I kept walking.
The cave stretched on longer than it had any right to. The walls narrowed, the ceiling dipped, and the darkness thickened like it was compressing around me. The sound of water was still there—steady, reassuring—but everything else felt wrong, like the cave was slowly deciding whether or not I deserved to leave.
"This is a dream," I muttered. "Yeah. Obviously."
A stress dream. A weird, vivid, hyper-detailed nightmare cooked up by my brain because I was offline, overtired, and stuck in a town that felt allergic to modern civilization.
Or a prank.
Daniel's prank.
I scoffed softly. "I knew it. Guy doesn't even like me."
You met him hours ago, my inner voice cut in.
"So?" I snapped back under my breath. "Haters don't need more than a minute."
Fair.
I checked my phone again.
12:40 a.m.
The time felt wrong. Too late. Too precise. Like the universe was keeping tabs.
I shoved the phone back into my pocket and kept following the stream, boots scraping wet stone. My thoughts drifted—unhelpfully—back to the skeleton. The way it had been sitting there, patient, like it had accepted the cave as its final address.
I glanced down at the leather-bound journal in my hand.
The thing felt heavier now. Not physically—just… present. Like it was aware I'd survived long enough to carry it.
"Yeah," I muttered, tightening my grip. "That's not happening to me."
I wasn't ending up like that. Alone. Forgotten. Reduced to a prop in some underground horror exhibit.
I shook my head, forcing the thought away.
That's when I heard it.
A hum.
Soft. Low. Almost gentle.
I slowed.
It sounded like someone singing under their breath—not words, not a melody I recognized. Just vibration. Like sound stripped of language. The closer I got, the louder it became, weaving itself between the sound of running water.
"Nope," I said immediately.
Light appeared ahead.
At first, I thought they were fireflies.
Small, floating points of pale gold and green, drifting lazily through the cave like they owned the place. They pulsed faintly, not blinking so much as breathing.
The humming was loudest near them.
I did not stop to investigate.
Whatever they were—fireflies, hallucinations, ancient forest spyware—I did not care. Curiosity had already almost gotten me eaten by an eight-eyed architectural disaster.
I broke into a run.
The stream roared louder now, water slapping stone with urgency. My legs burned, lungs aching, journal clutched tight against my chest as I sprinted past the lights, past the hum, past everything that wanted me to linger.
Then—
I crossed the threshold.
That gelatin feeling washed over me again. Thick. Cold. Like pushing through an invisible membrane.
And just like that—
Silence.
No humming.
No crickets.
No frogs.
No forest sounds at all.
I stumbled out of the cave and nearly fell, skidding to a stop on damp soil.
The forest stood perfectly still.
Too still.
The stream beside me was familiar now. The one near the house. The one I'd seen before. The one that meant I was back.
Everything looked normal.
And that scared me more than anything else tonight.
It was as if none of it had happened. As if the cave, the creature, the lights, the singing—had all been quietly erased the moment I stepped out.
I didn't wait for my brain to catch up.
I ran.
Straight toward the house.
I didn't look back. I didn't question it. I didn't try to make sense of the silence or the way the forest watched without moving.
I bolted across the yard, lungs on fire, one thought repeating louder than all the rest:
I don't care what's out there.
I don't care what's hiding.
I am never setting foot in that forest again.
Not for Wi-Fi.
Not for answers.
Not for anything.
----
I burst out of the treeline into the clearing like I was being evicted from reality.
The house came into view—lights on, solid, real—and for the first time all night, my chest loosened just a little. Then I saw him.
Daniel.
He stood in front of the house like he'd been there the whole time. Hands in his pockets. Relaxed. Watching.
There was something on his face that looked dangerously close to a smirk.
I ran faster.
By the time I hit the porch, my legs were shaking, breath tearing out of me in ugly gasps. I grabbed the doorframe to keep from collapsing.
Daniel tilted his head, studying me. Then, mildly:
"Hm."
That was it. Just hm.
"You look like you ran," he added.
Oh, I'm so glad you noticed, Captain Obvious, I thought, heat flaring in my chest. I said nothing.
He glanced past me, toward the forest, then back at my face. "So," he said lightly, "did you find cell service out there?"
There was a hint of sarcasm in it. Not sharp. Almost playful.
"I don't believe there is any," he continued. "Personally."
I still didn't answer.
You'd be surprised what I found, I thought. And service was the least interesting part of it.
Daniel watched me for a second longer, waiting for something. An explanation. A lie. Anything.
When it didn't come, he sighed—quiet, almost disappointed.
He reached out and draped a towel over my shoulders. It was warm.
"Go to bed," he said. "And don't worry. I won't tell Mrs. Margaret."
I brushed past him without acknowledging it and went inside.
Up the stairs. Past the quiet rooms. Past sleeping walls that pretended nothing had happened.
The attic welcomed me like a held breath finally released.
I collapsed onto the bed fully clothed, the mattress creaking under my weight. My phone slipped from my pocket and landed beside me. The screen was cracked now—spiderwebbed across the corner—but it still worked.
2:00 a.m.
Figures.
I stared at the ceiling, eyes burning, exhaustion dragging me under fast.
Then—
The journal.
My body jolted upright.
I pulled it out from under my cloak, heart beating faster for reasons that had nothing to do with running. My instincts screamed at me the whole way up here—hide it, don't show it, don't let Daniel see it—and for once, I'd listened.
I turned it over in my hands.
The leather was smooth. Too smooth. No scratches. No rot. No damage. For something that had been sitting in a cave long enough for its owner to turn into dust, it looked… untouched.
"Wow," I muttered. "Premium packaging."
I laughed softly, hollow. "I don't even know what I'm talking about. I just repeat words I hear online."
The laugh died.
I flung the journal onto the floor.
It hit with a dull thud.
There. A reminder. Of how close I'd come. Of how easily tonight could've ended with my bones sitting in a cave, holding someone else's book.
I lay back, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling.
Moonlight spilled in through the attic window.
It glinted off something on the journal.
I frowned.
Sat up.
Picked it up again, turning it slowly until the light caught the bottom edge just right.
Gold lettering.
Engraved. Careful. Intentional.
I swallowed.
"Carter…" I read quietly.
"…Augustin Winghelm."
The name lingered in the air, heavier than it should've been.
And somehow, deep in my chest, I knew—
Whatever I'd dragged out of that forest wasn't done with me yet.