Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09V64KRZ8FA7B1SKC38H25

The full moon hung low over Richmond Park, casting long, skeletal shadows through the trees. Rory stepped off the worn path, her boots crunching on frost-hardened grass. The air smelled wrong—too sweet, like overripe fruit left to rot in the dark. She adjusted the strap of her delivery bag, fingers brushing the pendant beneath her jacket. It pulsed once, sharp and warm, like a second heartbeat. The standing stones loomed ahead, their gnarled oak surfaces bleached bone-white in the moonlight. She counted five instead of the usual seven. A mistake—must’ve been a mistake. The stone near the center had a fresh gouge, deep and jagged, as if something had clawed its way out. *Just get the damn job done.* The thought came sharp, cold. She wasn’t supposed to be here. No one was. But Eva’s message had been frantic, almost nonsensical: *Something’s wrong with the stones. The pendant’ll help. Hurry.* And now Rory stood where she shouldn’t, under a sky that felt too small, too close. The first sound hit her right foot. A wet crunch. Footsteps in the grass, too heavy for hers. Her breath hitched. No one else was supposed to be here. She turned slowly, boots angled toward the trees. Nothing. A gust of wind cut through the branches, and for a second, the Grove didn’t just feel wrong—it *moved*. A shudder ran through the air, like heat off tarmac on a summer’s day. The trees leaned in. Not enough to notice, not enough to scream, but enough to know something wasn’t right. Rory exhaled through her nose. She crouched, pulling the Heartstone pendant from her jacket. The crimson gem caught the weak light like a drop of fresh blood. No glow. Not tonight. Just a dull, stubborn warmth. “Okay,” she muttered, “so what now?” A snap of a branch behind her. She spun, hand flying to her hip where her knife should be. Empty. Delivery bag. That’s all. No knife. No phone. Nothing but the pendant and her wits. A shape moved between the trees. Tall. Too tall. Bulky, but not broad. Its form rippled like heat haze over road, solid one second, gone the next. Then back—closer. Right at the edge of her vision, just out of focus. Her pulse hammered in her throat. “I don’t have time for this.” A whisper slithered through the air, not quite words, like someone dragging fingernails across a windowpane. Rory’s fingers tightened around the pendant. It pulsed again—stronger now. The air thickened, sweet and cloying, like honeysuckle left to ferment. The shape stepped forward. Fully there. Fully *wrong*. It had the rough outline of a person—head, torso, limbs—but the proportions made her stomach twist. Its arms hung too long, fingers ending in curved, yellowed nails that scraped the bark of a nearby tree. The face was smooth, featureless, like a doll’s but stretched too tight. Rory didn’t move. Didn’t blink. It tilted its head. A wet sound came from its throat—part growl, part gurgle. “You’re not on the map,” Rory said. The thing took a step closer. Its feet didn’t quite touch the ground, just hovered a few inches above the grass, disturbing the frost in a slow-motion circle. She swallowed. The pendant’s warmth spread up her arm, sharp as pins and needles. “I said,” Rory repeated, voice steady, “you’re not on the map.” The faceless thing lunged. Not a charge. Not a sprint. It was *unfurled*, like a blade snapping open, moving faster than anything should. Rory barely had time to flinch before it was on her, hands—*hands*—gripping her arms with cold that burned worse than frostbite. “Shit—” Its mouth opened. Not a mouth. A *split*, vertical and glistening, lined with needle teeth that dripped something dark and thick. She yanked her arms back, the pendant flashing as she swung it between them. The thing hissed, recoiling like it’d touched a brand, but its grip didn’t slip. Rory stomped down hard on its instep. A foot, maybe, but the texture was wrong—soft, yielding, like treading on old mushroom. It staggered, just for a second, enough to wrench herself free. She bolted. Branches whipped at her face, wet and heavy. The air clogged her lungs, thick as syrup. Behind her, the thing made a sound like tearing silk—angry, hurt. Her breath came in ragged gasps. She veered left, cutting toward the standing stones. Maybe she could circle back to the path. Maybe Eva’s bar was closer than she thought. Something shifted in the dark ahead. A figure stood between the trees. Same height. Same wrongness. But this one wore a dress—or what used to be one. Rags of fabric clung to its frame, stained dark. Its long fingers were clasped together, palms open, as if in prayer. It stepped forward. The moonlight fell on its face—or what should’ve been a face. Now just a smooth, featureless mask with a single vertical slit where a mouth should be. Rory skidded to a stop. Her back met a tree trunk, bark biting into her ribs. The first creature staggered into view behind her, breathing in wet, rattling bursts. The one in front tilted its head. The vertical mouth split wider—just a little—and a sound leaked out. A word? Or just wind through bone? “Malphora.” The pendant burned against her skin, crimson glow flickering like a failing flame. Rory’s mind raced. *Names work in stories. They trap things.* She swallowed. “Isolde.”