The heirloom box feels heavier now, the pulsing under its surface faint but unyielding, like a heartbeat I can't escape. My hands tremble as I place it back on the coffee table, stepping away as though it might explode. I need space to think, to breathe, but the air feels thinner here, suffused with something... alive. The whispers are gone for the moment, but their absence only amplifies the unnatural stillness of the cabin. Every creak of the wood, every faint groan of the wind through the cracks, feels deliberate, intentional. And Lily— I grit my teeth, the thought of her twisting in my mind like a knife. She's out there, somewhere, caught in the grip of this... thing. The Ridge has her, I'm sure of it. The lines blur, and I can't untangle them, no matter how hard I try. My gaze shifts to the scattered books and journals, the symbols scrawled across their pages like a taunt. The room tilts slightly as I reach for one of the journals, flipping it open with trembling hands. The words swim before my eyes, forming shapes I don't recognize and yet can't seem to look away from. The cabin creaks, the sound low and groaning, like it's agreeing with me. My pulse pounds in my ears, and my legs feel weak beneath me, but I can't sit still anymore. "You think you're going to take her?" I say, louder this time, addressing the cabin—or maybe the Ridge, or whoever is listening. "You think I'm going to let you have her?" The heirloom box hums faintly on the table, the sound pulling my eyes back to it. The symbols etched into its surface seem to shimmer in the dim light, almost as if they're shifting, rearranging themselves into something new. I stumbled back a step, my chest tight. "No," I whisper. I don't even think about what I'm doing as I head toward the front door. My hands shake as I grip the handle, yanking it open with more force than necessary. The sunlight floods the room, too bright, too cold, making me squint against the harsh glare. The doorframe feels wrong beneath my fingers, like the wood itself is pulsing faintly with the same unnatural energy as the box. I shove the thought away, stepping outside onto the porch. The Ridge stretches out before me, vast and silent, its edges blurred by the haze of the afternoon sun. My eyes drift to the tree line, the dark expanse of forest that feels alive in a way that makes my stomach churn. Lily's here. I can feel her. I move without thinking, heading toward the shed at the edge of the property. The stench hits me before I even reach the door, that rancid, metallic tang that clings to the back of my throat. I gag, but push forward, yanking the door open and grabbing what I need—the hammer, nails, and a few warped planks of wood leaning against the wall. The cabin's front door looms ahead as I return, the light spilling from the interior feeling too warm, too inviting, like it's mocking me. I set to work, the hammer heavy in my grip. The dried blood still crusted on its head catches the sunlight, a dark, rust-colored stain that I can't bring myself to wipe away. Each swing feels heavier, the hammer dragging with a weight that seems to seep into my bones as I drive the first nail into the wood. Bang. The sound reverberates through the cabin, sharp and jarring, but it feels right. Necessary. Bang. Another nail. Another plank. The door disappears beneath the makeshift barricade, sealing me inside. When I'm finished, I step back, sweat dripping down my temples despite the cool air. My chest heaves, and my hands ache from the strain, but it's done. No one's getting in. No one's getting out. I move to the back door next, repeating the process with shaky hands. Bang. The whispers return, faint and distant, curling around my name like a lover's caress. "Not real," I mutter under my breath, driving another nail into the wood. Bang. The whispers swell, overlapping, cascading over each other like waves. "Not real," I say again, louder this time, my voice cracking. The final plank goes up, the hammer slipping from my grip and landing on the floor with a dull thud. My knees buckle, and I sink to the ground, my back against the door as the whispers grow louder. I press my hands to my ears, rocking slightly as I whisper to myself, "It's not real. It's not real. It's not real." The whispers close in, overlapping, cascading over each other like crashing waves. I press my hands to my ears, rocking slightly. The room tilts around me, spinning in slow, nauseating circles. My breath catches in my throat, each inhale sharp and shallow. The whispers surge, louder now, one voice rising above the rest. Adam I freeze. My hands drop from my ears, my body going still as the voice cuts through the noise. "No," I whisper, shaking my head. My voice is barely audible. "No, no, no, you're not real." The wood behind me creaks, a low groan that vibrates through my spine. Adam The voice is soft, almost gentle, but it's wrong. It feels stretched, like it doesn't fit. I push myself to my feet, grabbing the hammer again, holding it in front of me like a shield. "Stay back!" I shout, my voice cracking. The cabin falls silent. For a moment, the stillness is suffocating, heavier than the whispers ever were. Then the door rattles behind me. I spin around, the hammer raised and trembling in my hand. The door doesn't move again, but I can feel it—something on the other side, waiting. Watching. "Lily?" I call out, my voice breaking. The word feels foreign in my mouth, like it doesn't belong here. No answer. The whispers return, faint and distant this time, like they're coming from inside the walls. They ebb and flow, wrapping around me, pulling at the edges of my sanity. Adam The voice again, closer now, but I can't tell where it's coming from. "Stop it," I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut. My knuckles whiten around the hammer's handle. "Just stop..." A faint tapping sound echoes through the room. My eyes snap open, and I scan the cabin, my heart pounding. It's coming from the books. I grab the nearest journal, my hands trembling as I flip it open. The pages blur for a moment, the letters twisting in front of my eyes like smoke. I blink hard, forcing myself to focus, but the words—if they're even words—don't make sense. Sharp, jagged symbols scratch across the page, angular and chaotic, like they're writhing just beneath the surface of the paper. "No," I mutter, my voice cracking. "No, no, no." I drop the journal and snatch another one, an older book with a cracked leather cover. The musty smell of mildew fills my nose as I yank it open, flipping through the pages so fast that some tear free and fall to the floor. Symbols again. Nothing I can read. Nothing that makes sense. My pulse pounds in my ears. I grab another, then another, ripping them open, scattering pages across the room. Every single one is the same—impossible symbols, foreign and alien, taunting me with their meaning. "This isn't right," I choke out. "This isn't fucking right!" I slam the last book shut and throw it across the room. It hits the wall with a dull thud, the pages splaying open in silent mockery. My hands are shaking. My chest feels like it's caving in. The books are scattered across the room, their symbols bleeding together in my mind like ink spilled on water. My breathing is ragged, each inhale burning my throat. I clutch the hammer tighter, its weight grounding me for a moment, but the silence creeps back in, filling the space left by my screams. And then it shifts. The whispers return, soft and insidious, like a breath against my ear. Adam My name stretches, the syllables distorting like a scratched record. I stagger to my feet, the hammer slipping slightly in my damp grip. "Where are you?" I yell, my voice hoarse. My head jerks toward the sound of the whispers, but they come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The journals on the floor shift—just slightly, like they're alive, breathing with the same faint pulse I felt in the box. My stomach turns. The heirloom box. I glance toward the coffee table, expecting to see it sitting there, humming with its unnatural rhythm. It's gone. The air rushes out of my lungs in a sharp gasp. "No... no, no, no." I drop to my knees, frantically scanning the floor, clawing through the books and scattered pages. My hands shake as I shove the journals aside, each one flipping open to those same jagged symbols, mocking me. "Where is it?" I whisper, my voice breaking. The whispers swell, louder now, curling around my thoughts. "Lily..." they mock me, her name twisting and echoing in tones that aren't hers. I slam my fists against the floor, the vibrations reverberating up my arms. "What do you want from me?!" My voice is hoarse, raw, like it's been dragged over gravel. The words tear from my throat and shatter in the air, breaking apart like glass flung against concrete. My cries echo off the walls, thin and splintered, before fading into the suffocating silence. The cabin groans in response, the walls shifting like they're breathing. My head snaps up, and for a split second, I swear the shadows on the far wall move—stretching, curling, twisting into shapes that make my skin crawl. I force myself to my feet, stumbling back as the shadows ripple. My legs feel like they're made of lead, every step an effort, but I can't stay here. The hammer dangles loosely in my hand as I stumble toward the kitchen. My mouth is dry, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. Water. I need water. Something to ground me. I grab the nearest glass, my fingers fumbling to fill it from the tap. The water spills over the edge, pooling around my hand, but I don't care. I drink in desperate gulps, the cold liquid soothing the rawness in my throat. But the whispers don't stop. The glass slips from my fingers and shatters in the sink as the voice rises above the rest. Adam It's louder this time, more forceful, coming from behind me. I spin around, the hammer raised, ready to swing. Nothing. The kitchen is empty, but the whispers don't fade. They're inside me, pressing against the edges of my skull, tightening like a vice. I stumbled back, gripping the edge of the counter for support. My head throbs, each pulse pounding behind my eyes. My vision swims, and for a moment, the room blurs, tilting like a funhouse mirror. And then I see it. The tea. The mug sits on the counter, still half-full, its faint steam curling into the air like a beckoning hand. My stomach churns as the scent hits me—herbs, faint and sweet, with an undertone of something sharp and metallic. My hand moves on its own, picking up the mug. The liquid swirls inside, dark and murky, reflecting the dim light of the cabin. I raise it to my nose, inhaling deeply. A memory flashes—a fleeting image of Lily, standing at the stove, her hands moving gracefully as she stirs something in a pot. Her voice drifts through my mind, soft and soothing. "This will help, my love. Just drink. It'll make everything clearer." My fingers tighten around the mug, and I throw it across the room. It hits the wall with a crash, the liquid splattering like blood across the faded wallpaper. The whispers twist with it, growing sharper, angrier, until they're no longer whispers at all but a cacophony of voices screaming in my ears. I clutch my head, dropping to my knees as the noise crescendos, drowning out every rational thought. And then, as quickly as they rose, the voices stop. The cabin is silent again. I lower my hands slowly, my chest heaving as I struggle to catch my breath. The world feels off-kilter, the floor tilting beneath me like a ship caught in a storm. And in the silence, a single thought surfaces, clear and unrelenting. This is my fault.