The fog was always heaviest in the mornings, wrapping Ashgrove like an old, gray blanket. Maya Hart blew into her coffee cup, her hands shivering as she stepped out of Blackbird Café. The familiar clang of the shop's bell faded behind her, swallowed by the eerie quiet of the empty street.
She hadn't planned to stay in this sleepy town longer than a month. But plans, like the weather here, had a way of shifting. It had been six months now. Six long, uneventful months.
That was, until today.
"Did you hear about Lily?" Two women sat on a bench near the bus stop, their voices low but urgent. Maya paused, feigning interest in a flyer taped to a light post as she listened.
"Vanished, just like the others," one of them whispered.
"God, not another one."
Maya's stomach tightened. Another disappearance? She glanced at the flyer. Missing: Lily Monroe, age 19. The girl in the picture had wide, hopeful eyes and curly dark hair. A student at Ashgrove University, judging by the logo on her sweatshirt.
"Last seen near the woods," the other woman said. "What was she thinking, going there alone?"
"Same place they found that other girl's scarf last year," the first one replied, her voice trembling. "You couldn't pay me to go near those trees."
The woods. Of course. Maya turned away from the flyer and started walking, her curiosity piqued. She told herself she wasn't going to get involved. She wasn't a journalist anymore. She was just Maya Hart, barista and reluctant small-town transplant.
But her feet carried her toward the edge of town anyway.
The woods bordered Ashgrove like a jagged black crown, the trees gnarled and ancient. The deeper you went, the thicker the fog became, until the sun barely pierced through the canopy. Locals told stories about the woods—ghosts, curses, things that went bump in the night. Maya had dismissed it all as folklore, the kind of tales small towns clung to for identity.
Until now.
She almost missed it at first: a scrap of fabric caught on a thorny bush by the trailhead. The wind tugged at it gently, making it flutter like a tiny flag. Maya crouched down, her heart pounding as she reached for it.
It was a scarf, dark blue and soaked from the morning dew. She recognized the pattern immediately; it matched the one Lily wore in her missing-person poster.
Her breath hitched.
The fabric was torn, the edges frayed as if it had been ripped away in a struggle. And when she turned it over, she froze.
Blood.
It wasn't a lot—just a faint streak smeared across the fabric. But it was enough to send her heart racing.
Maya glanced around, suddenly hyperaware of how quiet it was. Too quiet. The kind of silence that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She stuffed the scarf into her bag and stood up, forcing herself to stay calm.
That's when her phone buzzed in her pocket. She fumbled to pull it out, relief flooding through her at the sound. A message? She didn't recognize the number.
The text read:
Stay out of this. Some things should remain buried.
Maya's fingers tightened around the phone. Her mind raced with questions. Who had sent this? How did they know she'd found the scarf?
She looked around again, her pulse thundering in her ears. The fog seemed thicker now, closing in around her like a living thing. Somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard the faint crunch of leaves, as if someone—or something—was watching her.
Without another thought, Maya turned and walked briskly back toward town. She didn't stop until the woods were behind her, the looming trees nothing more than shadows on the horizon.
She told herself she wasn't scared. She was just being cautious.
But deep down, she knew that wasn't true.
Whatever was happening in Ashgrove, it was bigger than a missing girl or a bloodstained scarf. And whoever had sent her that message… they didn't want her to find out the truth.