The book lies closed on the counter now, its presence heavy in the back of my mind. The faint light of day spills through the blinds, cutting thin beams across the mess in the cabin. It should feel safer now, with the sun shining, but it doesn't. I sit on the edge of the couch, my elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. My thoughts are tangled, looping back on themselves. The whispers have softened, but they're still there, just beneath the surface, pressing at the edges of my mind. I feel like I know more, yet less. The ridge, the cabin. All of it spirals in my head, refusing to form into something I can use. I don't even know where to start. I push off the couch, the sunlight cutting across my face as I stand. The light feels wrong—cold, distant, as if it's filtered through something unnatural. I rub the back of my neck, my fingers brushing the edge of a bruise I don't remember getting. I open the door to the basement, the cool air spilling out like a wave. "Maybe there's something else," I mutter to myself. The stairs creak under my weight as I descend. I flip the switch to cut on the light. Nothing. The wiring in this cabin has seen better days. I walk back up the stairs to grab the flashlight. I descend into the darkness once more, flashlight in hand. The beam slices through the dimness, illuminating shelves crammed with jars, books, and trinkets. The air is damp, earthy, and carries a faint metallic tang. Lily spent so much time down here. This was her sanctuary, her workshop, her... whatever it was. The flashlight wobbles as I move, casting shadows that seem to stretch and curl. I force myself to ignore them, focusing instead on the shelves and the stacks of books scattered on the floor. I crouch, sifting through the mess. I find a stack of leather-bound journals, their covers worn and cracked, and a few other books marked with strange symbols. I grab them, flipping briefly through the pages before setting them aside. I grab the journals and books before heading back toward the stairs. My legs feel heavier with each step, the sunlight above now casting a heavy contrast to the dimness of the basement. And then I see it. The rabbit. It's sitting in the doorway at the top of the stairs, its lifeless eyes fixed on me, black tar oozing steadily from them. My breath catches. My arms tighten around the pile of books but my legs won't move. It doesn't belong here—not in the daylight, not anywhere. I force myself to blink, hoping it'll vanish like a trick of my fevered mind. It doesn't. The rabbit shifts, its head tilting unnaturally to the side. A low, wet cracking sound follows, the noise grating against my nerves. The sunlight streaming through the open doorway doesn't touch it. Its body spasms. The tar drips faster now, hissing softly as it hits the floorboards. Its limbs jerk and stretch, bones snapping and shifting as its form contorts. I stumble back, the books slipping from my grip. The books tumble to the ground, landing with a dull thud that feels too loud in the oppressive silence. The rabbit rises, its shape twisting, elongating into something I can't describe. Its legs bend the wrong way, claws sprouting where paws should be. The fur sloughs off in patches, revealing gray, mottled flesh that seems to writhe on its own. I can't breathe. It takes a step forward, the staircase creaking under its unnatural weight. My flashlight flickers, the beam sputtering as if the air itself is trying to snuff it out. "No," I whisper, my voice trembling. The thing stops. Its eyeless face tilts toward me, black tar pooling in the corners of its gaping mouth. It doesn't move, doesn't make a sound, but its presence presses down on me like a physical weight. I close my eyes for a moment. When I open my eyes again the rabbit—or whatever it became—has vanished. The tar is still there, smeared across the floor like a stain that will never wash out. The cabin is silent again, the whispers faded, but the air feels heavier, thicker. I collect the books and journals off the floor and make my way up the stairs and slam the basement door shut behind me, leaning against it as my pulse pounds in my ears. The daylight streams through the windows, but it does nothing to warm me. My pulse pounds in my ears as I stare at the pile of journals and books I'd hauled out of the basement. I sink into the couch, the leather-bound book on my lap. My fingers tremble as I pick up one of Lily's journals, the cover soft and worn from years of use. The faint smell of lavender clings to it, but the scent feels wrong now—tainted, as if hiding something sinister. I open it, flipping through the pages, my eyes scanning the handwriting that feels so familiar and yet... foreign. The words blur together, spiraling into nonsensical shapes before snapping back into focus. Recipes, plant descriptions, weather observations—they're all there. But it's the way they're written that catches my attention. One entry stands out: "Gather rosemary and thyme under the full moon. Bind them tightly, then bury them at the foot of the oak to ward against unwanted spirits." "Unwanted spirits," I mutter, the words like ash in my mouth. "What spirits, Lily? What the hell were you trying to keep out?" I open another journal, this one older, the pages yellowed and brittle. My pulse throbs as I flip through it. I shove the journal away, the sudden movement making the books on the table shift. The sound of them scraping against the wood grates in my ears. The cabin creaks, the sound low and groaning, as if it's listening. My head snaps up, my eyes darting to the corners of the room where the shadows seem darker now, thicker. Adam... My stomach twists, and I clench my fists. "Shut up!" I yell, my voice echoing in the oppressive silence. The whisper fades, replaced by laughter. Soft at first, then louder, overlapping, a dozen voices blending into a chaotic chorus that drills into my skull. I cover my ears, but it doesn't stop. I close my eyes, desperate for the laughter to stop, but instead, my mind fills with flashes of Lily. She's in the garden, her hands dirty as she plants row after row of herbs. She looks up at me, her smile bright, but there's something in her eyes now—something sharp, calculating. "Do you ever wonder why the Ridge feels so alive?" she asks, her voice soft, almost too soft. The memory shifts. She's in the kitchen, mixing something in a bowl, her movements quick and precise. I remember asking her what she was making. She didn't answer, just smiled, her lips curving in a way that didn't reach her eyes. Another flash. Lily in the basement, her back to me as she works over a table cluttered with jars and dried plants. She's whispering something, her voice low and rhythmic. "What are you doing?" I remember asking. She didn't turn around. "Nothing you'd understand." My breathing grows shallow, my chest tightening as the images swirl together, one bleeding into the next. The laughter stops abruptly, leaving a ringing silence that makes my skin crawl. I open my eyes, my gaze darting around the room. Everything looks the same, but it feels different—off. The shadows are deeper, stretching unnaturally across the floor. The books on the table seem to shift slightly, as if moving on their own. I stare at them, unblinking, my heart pounding in my chest. "Stop it," I mutter. "You're not alive. You're just books. Just—" A thud from the corner of the room cuts me off. My head jerks toward the sound, my pulse racing. There's nothing there. "You think you're clever, don't you?" I say, my voice rising as I push myself off the couch. The cabin groans again, the sound low and guttural, like a living thing. I turn in a circle, my eyes scanning the room as the walls seem to pulse faintly, their edges blurring. "You're alive," I whisper, the realization sinking in. "This cabin... you're alive." I take a step back, my legs trembling, the floor beneath me feeling unstable, like it might give way at any moment. The books on the table shift again, their pages rustling as if caught in a breeze I can't feel. The heirloom box hums faintly, its symbols glowing softly in the dim light. "You've been working against me this whole time," I say, my voice cracking. The words die in my throat as the laughter returns, louder now, sharper, slicing through my thoughts like a blade. I clutch my head, falling to my knees as the cabin closes in around me. "Stop it!" I scream, my voice raw. "Just stop!" The laughter fades again, leaving me in suffocating silence. My body shakes as I push myself up, my hands gripping the edge of the couch for support. My gaze lands on the heirloom box, its surface pulsing faintly in time with the pounding of my heart. I don't know what's real anymore.