"Johnny!" Eli screamed, his voice a desperate, broken cry that echoed through the floorboards. "Run!"
John stumbled back, the grimoire slipping from his hands and landing open on the dirt. "Eli—wait! What's happening? What—"
Eli's voice cut through him again, raw and urgent. "He's coming!" His gaze darted toward the door—no, beyond it—into the dark woods that seemed to pulse with a rhythm all their own. The air grew colder by the second, breath misting white.
"Eli, who? Who's coming?" John's words came out strangled, his heart hammering in his chest.
Eli took a step closer, his form flickering like a dying projection. His hands trembled as he pointed at the open grimoire on the ground. "You weren't supposed to open it yet," he whispered, voice cracking. "He's been waiting… all this time… waiting for someone to remember."
From somewhere deep in the woods came a low, resonant groan—the sound of something massive shifting beneath the earth. The shack shuddered. Dust rained down from the rafters.
Eli's voice broke into a sob. "Johnny, please—you have to go!"
John reached out, his hand brushing through Eli's fading form like mist. "Eli, I can't just—"
The boy's face twisted in fear and anguish. "Run, Johnny! Before he takes you too!"
And then, with a final, blinding flicker of light—Eli was gone.
John didn't look back.
He bolted out of the shack, the door slamming against the wall behind him with a splintering crack. The woods erupted in motion—branches thrashing, leaves tearing loose from the trees as if the forest itself were trying to flee. The ground quaked under his boots, soft soil turning slick with frost that hadn't been there moments before.
He didn't stop to think. Didn't breathe. Just ran.
The whispering—if it could be called that—followed him. A thousand voices weaving together in a low, guttural hum that clawed at the edges of his mind. Johnny… Johnny… They weren't Eli's. They were deeper, colder. Older.
He tore through the undergrowth, ducking beneath low branches, his flashlight beam jittering wildly across trunks and brambles. The forest blurred around him in streaks of gray and black until his foot caught on a root. He stumbled, caught himself, and kept going, lungs burning, heart screaming against his ribs.
The rumbling behind him grew louder—closer. A sound like stone dragging over stone.
Then—suddenly—a figure appeared in the beam of his light.
John tried to stop, but momentum carried him forward. He slammed into the man full-force, both of them hitting the ground hard. The flashlight flew from his hand and spun out across the dirt, the beam rolling to a stop against a tree.
"Whoa! Easy!" a voice barked.
John blinked up, chest heaving, his mind reeling—then froze.
Harold Grayson.
The older man looked just as startled, his face pale and drawn in the flickering light. He reached down, gripping John's arm firmly and hauling him to his feet. "Good God, John," he said, his breath visible in the frigid air. "What the hell are you doing out here?"
John opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His throat was raw, his lungs still straining for air. "I—I saw Eli," he managed finally. "He—he told me to run—he said something's coming!"
Grayson's eyes widened for a heartbeat, the faint veneer of control slipping. Then he gripped John's shoulder hard, his voice low, urgent. "Listen to me, son. If you've seen him—if he spoke to you—then we don't have much time."
The earth trembled again.
John turned toward the woods. The trees were moving—not from wind, but from pressure, like something enormous was forcing its way up from beneath.
Grayson's face had gone ashen. "You shouldn't be here"
Grayson's gaze dropped to the grimoire clutched in John's shaking hands. For an instant, the terror etched across his face shifted—replaced by something else. Hope. Fragile, desperate hope.
"My gods," he breathed. "You found it."
Before John could speak, a sound rolled through the trees—a low, guttural rumble that didn't belong to any animal he knew. The earth quivered beneath their feet, and the air grew thick with the smell of ozone and decay.
Grayson's head snapped toward the noise. His expression hardened. He shoved John behind him with surprising strength for a man his age. "Listen to me. Take that book to your mother. She'll know what to do with it—what it means."
"Mr. Grayson, what—?"
"Go!" Harold barked, the single word ringing with authority that silenced any protest.
Then he murmured something under his breath—words John didn't understand but felt deep in his bones. The air shimmered around Grayson's hands, and fire bloomed along his fingers, bright and alive, swirling into burning sigils that danced up his arms.
"Get out of here, Johnny!" he shouted, stepping forward as the forest behind them split open with a roar.
John didn't need to be told twice. Clutching the grimoire to his chest, he turned and ran, the last thing he saw before disappearing into the trees was Harold Grayson—wreathed in flame—facing the oncoming darkness alone.
John tore through the forest, branches clawing at his arms and face as he ran. The night pulsed with unnatural energy—each breath heavy, electric, wrong. Behind him, the trees glowed in bursts of orange and gold. Flashes of fire licked at the sky, brief and furious, illuminating the woods in strobing fragments.
He could hear it—Harold shouting words that made the air vibrate, followed by answering roars that rattled through John's chest. Something massive was moving back there, crashing through the undergrowth, snarling in a voice too deep to belong to anything human.
The ground shook again. A tree toppled somewhere behind him, split in half by a blast of light. For an instant, the flames carved Harold's silhouette against the darkness—arms raised, fire spiraling from his hands like a living storm. Then it vanished in a burst of shadow and sound.
John didn't dare look back again. He just kept running, the grimoire clutched tight to his chest, heart pounding in time with the echo of battle behind him—fire, fury, and the final cry of a man who'd stayed behind to buy him time.
John burst from the tree line, stumbling into the clearing where his car sat half-buried in mist. His hands fumbled with the keys, slick with sweat and dirt. The engine roared to life just as another flash of light flared behind him—then was swallowed by darkness.
He slammed the gear into drive and tore down the dirt road, tires spitting gravel into the night. His pulse pounded in his ears, every nerve screaming for distance, for safety. Branches whipped against the sides of the car as he tore through the winding forest road, headlights cutting narrow tunnels through the fog.
For a moment, it seemed like he'd made it. The woods began to thin. He could see the faint glow of the highway lights ahead—civilization, safety, escape.
Then something hit the car.
The impact was bone-rattling, a deep, metallic crash that sent the vehicle veering toward the ditch. John screamed, wrenching the wheel just in time to stay on the road. The passenger-side window exploded inward, showering him with glass.
A shadow clung to the side of the car—humanoid, but wrong. Too tall, too fluid, its limbs bending at impossible angles. Its eyes burned like embers in a storm, and its mouth—if it could be called that—shifted and split across its face like smoke made solid.
John floored the accelerator. The car howled in protest, engine screaming as he tore down the road. The creature slammed its fist—or what passed for one—into the metal frame, denting it inward like soft clay.
"Come on, come on!" John gasped, gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles went white. The dark figure leapt into the air, wings—or tendrils—unfurling behind it, chasing him like a streak of living night.
The shadow closed the gap in seconds, streaking through the air like a smear of darkness against the headlights. John's breath hitched—he could feel it now, the cold weight of its presence pressing down on him, a gravity of pure malice.
The rearview mirror filled with its shifting form. Then it hit the back of the car. Metal screamed. The vehicle fishtailed wildly, tires spitting up sparks as John fought the wheel, barely keeping it from flipping. The creature crawled up onto the roof, its claws dragging long, jagged grooves through the steel.
John's heart slammed in his chest. He could hear it now—wet, gurgling sounds that almost formed words. The roof buckled inward. A taloned hand punched through the metal above his head.
"God—no, no—!" he shouted, swerving across the empty road. The thing held fast. Its glowing eyes peered through the shattered windshield, twisting with a hunger that felt ancient.
Then—
A thunderous crash split the night.
The impact sent a shockwave through the car, rocking it sideways as a blinding surge of fire and light erupted behind him. John caught a glimpse through the mirror—Harold Grayson descending from the sky like a burning comet, his arms engulfed in roaring flame. He slammed into the shadow creature with the force of an explosion.
The monster shrieked, its body unraveling into tendrils of smoke that whipped and coiled around Harold. Fire met darkness in a violent collision—blinding, chaotic, alive.
John barely had time to process it before he realized Harold wasn't attacking out of anger—he was protecting him.
The older man's voice echoed faintly through the roar of fire and wind, distant yet commanding: "Go, John!"
The road lit up behind him, fire reflecting off the asphalt like molten glass. John pressed the pedal to the floor, the car surging forward as the sounds of the battle faded into the distance—flashes of light and shadow still flickering in his mirrors until the dark swallowed them whole.
He didn't know if Harold was still alive. He didn't know what that thing was.
But one thing was certain—whatever it was, Harold had stayed behind to stop it.
John's car screeched into the driveway, gravel scattering beneath the tires. He barely threw it into park before yanking the door open and stumbling out, lungs burning, hands shaking. The world felt unreal—the night too still after the chaos he'd fled. His clothes were torn, smeared with dirt and ash, and his knuckles throbbed from gripping the wheel too hard.
He bolted up the porch steps and slammed the front door open so hard it rattled the frame.
"Mom!" His voice cracked. "Mom!"
The house was quiet for a heartbeat, that kind of silence that feels wrong. Then a light flicked on in the kitchen, spilling a warm glow down the hall. Margaret appeared in the doorway, her robe pulled tight, her hair mussed from sleep.
"John?" Her voice wavered, alarm creeping in as she took in his state. "Oh my God—what happened to you?"
He staggered toward her, still clutching the ancient grimoire against his chest like it was the only thing holding him together. "It's Eli," he gasped out. "I saw him—he—he was there, in the woods. He showed me something, a box—this book—"
"Slow down," Margaret said, stepping forward, her hands half raised as if to steady him. "You're not making sense."
"No, you don't understand!" John's words tumbled out faster, louder, frantic. "There was something down there! It came after me—it killed Harold Grayson, or—or maybe he stopped it, I don't know! He told me to bring this—" He lifted the book, its cover still faintly pulsing under the lamplight. "He said you'd know what to do!"
Margaret's face drained of color. For a long moment she didn't move, didn't speak. Then, slowly, she took a trembling step toward him, her eyes fixed on the grimoire.
"John…" she whispered, voice thin and breaking. "Where—where did you find that?"
"In the woods. There's this old shack—Eli led me there. He said it was the key. He said—he said to free them."
Margaret's breath hitched sharply, her hand flying to her mouth. Tears welled in her eyes, but behind them—fear. A deep, hollow fear.
"Oh, God," she breathed. "It's happening again."
John stared at her, confusion warring with dread. "What do you mean—again?"
But Margaret didn't answer. She reached for the book, her hands trembling as she whispered, almost to herself—
"Your aunt tried to stop it once. And now it's back."
Margaret sank into the nearest chair, her hands trembling as they hovered just above the ancient grimoire. The air between her and John seemed to thicken, heavy with things long buried and never meant to be spoken again.
She looked up at her son—his face pale, his eyes wide and searching—and for a moment, she saw the boy he'd once been, running through the woods with Eli, laughing in the sun. Her voice wavered when she finally spoke.
"When I was your age," she began softly, "this town… it wasn't what it is now. Ashwood Park wasn't just a place for picnics and fairs—it was built over something old. Something that should have stayed forgotten."
John frowned. "What do you mean?"
Margaret's gaze dropped to the book. "We thought we stopped it. She thought she stopped it." Her eyes glazed with memory. "My sister, Clara."
John blinked. "I didn't know you had a sister."
Margaret gave a broken laugh, one that held no humor. "Most people don't. After what happened, we didn't speak of her. Not to anyone." She rubbed her temples, fighting to steady her breathing. "Clara was… gifted, like Harold. Like others in town who knew about the ley lines running beneath the valley. They said Ashwood sat on a crossing point—where life and death blur. Clara found the first book."
Margaret stood suddenly, her chair scraping harshly against the kitchen tile. The sound startled John—it was the sound of decision, of something breaking loose inside her that had been locked down for decades.
Without another word, she crossed the room to the far corner, where an old oak cabinet stood against the wall. Its edges were worn, the varnish dulled by years of sun and silence. She hesitated only once, glancing over her shoulder at John before gripping the cabinet's side and pushing. The wood groaned in protest, but it shifted—just enough to reveal a narrow gap in the wall behind it.
John rose, his heart thudding. "Mom… what is this?"
Margaret didn't answer. Her hands were trembling as she reached into the gap and pulled out a small wooden chest, no bigger than a shoebox. Dust cascaded off it in slow, silvery drifts. The clasp was tarnished but intact, and carved into the lid was a symbol—one John immediately recognized.
Margaret set the chest on the table beside the newly found grimoire, her expression unreadable. "Clara hid it here before she left," she said quietly. "She told me never to open it unless… unless the signs started again."
She undid the latch with shaking fingers and lifted the lid. Inside lay another book—older, more fragile, its cover nearly flaking apart from age. The pages within were yellowed and brittle, bound with the same strange metal clasps, though this one had different markings burned into its spine. The sigil glowed faintly, as if aware of its twin lying beside it.