG2MV864

The air smelled wrong the moment Rory stepped past the standing stones. Not rotten, not sour—just *wrong*, like the scent of rain on hot pavement when the sky was bone-dry. She paused, her boot hovering over a patch of wildflowers that shouldn’t have been blooming in October, their petals too vivid, their edges too sharp. The pendant around her neck, tucked beneath her collar, pulsed once against her sternum. Warm. Alive. She exhaled through her nose, watching the breath fog in the unnaturally still air. *You came here for a reason.* Eva’s voice in her head, sharp with impatience. *Stop second-guessing and get it done.* Right. The grove. The thing Silas had muttered about over whiskey and clinking glasses, the thing that might—*might*—explain the nightmares, the way her reflection sometimes moved when she wasn’t. The way Evan’s voice still slithered into her ear when she was half-asleep, whispering *you’ll always be mine*, even though she’d buried him six months ago. Rory adjusted the strap of her bag and stepped forward. The trees closed in behind her. Not a sound, not a rustle—just the sudden, suffocating awareness that the path back was gone. She turned slowly, heart kicking against her ribs. The standing stones were still there, pale as old bones in the moonlight, but the gap between them—the one she’d just walked through—was sealed shut by a wall of brambles, their thorns black and glistening. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple. *Okay. Fine.* She could handle brambles. She reached out— —and the thorns *recoiled*. Not from her touch. From the pendant. The crimson gem flared once, bright as a dropped ember, and the brambles shrank back like burned fingers. The gap reopened. Rory’s laugh came out too high, too thin. "Christ on a bike." She scrubbed a hand over her face, the scar on her wrist itching. The grove was playing tricks. That was all. Fae shite, Silas had warned her. Illusions. Tests. She squared her shoulders and walked deeper in. The wildflowers crunched underfoot, their stems snapping like dry bones. The air hummed, a low vibration that settled in her molars, her fillings aching in response. She told herself it was the wind. It wasn’t the wind. A shape moved at the edge of her vision. Rory froze. Nothing in the grove now but the trees, their branches knitted so tight overhead that the moonlight filtered through in sickly green streaks. She turned a slow circle, fingers flexing at her sides. The pendant was warm against her skin, a steady, insistent pulse. *You’re imagining it.* Then the whisper came. Not words. Not quite. A sigh, a breath against the back of her neck, warm and damp as a living thing. She whipped around— Nothing. But the wildflowers where she’d just been standing were *bent*, as if something had brushed past them. As if something had *breath*. "Hello?" Her voice sounded too loud. Stupid. *Never announce yourself to the dark.* Silence. Then— A giggle. High, childlike, bubbling up from the earth itself. Rory’s stomach twisted. She knew that laugh. Had heard it in her dreams, skittering through the walls of her flat like a rat in the wiring. *Laila*, Evan’s voice would hiss after. *Laila, come out and play.* She backed up a step. The pendant burned. The giggle came again, closer this time, and then— A hand, small and pale, shot out from behind an oak and snatched at her sleeve. Rory screamed. The thing attached to the hand wasn’t a child. Not anymore. Its limbs were too long, its joints bending the wrong way, its face a smooth oval of stretched skin with no nose, no mouth, just two black pits for eyes and a lipless grin of needle teeth. It cocked its head, still clutching her jacket, and let out a wet, clicking sound. *"Maaaaal-pho-raaa."* Her blood turned to ice. That name. The one Evan had called her in the dark, the one that had made her skin crawl even before she knew what it meant. The thing’s fingers tightened, its nails—no, *claws*—digging into the fabric. Rory stumbled back, ripping free, and the creature let out a shriek, high and keening, like a teakettle left too long on the flame. She ran. Branches whipped at her face, roots snagged her boots, but she didn’t dare slow down. The giggling followed her, bouncing between the trees, now ahead, now behind, now *inside her skull*. The pendant seared against her collarbone, hot as a brand. The grove was shrinking, the trees pressing in, their bark splitting open to reveal glistening black mouths, their roots writhing like serpents in the dirt. Rory skidded to a halt at the edge of a clearing. A circle of mushrooms pulsed in the center, their caps weeping some thick, iridescent fluid. And beyond them— Evan. Not as she’d last seen him, face-down in a pool of his own blood, his skull caved in by the fire poker she’d swung in blind terror. No, this Evan was whole. Smiling. He stood with his hands in his pockets, his dark hair neatly combed, his suit immaculate, as if he’d just stepped out of the courtroom where they’d first met. As if he’d never hurt her. Never *touched* her. "Rory," he said, and his voice was warm, fond, the way it had been before the first slap, the first *you made me do this*. "There you are. I’ve been waiting." She wanted to scream. She wanted to sob. Instead, she bared her teeth. "You’re not him." Evan tilted his head, just like the child-thing had. "Aren’t I?" The mushrooms *popped*, one by one, releasing a cloud of spores that swirled toward her. Rory backed up, but the trees were behind her now, their branches knitting into a wall. The spores filled her nose, her mouth, sweet and cloying as rotting fruit. Her vision swam. Evan stepped forward, his shoes making no sound on the wildflowers. "You killed me, love. But you can’t kill *this*." He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek. His touch was cold. Wrong. "I’m part of you now. Just like Malphora." The name hit her like a physical blow. The pendant *burned*. Rory gasped, clutching at it, and the gem flared bright as a dying star. The illusion *shattered*. Evan’s face split open like overripe fruit, his skin peeling back to reveal the same smooth, lipless horror as the child-thing. The trees screamed, a sound like splintering wood and tearing flesh, and the grove *twisted*, the ground heaving beneath her feet. Rory fell to her knees as the world inverted—sky where earth should be, roots writhing like snakes in the air, the standing stones now looming above her, their shadows stretching into the abyss. And then— Silence. The grove was still. The air smelled of ozone and damp earth. The pendant’s glow faded to a dull ember. Rory was alone. She didn’t move for a long time. Her hands shook. Her breath came in ragged, uneven bursts. Slowly, she reached into her bag and pulled out the knife she’d brought—the one Silas had given her, its blade etched with runes that burned against her fingertips. She gripped it tight and stood. The path back was open. She didn’t look at the standing stones as she walked between them. Didn’t look at the wildflowers, or the trees, or the shadows that might have been watching. She kept her eyes fixed on the dark shape of Richmond Park beyond, on the distant glow of London’s lights, on the promise of Silas’s bar and the whiskey that would steady her hands. But as she stepped free of the grove, as the night air hit her lungs like a blessing, she heard it— A giggle. Faint. Fading. *Next time, Malphora.* Rory walked faster. She didn’t look back.