Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9HT51Y6RJZBZYCTFWC7WW

The air in Richmond Park was thick with the scent of damp earth and something older, something like iron and crushed petals. Rory Carter pulled her jacket tighter around herself, the fabric thin against the evening chill. She shouldn’t have come. Not alone. Not after the way the standing stones had loomed in the twilight, their gnarled roots twisting like fingers from the ground. But the pendant had led her here—had *pulled* her, really, its crimson glow faint but insistent against her collarbone. She’d felt it the moment she stepped through the oak archway, the way it had warmed against her skin, almost as if it were breathing. The Fae Grove wasn’t supposed to be like this. She remembered the stories—whispers from Eva about hidden glades where time bent and the veil between worlds was thin. But this? This was wrong. The wildflowers here didn’t just bloom; they *thrived*, their petals too bright, too perfect, as if they’d been painted on by a hand that didn’t understand decay. The trees stood too still, their leaves rustling in a wind that didn’t exist. Rory’s breath fogged in front of her, but the air was unnaturally warm, clinging to her skin like a second layer. She should have turned back at the first sign. But the pendant had called her deeper. Now, she stood at the center of the grove, where the standing stones formed a rough circle around her. Their bark was blackened in places, as if scorched by something that wasn’t fire. The crescent scar on her wrist twitched, a phantom ache she hadn’t felt in years. She flexed her fingers, knuckles cracking, and the pendant pulsed once, sharply, like a heartbeat. *You’re not alone.* The thought slithered into her mind, not her own voice, not quite a whisper—more like the memory of a voice, something half-remembered. Rory’s pulse jumped. She spun, half-expecting to see something, someone, but the grove was empty. The trees stretched upward, their branches knitting together overhead like the ribs of a sleeping giant. “Hello?” Her voice sounded too loud in the stillness. No answer. Only the faintest shift in the shadows at the edge of her vision—a movement, quick and deliberate, like a breath held too long. Rory’s stomach twisted. She shouldn’t have come. Not without Eva. Not without— *Without who?* The thought cut off. She didn’t know. She never did. The pendant grew warmer, its glow deepening to a bruise-like crimson. Rory lifted it, turning it in her fingers. The silver chain was cool against her palm, but the stone itself radiated heat, as if it were trying to burn its way through her skin. She should have left it behind. Should have thrown it into the Thames when she first felt it calling. But she hadn’t. And now she was here. A twig snapped. Rory froze. The sound came from the left, near the standing stones. She turned slowly, her boots crunching on dead leaves that hadn’t fallen—had been *placed* there, carefully, like offerings. The air smelled sharper now, like ozone and something metallic, like blood left too long in the sun. “Is someone there?” Her voice was steadier than she felt. Silence. Then—a rustle. Not from the trees. From *behind* her. Rory whirled, her heart hammering against her ribs. The grove was empty. The standing stones watched her, their bark grooved with symbols she didn’t recognize. Her breath came fast, shallow. She should run. She should *run*. But the pendant was burning now, its heat searing through the thin fabric of her shirt. She pressed her palm to it, and the pain was sudden, sharp—a brand, a mark. The stone pulsed again, and this time, the grove *answered*. The flowers at her feet trembled. Their petals unfurled too quickly, too perfectly, as if something had *touched* them. Rory stumbled back, her heel catching on a root. The ground beneath her wasn’t earth anymore. It was *soft*, spongy, like walking on a bed of moss that wasn’t there a second ago. A sound like wet fabric tearing split the air. Rory’s blood turned to ice. She knew that sound. She’d heard it in nightmares, in the quiet hours before dawn when the world was too still and her mind played tricks. It was the sound of something *stretching*. She didn’t look. She *couldn’t* look. But she felt it—the weight of eyes on her skin, the press of unseen breath against her neck. The pendant’s heat was unbearable now, searing through her fingers. She ripped it off, gasping as the chain bit into her throat, and hurled it into the dark. It didn’t hit the ground. It *floated*. Rory’s stomach lurched. The pendant hovered in the air, suspended between two of the standing stones, its glow pulsing like a dying ember. And then, slowly, it *moved*. Not toward her. Away. Deeper into the grove, where the trees grew thicker, where the shadows pooled like ink. She should have run then. But her feet were rooted to the spot. Because something was coming. She saw it first as a distortion in the air—a ripple, like heat off pavement, but wrong. The shape of a person, but not. Tall, too tall, its limbs too long, its movements jerky, like a marionette with cut strings. Its skin was the color of old parchment, stretched too tight over bones that didn’t quite fit. It had no face, or if it did, it was hidden beneath a mass of tangled hair that moved on its own, like serpents. Rory’s breath hitched. She wanted to scream. She wanted to bolt. But her body had forgotten how. The thing tilted its head—if it had a head—and the hair parted just enough for her to see the hollows where eyes should have been. Then, slowly, something *emerged* from the darkness behind it. A figure, smaller, wrapped in tattered robes. Its hands were skeletal, fingers too long, too many, and it moved with the same unnatural grace as the first. Rory’s mind screamed at her to run, but her legs wouldn’t obey. The pendant’s glow flickered in the distance, pulsing in time with something she couldn’t see. The air hummed, a low vibration that made her teeth ache. The thing with the hollow face took a step forward. Its joints cracked, wet and loud. Rory’s gaze snapped to its hands—no, not hands. *Claws*. Long, curved things that glinted in the dim light, like polished bone. She should have been terrified. But she wasn’t. Because the pendant was calling her again. Not with warmth this time. With *promise*. The thing reached for her, and the world tilted. Rory’s last thought, as the grove swallowed her whole, was that she should have listened to the part of her that had always known—some doors weren’t meant to be opened.