AI The chill of the autumn night bit through Rory’s worn leather jacket, a stark contrast to the cloying warmth of the Golden Empress kitchen she’d left hours ago. Richmond Park lay before her, a vast expanse of darkness punctuated only by the distant, diffuse glow of London’s light pollution and the narrow beam of her phone’s flashlight. Her black hair, usually neat, had caught the wind, whipping across her bright blue eyes. She pulled it back, tucking a loose strand behind an ear, and pressed on, the scarred crescent on her left wrist a small, cool reminder of her own history with ill-advised escapades.
She had come here looking for answers, following whispered rumours of a woman who’d vanished near the park’s edge, a patron of Silas’s bar, no less. The police had shrugged it off as a runaway. Rory, however, knew better than to trust official dismissals when something felt off. Mrs. Hadley, the missing woman’s neighbour, had spoken of a “strange glow” and “ancient stones” in a secluded section of the park. It was enough for Rory to take the tube and then walk the last two miles, fueled by a deep-seated need to unravel mysteries, a trait that had often landed her in trouble but also made her formidable.
The path beneath her boots turned from asphalt to packed earth, then to a soft, yielding carpet of fallen leaves. The sounds of the city, once a low hum, faded with each step, replaced by the rustle of the wind through skeletal branches and the distant hoot of an owl. A disquieting silence settled, deeper than any silence she’d ever experienced in the heart of London. It felt like walking into a soundproof chamber, the air growing thick, muffling.
“Ancient oak standing stones,” Rory muttered to herself, echoing Mrs. Hadley’s disjointed account. She scanned the gloom, her flashlight beam cutting through the darkness, illuminating nothing but gnarled roots and towering tree trunks. Richmond Park was immense, a wild lung in the city’s concrete chest. Finding a specific, hidden clearing was like searching for a particular grain of sand on a sprawling beach.
Then, there they were. Not the distinct, man-hewn monoliths she’d half-expected, but colossal, ancient oaks, their trunks like twisted, arthritic giants. They stood in a rough circle, their branches interwoven, forming a natural archway, an organic gate. Even in the dim light, she could see they were far older, far larger, than any other tree in the vicinity. They exuded an aura of profound age, a silent, watchful presence. She felt it, a prickle on her skin, a sudden, inexplicable tightening in her chest. This was it. The Fae Grove.
A step inside the circle of oaks was like stepping through an invisible curtain. The air grew immediately, impossibly colder, yet the ground underfoot felt strangely soft, almost springy. And then, the wildflowers. They bloomed everywhere, vibrant splashes of crimson, sapphire, and gold, defiantly alive against the encroaching frost of late autumn. Their colours were too bright, their petals too perfect , their scent, cloying and sweet, hanging heavy in the still air. She knelt, touching a violet sprig. It felt real, tangible, yet utterly out of place. This was not a natural ecosystem.
The silence here was even more oppressive , a vacuum that pressed in on her ears. Every sound she made – the crunch of her boot on a wildflower, the rasp of her jacket – seemed amplified, then swallowed by the pervasive quiet. Her heart began to thump , a slow, heavy rhythm against her ribs. Rory, despite her cool-headed nature, felt a seed of unease take root. This was beyond odd. This was wrong.
She tightened her grip on the small silver chain around her neck, the Heartstone Pendant warm against her skin. It was faint, a barely perceptible heat, but it was there, a distant thrumming beneath the surface. It usually only pulsed with warmth when near something truly *other *, something that defied the natural order of things. She had never felt it react this strongly just to a place.
A whisper , like dry leaves skittering across stone, brushed past her ear. Rory spun, flashlight beam slicing through the darkness, but found nothing. Only the silent, watchful oaks and the unnaturally bright wildflowers. “Hello?” she called out, her voice a thin, reedy sound in the vast silence . No answer. Just the echo of her own word, then nothing.
She told herself it was the wind, the rustle of distant branches. Her mind, sharp and analytical, sought rational explanations. The wildflowers, beautiful aberrations, were merely a strange microclimate. The cold was a trick of air currents. The whisper was her imagination, frayed by the unusual circumstances and the lateness of the hour.
But the warmth of the Heartstone grew, a deeper, undeniable pulse against her collarbone. Not alarmingly hot, but a steady, insistent warmth that radiated through her shirt, a warning.
Rory took a cautious step deeper into the clearing. The oaks loomed , their branches forming an increasingly dense canopy overhead, blotting out the already faint light from above. The wildflowers grew thicker, their colours almost glowing with an inner luminescence. She felt a profound sense of disorientation, as if the ground itself had shifted beneath her. Was the path behind her still there? Could she even tell which way was out?
A faint scratching sound, like claws on bark, echoed from somewhere to her left. Rory froze, her breath catching in her throat. She swung her flashlight with a practiced hand, sweeping it high and low. Nothing. Only the rough bark of an oak. But the sound had been distinct, too sharp, too deliberate to be a natural settling of wood. It spoke of movement.
She started walking again, slowly , trying to maintain a semblance of direction, her eyes and ears strained. The silence , once absolute, was now fractured by these tiny, unsettling noises. A persistent *drip-drip * that faded when she stopped to listen. A low, continuous hum she couldn’t place, like the vibration of a string unheard. And still, the occasional, almost imperceptible rustle, always just at the edge of her vision, always just out of the flashlight’s beam.
She felt it then, a distinct pressure, like someone watching her from behind, impossibly close. The hairs on her neck prickled. She whipped around, her flashlight cutting a frantic arc through the air. For a split second, she thought she saw it—a flicker of shadow, deeper than the surrounding darkness, too angular to be a tree trunk, too quick to be real. It was gone before her brain could truly register it, leaving only a lingering chill in its wake.
“Okay, Rory,” she whispered to herself, trying to keep her voice steady. “Think. What would Eva say? Probably, ‘Get out, you idiot.’” But Eva wasn't here. Rory breathed deeply, trying to calm the frantic flutter in her chest. Her intelligence told her to observe, to analyze. Her gut screamed at her to flee.
She focused, forcing her eyes to pierce the gloom between the trees. The moonlight, what little there was, seemed to behave strangely here. Instead of casting clear shadows, it distorted them, elongating familiar shapes into grotesque forms. An innocuous bush became a hunched figure. A tangled root system twisted into clawed fingers. For a moment, she thought she saw a pair of gleaming eyes reflecting her light from deep within the foliage, but then they winked out, replaced by the innocent glitter of dew on a spiderweb.
The Heartstone was truly warm now, a steady, comforting heat against her skin, but also a stark reminder that she was stepping into something dangerous. It wasn't just a strange grove. It was a threshold.
A distinct, rhythmic *thump … thump … thump …* began from somewhere ahead. Not like footsteps , more like something heavy dragging, or perhaps a slow, deliberate beating. It was low, almost beneath the threshold of hearing, but unwavering . It resonated in the soles of her feet.
Rory moved towards it, against every instinct. Curiosity, a powerful, sometimes perilous force, overrode her fear. She had to know. She had come all this way, braved the deepening dread. To turn back now, without understanding, felt like a betrayal .
The wildflowers grew denser, taller, their vibrant colours almost assaulting her vision in the patchy darkness. She pushed through them, their silken petals brushing against her face, a sensation that was both soft and subtly invasive. The air grew heavier, thick with that cloying, sweet scent. The *thump * grew louder, more distinct, like a great, slow heart.
Then she saw it. Not a creature, not a person, but another circle of oaks, deeper in the grove . These were even larger, their trunks scarred and knotted like ancient knuckles. In the centre of this second circle, something stood. It wasn't a structure , but a column of swirling shadows, a vortex of distorted light and darkness, shimmering faintly with a sickly, internal green luminescence. It pulsed , slowly , rhythmically, with the *thump * she had been following.
It was impossibly dark at its core, drinking in whatever ambient light permeated the grove. And from its depths , she heard a sound—a soft, almost inaudible sigh, like a deep exhalation. The pressure of being watched intensified, clawing at her spine. She felt it everywhere now, not just behind her, but all around, a chorus of unseen presences .
The Heartstone began to throb , an urgent, frantic pulse against her neck now. It was almost painfully hot, a burning ember against her skin. Its faint inner glow intensified, casting a crimson sheen on her fingers as she instinctively clutched it.
Rory finally understood. This wasn't merely a strange pocket of nature. This was a direct, active gateway. And whatever was on the other side, or perhaps *loitering * on this side, felt incredibly close. She could almost taste it, a metallic tang on her tongue.
A shadow detached itself from the ring of oaks surrounding the pulsating vortex. It wasn't a shadow cast by light, but a shape itself, darker than anything around it, a hole in reality that moved with impossible grace. It was tall, impossibly thin, and flowed rather than walked. It had no discernible features, only a vague humanoid outline, a consuming void.
Rory’s breath wedged in her throat. Her blood turned to ice. This wasn’t a squirrel, not the wind, not her imagination. This was real. And it was looking at her. She felt its gaze, heavy and ancient, though there were no eyes to meet.
Her quick mind, usually her greatest asset, seized momentarily, overwhelmed by the sheer, impossible wrongness of it. But then, a flash of her analytical core broke through the terror. The warmth of the Heartstone was now scorching. A warning. Not just of presence, but of proximity . And a clear message: *run *.
She turned, not in a panicked scramble, but with the sudden, sharp precision of someone who understood her life depended on it. She didn’t look back. The rustling of the wildflowers, the soft earth, seemed to impede her movement, try to hold her. The air grew thicker, pressing in, as if the grove itself was trying to keep her.
The rhythmic *thump * from the central vortex suddenly quickened , becoming a frantic, guttural heartbeat. From behind her, she heard a sound, a slithering, liquid movement on the soft ground, rapidly closing the distance.
She ran, propelled by raw, primal fear, her bright blue eyes wide with terror, past the unnaturally blooming wildflowers, towards the outer circle of ancient oaks. The way back felt incredibly long, distorted. Had she been walking for minutes, or hours? The time anomaly of the Fae Grove was now her enemy, stretching the path, twisting the trees into an endless labyrinth.
The silver chain of the Heartstone dug into her neck, hot as molten lead. She pushed through the oppressive quiet, through the clinging, sweet scent, her lungs burning. The slithering sound was right behind her now, a cold breath on her neck. She could feel its presence like a palpable hum in the air, a predatory hunger.
Finally, she glimpsed the outer ring of the great oak standing stones. They looked impossibly far. She surged forward, her legs pumping , driven by a desperation she hadn’t felt since Evan, her ex, had pinned her against a wall. This was worse. This was the dark, unknowable, and utterly merciless.
She burst through the threshold of the trees, stumbling, sprawling onto the leaf-strewn ground of Richmond Park. The sound of her fall was shockingly loud, familiar , real. The biting cold of the true autumn night hit her, sharp and clean, a welcome shock after the Grove’s chilling warmth .
She scrambled to her feet, heart hammering, and dared a glance back. The Fae Grove was there, the circle of ancient oaks dark and silent against the faint city glow. The wildflowers were gone , replaced by the browns and greys of dying autumn foliage. The oppressive silence was replaced by the faint, comforting hum of distant traffic. It looked like any other part of Richmond Park, a patch of wilderness, ordinary and benign.
But the Heartstone still pulsed , though now with a fading warmth , a distant echo of the sheer intensity it had reached inside. Rory clutched it, her knuckles white. She was out. But she knew, with a terrifying certainty, that she hadn't been alone. And whatever watched from the heart of the grove, it had almost caught her.