Run: 2026-10-20-01M5C6Q8FPW0Q38W20584831ZY

The oak standing stones rose from the mist like rotten teeth. Rory counted seven before the fog swallowed the rest. Trees shouldn’t sweat, but the air here was thick enough to wring out. It tasted of wet earth and something sweet—like fruit left too long in a bowl. She checked her phone. Four fifteen. She squinted at the time, then at the deep blue sky. The sun should have been up an hour ago. The phone’s screen flickered, the digits stuttering to four sixteen, then four fifteen again. The pendant flared hot against her collarbone. She slipped her fingers under her collar. The crimson stone felt like an ember. “Right,” she said, her voice falling flat into the fog. “Eva sends me to a magical forest to find a missing courier. In Richmond Park. At night. Top marks for logic, Eves.” Her torch cut a weak yellow path through the gloom. She’d come to the car park at eleven, as agreed. Eva’s instructions had been a desperate jumble on a voicemail: *The Grove, Rory. The courier’s gone missing and the package is still out there. The pendant will lead you. Just don’t—* The message had cut off. The pendant tugged with a dull pulse. It had led her through the park’s winding paths into a section she’d never seen on any map. The boundary was marked by the standing stones. Once she’d stepped between the seventh and the eighth oak, the world had changed. The distant hum of the city vanished. The air went still, then thickened, like stepping into an attic closed for decades. Rory swept the torch beam across the clearing. Wildflowers bloomed everywhere, a chaotic mess of colour—bluebells and foxgloves in full summer bloom, though it was February. The grass was soft and springy under her boots. The place smelled of growing things and something else, a dry, papery scent, like old books or dead skin. She kicked at a patch of clover. A beetle scuttled out, its shell an iridescent black. It moved with a jerky, unnatural gait, like a wind-up toy. She took a breath and walked forward. The pendant’s pulse quickened. She followed it, her boots leaving prints in the dew-damp grass. She passed a fallen log, its bark covered in a strange, pale moss that seemed to glow faintly. A sound, a low, resonant hum, vibrated through her ribs. She stopped. The hum faded. “Just a plane,” she said. No plane. The sky here was a deep, bruised violet. No clouds. No stars. She moved on, her torch beam bouncing off the standing stones she passed. They were marked with carvings, spirals and jagged lines. She trained the light on one. The grooves were worn smooth by time, but the carvings seemed deliberate. Not words. A warning? A map? She traced a spiral with her finger. The stone felt cold. It was like touching an empty socket. A twig snapped. The sound came from her left. She spun, the torch beam slashing through the mist. Nothing. Just the wall of trees. “Hello?” Her voice didn’t echo. It was swallowed by the fog, the way a stone sinks in mud. She kept walking, her steps faster now. The pendant was steady, a hot little coal of a compass. She refused to look behind her. That’s what people did in horror films, and they always tripped. She had enough scars. She didn’t need a sprained ankle. She came to a small stream, its water black and sluggish. The pendant stopped pulsing. She stood still, her breath loud in her own ears. The water was silent. No trickle, no burble. It didn’t flow, just sat there, a ribbon of dark glass. She knelt, her knees pressing into the soft ground. She reached out to touch the water. A reflection stared back. Not hers. A pale, gaunt face with hollow eyes and a wide, gaping mouth. Rory jerked back, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. The torch beam spun wildly, catching the trees, the stones, the stream. She looked again. The water was still. Empty. Just a black mirror reflecting her own face. The scar on her wrist ached. She gripped the torch tighter, the metal cold in her palm. “Get a grip, Carter,” she whispered. But her hands were shaking. She stood, her legs unsteady. She forced herself to walk on. The mist curled around her ankles like a living thing. She saw a shape in the fog ahead, a dark, hunched silhouette. She aimed the torch. An old woman sat on a stone bench, a bundle of firewood at her feet. She wore a threadbare shawl and her hair was a mass of tangled grey. “Lost, are we?” The old woman’s voice was like dry leaves rattling. Rory’s grip on the torch never loosened. “I’m looking for someone. A courier. He went missing.” “Missing?” The woman cackled, a dry, papery sound. “No one goes missing here, dearie. They just go somewhere else.” She gestured to the bench with a gnarled hand. The air around her smelled of damp wool and mothballs. “Sit. Warm yourself.” Rory took a step back. The torch beam wavered. “I’m fine.” “You’re trembling. Like a leaf in autumn. Sit. I won’t bite.” Rory didn’t move. The woman’s eyes, dark and wet, didn’t blink. The old woman smiled, her mouth a toothless gum. “He came through here, your man. Tired. So tired. He gave me his package to hold. Said he wanted to rest his eyes. Just for a moment.” The pendant flared hot again. Rory’s hand went to it. It was a warning, a warmth that was almost painful. The woman’s eyes flicked to Rory’s hand, then back to her face. “Where is he?” Rory asked. The old woman pointed a long, knotted finger at the ground at her feet. The grass there was flattened, a pale, yellowed depression. A cold certainty settled in Rory’s stomach. It wasn’t a patch of bare earth. It was a grave. The torchlight caught something glinting in the grass. A silver chain. A small, tarnished locket. Rory didn’t need to pick it up. She knew the face inside. She’d seen it on Eva’s desk. The old woman was still smiling, but her eyes were now black pools. “He’s resting,” she said. “And you look like you could use a rest too.” Rory backed away. Her boot caught a root. She stumbled, but she didn’t fall. The old woman rose from the bench, her movements fluid, not the creak of age. The firewood scattered. It wasn’t wood. It was a pile of bones, small and pale. “The package,” Rory said, her voice a thin string of sound. “I’m here for the package.” The old woman took a step forward. The mist curled around her like a pet. “Oh, that,” she said. “That’s been delivered. To the other side.” She pointed past Rory, to the trees. The pendant burned. Rory turned her head. Between the trees, a faint, sickly green light pulsed, like a heartbeat. A door. A way through. Rory ran. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. She could hear the soft, padding footsteps behind her, the rustle of dry fabric, the low, resonant hum that was now a deep, vibrating growl. She ran towards the green light, the pendant searing her skin. She hit the tree line and the light was gone, replaced by the grey dawn of a real morning. The sounds of the city—a distant car, a dog barking—rushed in with a sudden, shocking clarity. She fell to her knees on the damp grass of Richmond Park, her lungs burning. She checked her phone. Six o’clock. Three hours. She’d been in there for three hours. She looked back. The trees were just trees. No standing stones. No mist. No old woman. But when she looked down at her left wrist, next to the old crescent scar, there was now a new mark. A small, spiralling brand, red and raw. The pendant was finally cool against her chest. And empty. The crimson gemstone was a dull, flat grey.