Run: 2026-09-25-01M3CKJ4THV1EMNCW7W182MJ67

The ancient oaks loomed like sentinels, their gnarled branches twisting into the bruised twilight. Rory stepped over the threshold of the Grove, her boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. The air smelled of wet moss and something sweeter, like overripe fruit left to rot. She adjusted the strap of her bag, the weight of the Heartstone Pendant a steady warmth against her chest. She shouldn’t have come at night. Eva’s warning echoed in her skull—*Don’t be stupid, Rory. That place isn’t right.* But the pendant had pulsed all afternoon, a slow, insistent thrum against her skin, and she needed answers. The standing stones marked the boundary, their bark etched with symbols she didn’t recognise. She ran her fingers over the grooves, the wood smooth under her touch. The Grove was silent. Too silent. No birds, no rustling of small creatures in the undergrowth. Just the distant whisper of wind through leaves that didn’t belong to any tree she knew. Rory exhaled, her breath curling in the cold. She pulled out her phone. No signal. Of course. She tucked it away and pressed on, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of wildflowers. They shouldn’t be blooming this late in the year. A twig snapped behind her. She froze. The sound was sharp, deliberate. Not the settle of wood or the scuttle of an animal. A footstep. Rory turned slowly. The Grove stretched empty, the shadows pooling like ink between the trees. Nothing moved. “Hello?” Her voice sounded thin, swallowed by the space. No answer. She faced forward again, her pulse hammering in her throat. The pendant’s warmth flared, a sudden heat against her sternum. Something shifted at the edge of her vision. She whipped her head around. A flicker of movement—pale, too tall—darting between the oaks. Gone before she could focus. “Who’s there?” Silence. The hair on her arms rose. She forced herself to walk, her steps quicker now. The flowers beneath her feet seemed to shiver as she passed, their petals trembling without wind. A whisper slithered through the air, a voice like dry leaves skittering across stone. *Rory.* She spun. The Grove was empty. Her breath came faster. That wasn’t Eva’s voice. Wasn’t anyone’s she knew. The whisper came again, closer this time, wrapping around her like a hand on her shoulder. *Malphora.* Her blood turned to ice. No one called her that. No one *knew* that. A rustle in the undergrowth. She dropped into a crouch, her fingers closing around a fallen branch. The shadows between the trees deepened, coiling like smoke. The pendant burned against her skin. Then—a sound. A wet, clicking noise, like teeth on bone. Rory stood, her grip tightening on the branch. “Show yourself.” The clicking stopped. The air thickened, pressing against her skin. She could *feel* it now—the weight of something watching her. Waiting. A figure stepped from behind an oak. Tall. Too tall. Its limbs stretched unnaturally, its joints bending in ways that made her stomach twist. Its face was a blur, a shifting mass of shadows where features should have been. It tilted its head, the movement jerky, like a marionette with its strings pulled too tight. “You shouldn’t be here,” it said. The voice was a chorus of whispers, layered and wrong. Rory’s throat went dry. She took a step back. The figure mirrored her, its movements fluid, silent. “This is my place,” it murmured. “My *grove*.” The pendant’s heat flared, searing through the fabric of her shirt. She clutched it, the metal biting into her palm. The figure lunged. Rory swung the branch. It connected with something solid, a crack echoing through the Grove. The figure staggered, its form rippling like disturbed water. Then it *laughed*, a sound like breaking glass. She didn’t wait. She ran. The trees blurred past her, their branches clawing at her clothes, her hair. The ground beneath her feet seemed to shift, the path twisting as if the Grove itself was rearranging to trap her. Behind her, the clicking grew louder, faster. A root snagged her ankle. She went down hard, her palms scraping against the earth. The figure’s breath hot on her neck. “You can’t leave,” it hissed. “Not yet.” Rory rolled, kicking out. Her boot connected with something soft. The figure recoiled, its form flickering like a dying flame. She scrambled to her feet. The standing stones were ahead, the boundary of the Grove. If she could reach them— A hand, cold and skeletal, closed around her wrist. She screamed, twisting. The figure’s face was inches from hers, its breath reeking of decay. The pendant blazed between them, its crimson light casting jagged shadows across the thing’s shifting form. It hissed, recoiling. The light seemed to burn it. Rory wrenched free and sprinted. The stones loomed ahead. She didn’t look back. Didn’t dare. She crashed through the boundary, the world lurching as she stumbled into the familiar path of Richmond Park. The Grove vanished behind her, as if it had never been. The night air was cold, normal. The pendant’s warmth faded to a dull pulse. Rory didn’t stop running until she reached the lamplight of the main path. She bent over, gasping, her hands shaking. Behind her, the Grove was just a cluster of trees in the dark. But the whisper followed her, a final, lingering touch against her mind. *Next time.*