Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQJ9Q2VFVJCE59D2KATAGC

The air smelled wrong the moment Rory stepped past the standing stones. Not rotten, not sour—just *off*, like the scent of rain on hot pavement when no storm had come. She paused, fingers brushing the crimson pendant at her throat. Its usual faint warmth had sharpened, a pulse against her skin. The trees loomed taller here, their branches knitting into a ceiling that swallowed moonlight. Wildflowers carpeted the ground, too perfect, too bright, their petals unfurling in the dark like something breathing. She shouldn’t have come at night. The thought skittered through her mind, but she shoved it down. Eva’s voice echoed in her skull—*"Just leave it at the oak. No one else can touch it, Rory. You know that."* The package in her satchel weighed nothing, but it might as well have been a brick. She adjusted the strap, her free hand flexing. The crescent scar on her wrist itched. A twig snapped. Rory froze. The sound had come from behind her, but when she turned, the grove stretched empty, the standing stones silent sentinels. No wind. No animals. Just the flowers, swaying slightly, as if something had brushed past them. “Stupid,” she muttered. “It’s a park. Probably a fox.” She kept moving. The deeper she went, the heavier the silence pressed. No crickets. No distant hum of traffic from beyond the park. Even her footsteps made no sound on the spongy earth. The pendant’s glow seeped through her fingers when she clenched them around it, casting ruddy shadows on her palm. Then—laughter. High, thin, like a child’s. But wrong. Too many teeth in the sound. Rory spun. The grove yawned empty, the trees standing too still. “Hello?” No answer. Just the laughter again, closer this time, whispering from the branches above. She craned her neck. Nothing. Only the sway of leaves, the wrong-way bend of a bough where no breeze touched it. Her breath hitched. The satchel suddenly felt like a target. She broke into a jog, boots silent on the damp earth. The central oak loomed ahead, its trunk wide as a car, its roots twisting like serpents from the soil. The package needed to go there. Eva’s instructions had been clear: *Bury it at the base. Don’t look back.* Rory didn’t intend to. She dropped to her knees beside the oak, fingers scrabbling at the dirt. The soil was warm, almost pulsing, like digging into something alive. The pendant burned against her collarbone. She ignored it, tearing at the earth until her nails filled with grime. The hole wasn’t deep enough, but it would have to do. She yanked the package from her satchel—a small wooden box, unmarked—and shoved it into the ground. Dirt rained down as she covered it, patting the mound flat with shaking hands. A shadow moved at the edge of her vision. She jerked her head up. The grove stood empty. But the air *thrummed*, like a plucked string vibrating just beyond hearing. Her skin prickled. “Eva?” Her voice cracked. Stupid. Eva wasn’t here. Eva had warned her not to come at night. Something rustled in the undergrowth. Rory shot to her feet, back pressing against the oak. The bark was rough, almost *warm*, like leaning against a chest. The rustling circled her, slow, deliberate. Not an animal. Animals didn’t move like that—measured, *testing*. A whisper slithered from the dark. *“Little thief.”* Her lungs locked. The voice was wet, clicking, like stones grinding under water. The pendant flared, its crimson light bleeding through her shirt. She clapped a hand over it, as if she could smother the glow. The rustling stopped. The air held its breath. Then—laughter again. Closer. All around her now. Rory bolted. Branches whipped at her arms, not breaking, just *bending* to let her pass before snapping back. The standing stones were ahead, their jagged outlines a promise of escape. She didn’t dare look back. The laughter chased her, skittering through the trees, bouncing off the trunks like something with too many legs. Twenty feet. Ten. A hand clamped around her ankle. She went down hard, chin smacking the earth. Dirt filled her mouth. She kicked, twisted, but the grip was iron, fingers too long, too *cold*. The thing—*it*—pulled her back, toward the dark heart of the grove. She clawed at the ground, nails tearing, and screamed. The pendant seared her skin. She ripped it free, blindly hurling it behind her. The hand vanished. Gasping, she scrambled up, legs burning. The stones were right there, just— A shape lunged from the trees. Rory threw herself sideways. The thing—tall, too tall, its limbs bending at wrong angles—slammed into the oak. The tree *shuddered*, roots writhing like snakes. The creature turned, its face a smear of shadows, its mouth a slit too wide, too many teeth glinting in the dark. It saw her. She didn’t wait. She ran. The stones loomed, their ancient carvings pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat. She hurled herself between them— —and the world *ripped*. Cold air. The stink of petrol. Distant sirens. Rory collapsed onto pavement, her hands scraping against tarmac. She retched, her body heaving nothing but bile. Above her, the night sky was normal. *Safe.* The grove was gone. Shaking, she pushed herself up. Her wrist throbbed where the thing had grabbed her. Four dark bruises bloomed around her ankle, finger-shaped, already deepening to black. And the pendant— It lay in the gutter, its crimson glow dead. The chain was snapped. Rory stared at it. Then, with a shuddering breath, she scooped it up and clenched it in her fist. The bruises on her ankle *pulsed*.