ELENA'S POV
The creak of the front porch was as familiar as the house itself. I used to jump over the loose board as a kid, pretending the floor might swallow me whole. But now, as I stood on the weathered steps of my grandmother's home, the sound felt different—heavier, like it carried more weight than just old wood and rusty nails.
I knocked twice on the door, out of habit more than anything. My grandmother never locked her doors when I was a child. She always said Silverwood was safe, that no one in their right mind would bother with her house. But tonight, when the door didn't budge, I frowned.
"Grandma?" I called, pressing my hand against the cold wood.
The lock clicked, and the door opened just a crack. My grandmother's face appeared, pale and lined with worry. Her sharp blue eyes scanned me quickly before softening. "Elena," she smiled, her voice trembling. "You made it."
She opened the door fully, and I stepped inside. The scent of lavender and cinnamon filled the air, a smell so deeply tied to my childhood that it made my chest ache. The house was just as I remembered—small, cluttered, and cozy, with stacks of books covering every available surface. But the warmth I'd always associated with it felt...dimmed, like something invisible had seeped into the walls.
"You didn't have to lock the door." I said, setting my bag down by the entryway. "This town isn't exactly known for crime sprees."
My grandmother gave me a tight smile but didn't answer. Instead, she shuffled toward the kitchen, her steps slower than I remembered. The frailty in her movements was a stark reminder of why I was here.
"Are you okay?" I asked, following her into the kitchen.
"I'm fine." She said, though the rasp in her voice betrayed her. "Just old bones acting up. Sit, I'll make you some tea."
I watched her carefully as she moved around the small kitchen, her hands trembling as she reached for the kettle. She'd always been a force of nature, strong and unyielding, even after my parents died. Seeing her like this—so small, so fragile—made me feel like the ground was shifting beneath my feet.
"How was the drive?" She asked, her back to me.
"Long," I admitted. "And strange."
She glanced at me over her shoulder. "Strange how?"
I hesitated, debating whether to tell her about the man I had encountered in the woods. It felt ridiculous now, sitting in the warm light of her kitchen, but the memory of his piercing eyes and the urgency in his voice was still fresh.
"There was a man," I said slowly. "Standing in the middle of the road just before I got here."
My grandmother froze, her hand hovering over the kettle. She turned to me, her expression unreadable. "A man?"
"Yes." I nodded. "He told me to leave. Said the woods weren't safe."
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, she didn't say anything. Then she shook her head and turned back to the kettle. "People say a lot of things about the woods. Most of it is nonsense."
"Is it?" I asked, leaning forward.
Her silence stretched between us, and I could feel the weight of it.
The kettle whistled, breaking the tension, and she poured hot water into two mismatched cups. She handed one to me and sat down across the table, her fingers wrapped tightly around her own cup.
"Silverwood has always been...different," she said finally, her voice low. "You know that."
I frowned. "Different how?"
She took a sip of tea, her gaze distant. "There are things in this town, in these woods, that don't belong anywhere else. Your parents knew that. It's why they wanted to leave." She said, her voice trembling slightly.
I froze, the teacup halfway to my lips. "They wanted to leave?"
She nodded, her hands tightening around her own cup. "Your parents planned to take you far away from here. They didn't want you to grow up surrounded by...this." She waved a hand vaguely, as if gesturing to the town itself.
"Why didn't they?" I asked, curious.
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, I thought she wouldn't answer. Then she set her cup down with a soft clink and looked at me. "They never got the chance to."
Her words sent a chill down my spine. My parents' deaths had always been a shadowy topic, something we didn't talk about. "You mean the car accident?" I asked, though even as I said it, I could hear the doubt in my own voice.
"Yes." She said, but there was something in her tone that made me think there was more to the story than she was letting on. She was also looking everywhere but at me, trying to avoid my gaze.
After tea, she showed me to the guest room, which looked exactly as it had when I was a teenager. The twin bed was covered with a faded quilt, and the shelves were lined with books and knickknacks I had forgotten existed.
I unpacked my bag slowly, my mind racing. The man in the woods, the howls I had heard, my grandmother's cryptic warnings—it all felt like pieces of a puzzle I didn't know how to put together.
As I climbed into bed, the house settled into silence around me. I stared at the ceiling, trying to push the thoughts from my mind, but sleep didn't come easily.
Somewhere in the distance, a low growl broke through the night, sending a chill down my spine. I squeezed my eyes shut, telling myself it was just a coyote. But deep down, I wasn't so sure.
*****
When I woke the next morning, the sunlight streaming through the curtains felt almost jarring after the heaviness of the night. I dressed quickly and headed downstairs, where my grandmother was already in the kitchen, frying eggs.
"Morning." She said, her voice brighter than it had been the night before.
"Morning." I replied, sitting down at the table.
We ate in relative silence, but I could feel the unspoken tension between us. Finally, I set my fork down and looked at her.
"Grandma," I said. "Why did you call me back? Really."
Her smile faltered, and she set her cup down with a soft clink. "I told you, I needed help around the house. It was too much handling everything with my condition."
"That's not the whole truth," I said. "Is it?"
She sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I don't know how to explain it." She exhaled again, looking at me. "But I have this feeling, this...sense, that something is coming. Something big. And I don't want you to be caught in the middle of it."
Her words sent a chill down my spine. "Caught in the middle of what?"
Before she could answer, there was a knock at the door.
We both froze, and for a moment, neither of us moved. Then my grandmother rose slowly, her movements cautious, and went to the door.
When she opened it, I caught a glimpse of the man standing on the porch. It was him—the stranger from the woods.
"Elena Carter," he said, his voice low and even. "We need to talk."