I didn't sleep after the knocking. I didn't even pretend to. The cottage felt tighter, smaller, and every shadow in the room looked like it knew something I didn't. I stayed curled on the couch with a blanket pulled to my chin, staring at the carved symbol on the door every time my eyes drifted that way. No part of me could make sense of it, but the one thing I knew for sure was that it hadn't been a joke. People don't knock like that for fun. And they don't carve marks like that unless they're sending a message.
The night outside felt too heavy to ignore. Every few minutes, I checked the porch through the window just to make sure the man wasn't standing there again. He wasn't. But that didn't help, because I couldn't shake the feeling he hadn't gone far.
By the time the first gray light crept through the curtains, my nerves were shot. I made coffee more out of habit than the hope it would help. It tasted bitter and metallic, probably because my hands were shaking so much I spilled half the grounds into the machine.
I didn't have anything to compare this place to yet, but something told me nights in Blackthorn Ridge had teeth. And last night, one of those teeth scraped across my door.
By nine, I talked myself into going outside. The porch steps groaned when I stepped onto them, and the cold morning air slapped me awake harder than the coffee had. For a moment, I almost laughed at myself. Almost. The sun was out, the forest looked normal again, and the creeping dread I'd felt last night seemed dramatic in the daylight.
But then I looked down at the mark on the door.
The carved grooves caught the light, making the symbol look deeper than it had in the dark. I moved closer and crouched. The wood dipped in long, smooth strokes—nothing shaky, nothing forced. Whoever did this had a steady hand and a tool sharp enough to slice clean through the old wood.
I reached out and traced the inside of one line. The groove felt cold, colder than the wood around it, like whatever made it hadn't warmed with the sun.
A sudden crunch of gravel sent a jolt through me.
Someone was walking up the path.
My body froze before my brain caught up. The steps were steady. Not rushed, not careful. Just deliberate. And familiar.
When I finally looked up, he was already halfway to the porch.
The man from last night.
The daylight stripped away most of the mystery that the darkness had wrapped him in, but somehow he looked even more unnerving now. His shoulders were broad enough to block part of the rising sun. Dark hair fell over his forehead in a way that should've looked charming but didn't. His expression didn't soften when he saw me. If anything, it tightened.
"Morning," he said.
His voice had that same low, even tone I remembered from last night. Calm, but in a way that made me think he rarely raised it. A voice people listened to before they realized why they were listening.
"You were here," I said, standing slowly. "Last night."
"Yes."
That was it. No apology. No explanation. Just confirmation.
I waited, hoping he'd offer more. He didn't.
"Why?" I asked.
He glanced at the carving on the door. His eyes held on it for a long moment before returning to mine. "You should've stayed inside."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you'll want right now."
I frowned, confused and irritated. "Did you carve this?"
"No."
He didn't blink. Didn't shift. Just said it like he was stating a fact.
"Then who did?"
His jaw tensed. "Not who."
I swallowed. "What, then?"
He didn't look away from the door this time. "Something that shouldn't be near your home."
A cold wave rolled through me. "And you came here because…?"
"To make sure it didn't come back."
"So it was here. Whatever it is."
He didn't nod, but his silence was all the answer I needed.
I wrapped my arms around myself. "Who are you?"
For a moment, he didn't speak. Then—"John."
Just one word. No last name. No explanation.
"You live around here?" I tried again.
"Around."
That wasn't an answer either.
His gaze drifted toward the trees behind the cottage, scanning them like he expected something to move. "You shouldn't touch that mark. Not ever."
I dropped my hand from where it hovered near the carved lines. "Why not?"
"It's not meant for your fingers."
"Then who is it meant for?"
His eyes came back to mine, darker now. "For whoever put it there."
Before I could ask more, the rumble of an engine echoed up the dirt road. A sheriff's truck bounced into view, kicking up dust behind it.
Great. Law enforcement. Exactly what I needed.
Sheriff Dalton climbed out like the truck offended him. He looked like the kind of man who'd been irritated since birth—broad, red-faced, and already sweating despite the chilly morning. When his eyes landed on me, he gave a polite enough nod.
When they slid to John, the nod disappeared.
"You bothering the new resident?" the sheriff asked.
John didn't flinch. "Making sure she's safe."
"That your job now?" Dalton asked with a smirk.
John didn't answer, and the silence between them felt less like tension and more like a door slamming shut.
Dalton turned to me instead. "Everything alright, miss?"
"I—" I gestured to the carving. "Someone did this last night. Someone knocked too."
Dalton crouched, looked at the carving for maybe two seconds, then stood again with a snort. "Kids messing around. Happens once in a while."
John's voice cut through the air. "Those aren't kids' marks."
Dalton spun toward him so fast the gravel under his boots shifted. "And I didn't ask you."
The sheriff's voice carried a warning, but John didn't react at all. Not even a blink. It made the sheriff look smaller somehow.
I stepped in before either man decided pride was worth bruising. "Sheriff, somebody knocked loud enough to wake me up. It wasn't a kid."
Dalton waved me off with a laugh that didn't sound natural. "Probably a deer hitting the steps."
"Deer don't knock."
"They do if they're spooked."
I stared at him. He couldn't possibly believe that. Deer don't carve symbols into doors. Deer don't stand six feet tall with a silhouette like a man. But Dalton clearly wasn't here to solve anything. He was here to end the conversation.
"If anything else happens, call the station," he said. "But don't let stories get in your head. This place has plenty of them."
He shot another warning glare at John before climbing back into his truck. The wheels skidded on gravel as he drove off.
When he disappeared around the bend, the morning felt quieter again. Too quiet.
John watched the dust settle, jaw tight. "Don't listen to him."
"You two don't get along," I said.
"He doesn't like things he can't explain."
"And you can?"
He finally looked at me again. "Not everything. But I don't pretend nothing's out there."
The way he said it made the hairs on my arms stand up.
The wind shifted at that moment, sweeping across the trees in a long, low sigh. It carried a faint sound with it—almost like a distant call. Not quite an animal noise. Not quite human either.
John went still.
"What is that?" I whispered.
His eyes locked onto the tree line. "A reminder."
"Of what?"
"That you're not alone out here."
My stomach tightened. "That's not comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be."
He stepped back, preparing to leave. "Keep your doors locked tonight."
"Why? What's coming?"
He hesitated longer this time, like he was deciding how much I could handle. Then he turned away, starting down the path with long strides.
"You wanted to know what noticed you," he said over his shoulder.
"Yes."
He paused at the edge of the trees. Looked back.
"It wasn't me."
Then he vanished into the woods like he'd been swallowed whole.
The moment he disappeared, the forest seemed to breathe again. The branches swayed even though the air stayed still. The shadows deepened like something inside them shifted.
A sharp crack echoed from the trees. A branch snapping under weight.
Not small weight.
Heavy. Slow. Intentional.
I backed up toward the door, heart hammering.
Something moved between the trunks—too fast for me to see clearly, too dark to be human. A low, crawling shape that slid across the ground and disappeared behind a cluster of pines.
The morning sun didn't reach that part of the forest. It looked swallowed by something that didn't want light.
I reached for the doorknob with shaking fingers.
Another snap.
Closer.
And then I heard it.
Breathing.
Not mine.
Something was standing just beyond the trees.
Waiting.
Watching.
And when I finally yanked the door open and rushed inside, the last sound I heard before slamming it shut was a slow, scraping drag across the porch boards…
…as if something had followed me all the way to the door.