Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY80VB6AZK6Y2P10X2YPRYK

The Grove smelled wrong. Rory Carter stepped through the oak standing stones, her boots sinking into damp earth that gave off a metallic tang, like old pennies left too long in the rain. The air thickened around her, pressing against her skin. She exhaled, fog curling from her lips, though the night was dry. Richmond Park should’ve been quiet this late. But here, the silence wasn’t empty—it hummed. She adjusted the silver chain beneath her jacket, fingers brushing the Heartstone pendant. The crimson gem pulsed faintly, warm against her palm. *Hel portal nearby.* That’s why she’d come. Not that she’d admit it to herself, not even in the dark. The path ahead twisted between gnarled trees, their branches knitting overhead like skeletal fingers. Wildflowers bloomed in impossible clusters, petals too bright, too *alive*, their scent cloying. Rory’s stomach twisted. She’d seen this place in daylight—tourists, picnickers, dogs off-leash. But now? Now the Grove felt like a mouth holding its breath. A twig snapped. Rory froze. The sound hadn’t come from the direction of the path. It had come from *behind* her. She turned slowly. Nothing. Just the trees, their bark sloughing off in wet patches, like something had been *licking* them. The standing stones loomed at her back, their surfaces slick with something dark. Not moss. Not water. Her pulse hammered in her throat. She should’ve brought the knife from the kitchen drawer. Should’ve told Eva she was just grabbing takeout, not vanishing into the bloody woods. Another sound. A whisper of movement. Not the wind. Not an animal. Rory’s breath hitched. She reached for the pendant again, but the chain tangled in her fingers. The Heartstone’s glow flickered, then steadied. *Nearby.* Not here. Not *yet.* She forced herself forward, boots crunching on gravel that hadn’t been there yesterday. The path split. Left led deeper into the Grove. Right cut toward the park’s edge, where streetlights bled in like sickly veins. She took the left. The wrongness coiled tighter. A branch creaked. Rory spun. A crow perched on a low-hanging bough, its black eyes too knowing. It didn’t fly. Just watched. She exhaled sharply. *Birds don’t hunt people.* The crow tilted its head. Then it opened its beak—and something *dropped* from its throat. A seed. No, not a seed. A *tooth.* Rory’s blood turned to ice. The crow cawed, once, and took flight, but not away. It circled her, low, its wings brushing her hair. She stumbled back, her heel catching on a root. The pendant burned against her skin. The Grove *shifted.* The trees leaned in. The flowers’ petals unfurled faster, their scent now sickly sweet, like rotting fruit. Rory’s vision swam. The air thickened, pressing down on her like a physical weight. She could barely draw breath. A voice, so close it might’ve been in her head: *"You shouldn’t have come."* Rory’s knees nearly gave. She pressed a hand to the nearest tree trunk—bark gave way beneath her fingers like wet paper. She yanked her hand back. Blood welled from her palm. The trees *breathed.* She didn’t wait. Didn’t think. Ran. The path blurred. The Grove stretched, the standing stones now miles apart, their surfaces weeping black sap. Rory’s lungs burned. Her legs ached. The pendant’s warmth was the only constant, a pulse against her collarbone. A shadow moved ahead. Not a person. Not an animal. Something *wrong.* It had no shape, just a shifting dark at the edge of her vision. When she glanced, it was gone. When she didn’t, it *moved.* *"Lost, little thief?"* The voice slithered from the trees. Rory skidded to a halt, heart hammering. The standing stones loomed ahead, their edges jagged, *teeth-like.* She didn’t answer. Just turned and ran. The Grove *laughed.* The last thing she saw before the stones swallowed her whole was the crow, perched on the highest branch, watching. Waiting.