AI The full moon, a silver coin tossed high, illuminated the twisting path, but Aurora felt its light offer little comfort. The air grew heavy, damp with impending mist from the Thames, clinging to her skin beneath her worn leather jacket. She pulled the collar tighter around her neck, its familiar weight a small anchor against the burgeoning chill . Richmond Park’s iron gates, usually bustling with late-evening joggers and dog walkers, now stood like silent sentinels , swallowed by the encroaching shadows.
A fortnight ago, a plain, unsigned note had arrived among her usual stack of bills. The elegant script, too perfect to seem human, drew her eye. *The Grove, under the full moon. Tonight, if you seek what calls to you.* No address, no sender. Only the symbol of a single oak leaf, etched with impossible detail. The Grove meant one place, the only patch of land in London that defied logic, the whispers a persistent hum among the few who knew.
She pushed through the creaking gate, stepping onto the soft earth. The familiar crunch of gravel under her boots disappeared, replaced by the hushed sigh of disturbed leaves. The sound swallowed itself, leaving only a profound silence , a heavy blanket draped over the landscape. This quiet was different from the city’s lull, a deeper, expectant hush, as if the very air held its breath.
The path narrowed quickly, trees pressing in, their skeletal limbs weaving a canopy that choked out the moon’s soft glow. She relied on the faint glimmer from her phone’s screen, a fragile beacon against the overwhelming darkness. The beam played over gnarled roots that snaked across the path, threatening to trip her. A sharp, sweet scent, like overripe petals and damp soil, filled her nostrils. It cut through the earthy aroma of the park, an unnatural perfume that pricked at her senses. It was the scent of the Fae Grove, even before she reached the boundary stones. Wildflowers, impossibly vibrant even in the near dark, sprang from between moss-covered rocks. Their blooms defied the late autumn chill .
She reached the perimeter, signaled by the ancient oak standing stones. Taller than a man, rough-hewn and scarred by time, they stood in a silent circle. Their surfaces bore faint, swirling carvings, indecipherable in the gloom . A sudden gust of wind, cold and sharp, whipped around her. It carried no rustle of leaves, no whistle through branches, just a spectral caress against her face. Rory shivered. Not from cold, but from something deeper, a sensation of crossing a threshold not just physical, but temporal . Her fingers instinctively wrapped around the smooth, crimson Heartstone pendant nestled against her collarbone. Its familiar warmth felt absent, replaced by a strange, almost inert coolness.
She passed between two of the giant stones. The air shifted, growing heavy, almost viscous. Sound seemed to warp, dulling the distant hum of city life into a faint, forgotten memory. No crickets chirped, no wind stirred the dense canopy. A profound quiet settled, not peaceful, but menacing . Every fibre of her being screamed to turn back, to ignore the bizarre summons. But the strange compulsion from the note, a lingering curiosity, urged her forward.
Her boots sank into surprisingly soft earth. The ground here felt different, spongier, as if alive. Tall, slender ferns, a variety she had never seen, brushed her thighs wetly. Their fronds, unusually dark, seemed to drink the meager light. She continued deeper, the trees forming an impenetrable wall around her. The moon now pierced through in broken shards, painting shifting patterns on the forest floor, creating a disorienting labyrinth of light and shadow.
A gentle *tap-tap-tap * echoed from somewhere off to her left. Rory froze. It held a hollow resonance , like knuckles rapping on aged wood. Her gaze darted, searching the inky blackness between the trees. Nothing. Only the gnarled trunks and the dense, silent undergrowth. She waited, breath held, ears straining. The sound did not repeat. Just her own heart, a frantic drum against her ribs.
She took another step. A dry twig snapped loudly behind her, a sharp crack that tore through the oppressive silence . Rory spun around, her flashlight beam cutting a frantic arc through the darkness. The light danced over moss-covered stones, fallen leaves, and thickets of thorny bushes. No animal, no person. Just emptiness. A shiver traced a path down her spine . The twig lay broken, its two halves separated by an impossible distance, as if something had snapped it then deliberately moved the pieces.
She moved on, forcing herself to maintain a steady pace. The grove’s interior manifested as a circular clearing, wider than she anticipated. The moonlight, though still fragmented by the canopy, seemed to concentrate here, illuminating a central feature. A giant oak, far older and grander than any she had ever seen, dominated the space. Its trunk was as wide as a small car, its branches reaching like grasping claws towards the sky. The leaves glowed with an unusual, deep emerald hue, almost black in the shadows.
A muffled thrum resonated from the ground beneath her feet, a low vibration that pulsed up through the soles of her boots. It was too deep to be an insect, too regular to be natural. It felt like the heart of the grove itself was beating . The wildflowers here, clustered around the base of the massive oak, bloomed in impossible shades of violet, crimson, and gold, their petals unfurling in the chill night air as if basking in an unseen sun . Their cloying scent intensified, making her head spin.
A faint light, not from the moon, emanated from behind the ancient oak. A soft, iridescent glow, like moonlight filtered through silk . Her professional caution, ingrained from navigating dimly lit city alleys, screamed at her to turn and run. But something about the light drew her forward, a moth to a dangerous flame.
She advanced slowly , her steps deliberate, her senses on high alert. The thrumming grew stronger, moving from the ground into the very marrow of her bones. A whisper , too faint for words, brushed past her ear. It did not sound like wind. It sounded like voices. Many voices, speaking in unison, a low, incomprehensible murmur. The hair on her arms stood on end.
She stopped at the edge of the large oak’s shadow. The iridescent glow, pulsing gently , emanated from a small, silvery pool nestled among its roots. The water churned slowly , reflecting the moon in fractured , rippling patterns. Its surface, however, seemed to absorb rather than reflect the surrounding darkness. The glow intensified for a moment, then dimmed, as if breathing .
A sound, a wet rustle, came from directly behind the pool, lost in the deep shadows of the tree. Not a small animal, not a leaf. Something larger, deliberate. Rory swung her flashlight towards the sound, the beam shaking slightly in her grip. Nothing. The shadows merely deepened, shifting and coalescing into impossible forms.
"Hello?" Her voice, a fragile thread in the vast silence , sounded alien and small. An echoing silence followed, deeper than before. The thrumming intensified, pressing against her eardrums. The air around her grew colder, each breath releasing a visible puff of vapor.
Then, from the impenetrable darkness at the edge of the clearing, a glint . A pair of bright eyes, reflecting the fragmented moonlight, stared back at her. Too large for any fox, too low to the ground for a deer. They held a silent, predatory intelligence. They blinked, once, slowly , and then vanished. Only the lingering afterimage burned behind her eyes.
Rory squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them, scanning the spot again. Empty. Had her mind played tricks? The lack of sleep from working two jobs, the tension , the weird atmosphere—it all contributed. But that wasn’t a trick of light. It was a direct, observed glance.
Another whisper , this time closer, distinctly formed yet utterly meaningless. It curled around a word, or a sound, she could almost grasp but never quite articulate. It felt like someone had breathed directly onto her neck. She whipped around. Nothing. Just the massive, indifferent trunk of the ancient oak behind her.
A high-pitched giggle, like glass chimes in a gale, drifted from the very top of the oak tree. The sound was too sweet, too innocent, to be anything but terrifying. It lacked all human inflection. Rory tilted her head back, her flashlight beam raking the enormous branches. She saw only the thick, emerald leaves, unnaturally dark against the moon. No source.
The thrumming picked up speed, becoming a rapid pulse , mirroring her own frantic heartbeat. The iridescent pool at the tree’s base began to bubble, small shimmering spheres rising to its surface before popping silently. The sweet scent intensified, now almost sickening, burning the back of her throat.
A deep groan, like the shifting of ancient rock, emanated from the roots of the great oak. The ground shuddered. Rory stumbled, catching herself against the rough bark of a nearby tree. The bark felt cold, slick with an unexpected moisture. She quickly pulled her hand back, her fingers slick.
The glint returned, this time not eyes. Something large and shadowy detached itself from the gloom at the clearing’s edge. It moved without sound, without displacement of the undergrowth. Slowly, deliberately, it stepped into a sliver of moonlight.
It was impossibly thin, a silhouette stretched taut, limbs elongated to disturbing proportions. Its form was human-like, yet profoundly not. Its head bore no discernible features, just a smooth, dark surface, reflecting nothing. It stood absolutely still, observing her. The air grew impossibly cold, stealing her breath. This was no trick of the light, no overactive imagination. This was real. And it was here for her.