Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8A76C27T01WFJ1REHZ22Q

Rory Carter slipped through the iron gates of Richmond Park long after closing. Her delivery shift at Golden Empress had dragged into midnight, but the pendant burned against her chest, insistent. She followed its warmth through the city's veins—Tube to bus, bus to shadowed paths—until the park swallowed her whole. No joggers this late. No distant traffic hum. Just her boots crunching gravel that turned soft underfoot, like stepping onto a sponge. She checked her phone. 1:17 AM. Signal bars flatlined. Good. No distractions. The pendant throbbed now, crimson gem winking through her shirt collar. It had flickered first that afternoon, mid-drop-off in Putney, pulling her gaze west. Maps showed nothing special here, just deer and bracken. But stories from Silas' bar regulars—whispers of a grove where time twisted—matched the pendant's tug. An artifact like this didn't pulse for sod all. If it sensed a Hel gate, or whatever bridged worlds, this spot screamed candidate. She needed answers. Eva's cryptic texts about "doors opening" sealed it. Rory came prepared: torch, water, knife tucked in her sock. Cool-headed, always. The path veered left, oaks hulking like frozen giants. Branches knit overhead, blotting stars. Air thickened, sweet with pollen that shouldn't bloom in October. Wildflowers? She swept her torch beam low. Petals unfurled in violet and gold, faces turned upward, quivering. No wind stirred them. Her beam caught the first standing stone—twisted oak, bark etched with knots resembling eyes. She circled it. Another rose ten paces off, then a third. A rough triangle, ancient and deliberate. The air inside hummed, pressure building in her ears like a plane descent. She stepped across the boundary. Flowers carpeted the clearing proper, a riot under moonlight that poured too bright, too steady. No clouds scudded above. The oaks ringed the space, trunks bent inward as if listening. Centre: a flat boulder, moss-veined, big enough to sit on. Rory killed her torch. Eyes adjusted. Silence pressed. Her breath fogged, then didn't. Temperature plunged, then warmed without reason. The pendant scorched now, silver chain hot against skin. She yanked it free, held it aloft. The gem pulsed crimson, veins of light threading inward like blood in glass. "Okay, what the fuck are you?" she muttered, voice flat in the hush. No echo. Words sank into the earth. She paced the perimeter, fingers trailing bark. First stone's knots shifted under touch—ridged like fresh scars. She blinked hard. Still. Second stone wept sap, thick and dark, dripping in rhythm: plip, plip. Not sap. Too viscous, threading groundward like fingers probing soil. She jerked back. Sap resumed normal flow. Heart kicked once, hard. Imagination. Keep moving. Centre boulder called. She climbed up, boots scraping lichen that flaked like old skin. Sat cross-legged, pendant cupped in palms. Glow intensified, bathing her jeans in red. Close her eyes? No. Scan first. Edges of the grove blurred—flowers bleeding into shadow where oaks met sky. Something flickered there. A leaf? Deer silhouette? Gone when she turned. Rustle from the left. She froze. Ears strained. Leaves? No breeze registered on her cheeks. Rustle repeated, closer, dry scrape like claws on wood. From the stone nearest her entry point. She slid off the boulder, crouched low. Torch back on, beam stabbed the dark. Empty ring. Flowers nodded as if bowed. Rustle shifted right, behind her now. She spun. Nothing. Pendant thrummed against thigh, syncing with her pulse. "Show yourself," she hissed, knife drawn from sock. Blade caught moonlight, threw sparks. Silence answered, thick as tar. She edged toward the third stone, back to the boulder. Air grew heavy, each inhale laced with rot-sweet undertones—milk gone off, petals decaying mid-bloom. Flowers nearest her feet curled edges brown, wilting in seconds. She stepped clear. They perked up behind her. Footfalls muffled, ground spongy. Time check? Phone dead screen. Wristwatch hands blurred, stuck at 1:17. Wrong. All wrong. Peripheral: motion. Far right, between first and second stone. Shadow stretched, elongated, then snapped back. Humanoid? Too thin, limbs jointed wrong. She whipped the beam. Brambles. Thickened since arrival, thorns curling like hooks. Beam trembled in her grip. Steady. Breathe. Whisper now. Faint, layered. Not wind. Voices? Welsh lilt? Her mum's old stories—faeries stealing children, time thieves. Bollocks. But the whisper coiled: "Rooory... Laila waits..." Her alias from the Evan days. No one called her that now. Knife tightened. "Who's there?" Whisper giggled, splintered into multiples. Circled the grove, bouncing off stones. Flowers swayed in time, petals rasping like paper. She backed to the centre boulder, beam sweeping 360. Empty. Pendant scorched palm—dropped it. Chain tangled in moss, gem pulsing wild, light fracturing across the clearing. Shadows leaped, danced. One solidified at the entry stone: figure, cloaked in bramble and night. Hooded, motionless. Watching. Rory bolted forward. "Hey!" Figure melted into bark. Gone. Knife slashed air. Breath ragged. She snatched the pendant, shoved it deep in pocket. Heat seeped through denim. Run? No. Came for reason. Investigate. She charged the first stone, pressed ear to wood. Sap resumed dripping, faster. Plip-plip-plip. Inside the trunk: thud. Heartbeat? Slow, vast. Her own matched it. Pull away. Motion everywhere now. Edges of vision crawled—shadows peeling from oaks, slinking low. Flowers parted for them, stems bending aside. Whispers swelled: "Carter... Malphora... stay..." Names piled, alien and intimate. Malphora? Never heard it. Knife ready, she retreated to boulder. Climb again. High ground. Grove shrank somehow—stones closer, ring tighter. Or her eyes tricked. Torch beam weakened, yellow fading grey. Batteries fine this morning. Cut it. Moonlight sufficed, unnatural sharp. There. Left periphery: hand. Pale, elongated fingers tipped black, curling from behind second stone. Grasped air, withdrew. She lunged off boulder, closed distance. Bare earth where hand vanished. Soil freshly turned, nails embedded—human-sized, ragged. Not human. Whispers laughed outright, chorus rising. Flowers bloomed wider, centres pulsing like tiny hearts. One brushed her ankle—petal soft, then sticky. Yanked free. Sap clung, burned skin. Crescent scar on wrist itched, old accident flaring. Alone? Bollocks. They watched. Waited. Pendant vibrated, chain rattling pocket. Pulled it out. Gem blazed, illuminating the ring: shadows thickened into forms. Dozens. Hunched, eyeless faces tilted. No advance. Just stared. Air compressed, chest tight. Time warped—watch hands spun backward now, seconds blurring. She spun, knife out. "What do you want?" Forms rippled, giggled in unison. One stepped forward—bramble-cloaked, face hidden. Limbs too many, joints popping. Extended a hand. Offered something: wilting flower, centre her scar shape. Rory slashed. Petals exploded, black ichor splattered stone. Form shrieked—sound burrowing ears, burrowing mind. Others surged, shadows boiling. She ran blind for the boundary, boots sinking in flower carpet that grabbed ankles. Stones loomed, oaks leaning to bar path. Pendant screamed heat, pocket smouldering. Whispers chased: "Stay, Rory. Time enough..." She burst past first stone. Park engulfed her—normal oaks, gravel path. Gasped air, real and cold. Phone lit: 1:20 AM. Three minutes inside? Torch died proper. She ran, didn't look back. Grove entrance yawned behind, flowers peeking, whispers fading. But pendant still pulsed. Hotter. Figures stirred at vision's edge, in the park now. Following. She gripped knife tighter. Kept running. Rustle in the trees. Closer.