The road into Blackthorn Ridge looked innocent on the map. Just a thin line curling between miles of forest. But the moment my car left the highway, everything changed. The world went quiet. Not peaceful quiet — the sort that sinks into your bones and makes you feel like you've crossed into someone else's territory.
The trees grew taller the farther I drove. Their branches stretched over the road like they were trying to shut out the sky. Every few seconds, a patch of sunlight broke through, but it never stayed long. Most of the trip felt like driving through an endless tunnel of dark green.
My old car didn't take well to the climb. The engine rattled with each curve, loud enough to make me glance at the dashboard every few minutes. I told myself I'd be fine. New town. New story. New start. A place where I could breathe again after… everything that happened.
But the deeper I went, the more it felt like the Ridge was sizing me up.
When the first house appeared — a leaning farmhouse with boarded windows — I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Civilization. Or something like it.
The main street wasn't much better. A general store with sun-faded signs. A diner with a flickering OPEN light that looked more tired than inviting. A few cars scattered around, all of them dusty, as if no one drove them much.
The people stared.
Not rude staring. Not even curious staring. More like… evaluation. A woman watering plants paused mid-pour. An older man sweeping the sidewalk stopped long enough to track me from one end of the street to the other. Everyone's expression carried the same quiet warning:
You don't belong here.
But I'd already signed a six-month lease on the cottage at the edge of town. Too late to turn back.
The cottage wasn't much. Small porch. Ivy crawling up the sides. A roof that needed help. But the backyard opened straight into the woods — that was the part I liked. At least in theory.
Inside, it smelled like old pine and dust. Cozy, in a lonely sort of way.
I spent the evening unpacking, trying to settle in, but something felt… off. It took me a while to realize what it was.
Silence.
Not the normal kind. This was heavier. Thicker. Like the whole place was holding its breath. Even the usual forest sounds — birds, crickets, wind — seemed muted.
Around midnight, while sorting through my notes, a faint crunch drifted from outside.
Footsteps.
I froze, listening hard. The sound came again — slow, deliberate. Not rushed. Not curious.
Just… knowing.
I peeked through the window. Nothing. Just trees and darkness pressed against the glass.
Another crunch. Closer.
I stepped back from the window, pulse thudding. My mind tried to explain it away — a deer, maybe. A stray dog. The usual excuses. But something about the sound didn't fit. There was weight to it. Purpose.
Then, without warning, everything went still.
The footsteps stopped.
The night turned so quiet it felt unnatural.
I crept toward the front door, just enough to peek through the peephole.
Nothing.
Just as I turned away, a sharp knock exploded against the wood.
I stumbled back, heart slamming into my ribs.
Another knock. Slow. Heavy. Like a single knuckle tapping with intention.
I forced myself to look again.
A man stood on my porch.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Still as a statue. His face shadowed under the porch roof. I couldn't read his expression, but I could feel his stare — cold and searching.
He knew I was watching.
And then, without saying a single word, he lifted his hand…
…and pressed something against the door.
When he walked away, fading back into the darkness like he'd never been there at all, I finally pulled open the door.
There, carved deep into the wood, was a symbol I'd never seen before.
Fresh.
Sharp.
And meant for me.