Darkness presses against my eyelids, heavy and suffocating. My body is stiff, my head throbbing as though I've been sleeping on cold stone. I crack my eyes open and immediately wince. The faint light of the moon filters through the cracks in the shed's rotting walls, casting jagged shadows that dance unnaturally. The smell hits me next—rank and cloying, like something rotting mixed with damp earth. I sit up slowly, my hands brushing against the rough, splintered floorboards. A faint stickiness clings to my fingers. Tar. I rub my hands together, trying to wipe it off. How did I get here? I blink, trying to piece together the scattered fragments of my memory. The last thing I remember is collapsing— I can't make sense of it. I glance around the shed. The space feels wrong, like it's shifted somehow. Tools hang crookedly on the walls, their shadows stretching and bending in ways that make my stomach churn. A hammer lies at my feet, smeared with what looks like blood. I push myself to my feet, my knees shaky beneath me. My head spins as I take a step forward, reaching for the door. It creaks open with a groan that feels too loud, cutting through the suffocating silence like a scream. Outside, the world is bathed in darkness. The house is just visible in the distance, its windows black and lifeless. The forest stretches beyond it, an endless sea of shadows. The night is unnaturally still—no wind, no rustling leaves, no sound at all. Lily. Where is she? "Lily!" I call out, my voice cracking and hoarse. The sound feels small, swallowed by the oppressive silence. I step outside, the damp air clinging to my skin. Something glints in the moonlight near the shed. I crouch down, my hand brushing against a small object caught in the dirt. It's her bracelet—one she's worn every day since I gave it to her a few years ago. A knot forms in my stomach. She was here. I rush back toward the cabin, now clutching my flashlight in one hand, my voice tearing through the quiet. I fling the door open and step inside, the air heavy, carrying faint traces of woodsmoke and dust that do nothing to steady my fraying nerves. "Lily! Where are you?!" Nothing. Just the echo of my own panic bouncing off the walls. I tear through the rooms, one by one. The kitchen is empty, no sign she was ever there. The bedroom is untouched. I check the bathroom, the living room—every inch of this place—and find nothing. No clues. No Lily. I stand in the middle of the cabin, staring at the floor, trying to think. My pulse is pounding in my ears, drowning out every rational thought. She's not here. She has to be somewhere. The flashlight feels heavy in my hand. I click it on and step back outside. The night air is colder now, biting through my shirt as I sweep the beam across the tree line. The woods look darker than they should, the shadows thicker, deeper. "Lily!" I shout again, my voice cracking. The light catches something—a glint of red on the ground near the edge of the trees. I step closer, my throat tightening. Drops of blood. They're fresh, glistening faintly in the moonlight. I glance down at the bracelet in my hand, then at the blood. My stomach twists as the image of the hammer flashes in my mind, its handle slick and dark. I force my feet forward, following the trail into the woods. The flashlight shakes in my grip, the beam darting over gnarled roots and tangled underbrush. The blood leads deeper, each drop a sickening marker pulling me along. The forest feels wrong. No wind, no insects, no rustling leaves. Just the crunch of my boots and the sharp snap of a twig underfoot. Then I hear it—a rustling sound to my left. I freeze, swinging the flashlight toward the noise. The beam trembles, cutting through the dark, but there's nothing there. "Lily?" My voice is barely above a whisper now. The rustling grows louder, moving behind me. I spin around, my heart hammering so hard it feels like it might break free from my chest. "Is that you?" Something darts through the shadows just ahead, fast and low, too quick for me to see clearly. "Wait!" I stumble forward, the light bouncing wildly as I try to keep it in view. For a second, I think it's her—a small, thin figure moving through the trees. "Lily!" I call, pushing through the underbrush, the branches feeling alive as they claw at my arms, scraping my skin like they might drag me down into the dirt. The figure stops, just out of reach, barely visible in the faint light. My feet stumble, the flashlight shakes as I raise it higher. It's not her. The thing steps into the beam of light, and my stomach drops. Its skin hangs in rotting patches, gray and peeling, revealing raw sinew beneath. Its head tilts slightly, and my breath catches in my throat as I see its face—or what should be its face. There's nothing there. Just a smooth, featureless expanse where eyes, a nose, a mouth should be. My legs lock in place. My mind is screaming at me to run, but my body won't move. The thing tilts its head again, as if studying me, and takes a single, deliberate step forward. I stumble back, choking on a scream. The thing moves again, faster this time, lurching toward me with a jerky, unnatural gait. I turn and run. Branches slap against my face as I tear through the woods, my breaths coming in ragged gasps. The flashlight swings wildly in my grip, the beam catching glimpses of shadows that seem to stretch and follow me. The cabin comes into view, a lifeline in the darkness. I throw myself onto the porch and slam the door behind me, my chest heaving. I slide down to the floor, clutching the flashlight against me like a shield. The cabin is deathly quiet, the silence pressing down on me as my pulse thunders in my ears. That thing—it wasn't Lily. But it was watching me. And it knew me. The cabin feels wrong. I don't know how else to describe it—like something has shifted, tilted off its axis. The air is heavy, suffocating, and every shadow seems to creep a little too far. "Lily?" I call again, my voice cracking. No answer. I step further into the cabin, cutting on the light. The air feels dusty and stale, carrying the weight of abandonment, as if no one has stepped foot in the cabin for years. The living room is a mess. Scratches rake across the walls, deep gouges carved as if by frantic hands. The furniture is overturned, cushions shredded. Herbs are strewn across the floor, their broken jars glittering like shattered ice. The faint smell of lavender and rosemary mixes with the metallic tang of something sharper. Blood? I crouch down, my hands trembling as I sift through the mess. Her sweater. It's caught on the edge of the couch, torn and smeared with dark stains. My pulse radiates as I move into the kitchen. The table is overturned, one leg broken clean off. Cabinets hang open, their contents spilled onto the floor—tea tins, dried herbs, empty jars. Lily's apron is crumpled in the corner, smeared with what looks like tar. She was here. She fought. "Lily!" I shout again, the name bursting from my throat like a plea. That's when I hear it. Her voice. Soft, faint, like the whisper of a breeze: "Adam..." I spin around. "Lily?!" My eyes dart across the room, landing on nothing but overturned chairs and scattered debris. I hold my breath, straining to hear it again. Adam... It's behind me this time, just a whisper, barely there. My heart pounds as I stumble toward the hallway. The light flickers, casting shadows that twist and writhe. For a split second, I see her. Lily. She's at the end of the hall, her hair falling over her shoulders, her silhouette illuminated faintly in the darkness. My chest tightens with relief. "Lily! Wait!" I call, but as I take a step forward, she's gone. The hallway is empty. "No. No, no, no." My voice shakes as I move forward, sweeping my eyes across the walls. The scratches are worse here, claw marks gouged deep into the wood. My stomach churns as I notice something else—words, etched hastily into the walls between the scratches: Don't follow me. The letters are jagged, uneven, carved as if with shaking hands. "Lily?" My voice is a broken whisper now. Another flicker of movement catches my eye. I spin around, my eyes landing on the bedroom door. It's ajar, swaying slightly as if someone had just passed through. I step inside cautiously. The bed is unmade, the sheets tangled on the floor. Her journal lies open on the nightstand, pages fluttering in an unseen breeze. I grab it, my hands shaking as I scan the pages. The handwriting is frantic, messy, as if she wrote it in a panic: "Adam, if you're reading this, you can't undo what's been done. Please, stop trying to find me. You must leave this cabin." I swallow hard, my breath catching in my throat as I scan the next page. "They're not real. The voices, the shadows—they're not real. It's trying to break you. If you listen to them, you'll be lost." The words feel like a punch to the chest. My grip on the journal tightens as I turn the page, desperate for something more. "There's an heirloom box in the closet. Take it with you. Leave this place, Adam. Don't look back" I stumble backward, my head spinning. Heirloom box? My mind races, trying to place what she's talking about. Another sharp, metallic bang echoes through the cabin, and I nearly drop the journal. "Lily!" I shout, spinning around. She's there. For a fleeting moment, she stands in the doorway, her silhouette backlit by the faint light from the hallway. . Her lips move, forming words I can't hear. I take a step forward, my hand reaching out. "Lily!" But she vanishes again, dissolving ash. I slam the journal shut and drop it on the bed, rushing to the closet. My hands fumble with the handle before I yank it open. Inside, buried beneath old quilts and a box of holiday decorations, is a small wooden chest. The heirloom box. It's heavier than I expect when I lift it, the wood smooth and worn with age. There's no lock, just a simple latch keeping it shut. My fingers hover over it, but something stops me. Her words echo in my head: "Take it with you. Leave this place." I hesitate, the air in the room growing colder. The walls seem to groan, the cabin alive with faint whispers that swirl around me. I clutch the box tighter, my heart pounding. Another whisper cuts through the noise, soft but clear, right behind me: Adam... I spin around, but there's no one there. Just shadows dancing along the walls and the oppressive cold seeping into my skin. Her voice comes again, faint and pleading: Leave, Adam. Leave. The sound of her voice freezes me in place. My grip on the heirloom box tightens, the wood pressing into my palms. I should go. I should. But I don't. My breath comes in short bursts as I place the box on the kitchen table, my hands trembling. The whispers have stopped, leaving an oppressive quiet that feels even worse. The box sits in front of me, its latch glinting faintly in the dim light. I run my fingers over the smooth wood, hesitating. My chest tightens, her words still echoing in my mind. "Leave this place. Take the box and leave." But I can't leave. I flip the latch and open the lid. Inside, the smell of old paper and herbs greets me. The box is packed with items—bundles of dried plants, candles, folded papers. My hands brush against a folded piece of cloth, and I pull it aside, revealing a thick, leather-bound book. The cover is embossed with intricate symbols, some of which look vaguely familiar—shapes I've seen in the scratches on the walls, in the tar on my back. My throat tightens as I pull the book out and place it on the table. It's heavier than I expected, the leather worn smooth with age. The edges of the pages are frayed, some stained with what looks like ink—or blood. I open it slowly, my fingers hesitant, and the scent of aged parchment fills the air. The first page is filled with writing, elegant but jagged, as if etched in haste: "To the daughters of our bloodline: within these pages lies the strength of our heritage. Let this book be your guide to protect what is sacred." My heart pounds as I flip to the next page. It's covered in illustrations and text, handwritten notes crammed into the margins. Herbs, spells, rituals—things I don't understand and don't want to. "No," I whisper, shaking my head. This can't be real. The words blur together as I skim through the pages, my disbelief growing. Symbols and chants, invocations and protections—every page is more unbelievable than the last. I stop on a section that's different from the rest. The handwriting changes, slanted and hurried, as if added later. My stomach churns as I read: "The Ridge is alive." I clutch my head as a sudden, searing pain explodes behind my eyes. It's sharp, relentless, like someone driving a knife straight into my skull. "Ahhh—fuck!" I gasp, the sound tearing from my throat. I press my palms to my temples, trying to will the pain away, but it only grows worse. "No," I mutter again, slamming the book shut. My hands are shaking, my pulse pounding in my ears. This is ridiculous. It's impossible. My head swims as I push away from the table, pacing the room. "No, no, no," I whisper to myself, running a hand through my hair. But the cabin feels alive around me. The air is thick, humming with something unseen. The scratches on the walls, the tar, the whispers—they all point to something I can't explain, something that doesn't fit in my neat, rational world. My eyes fall back to the book on the table. A sudden noise jerks me out of my thoughts—a creak from the bedroom, sharp and deliberate. My blood runs cold as I stare at the darkened hallway. "Lily?" My voice is hoarse, trembling. The creak comes again, closer this time. I grab the book and hold it tightly against my chest, as if it might shield me from whatever's coming. "Lily, if that's you..." I take a step toward the hallway, my legs feeling like lead. The air grows colder with every step, the familiar chill seeping into my skin. The cabin feels heavier, darker, like it's swallowing me whole. And then I hear it. A whisper, faint but unmistakable: Adam... why didn't you listen?