By morning, the excitement from the birthday gathering had curdled into something uneasy.
Cynthia woke before her alarm, heart pounding, breath caught halfway in her chest. For a moment, she didn't know why. Then she remembered the dream.
She had been standing at the edge of a forest—trees impossibly tall, their branches tangled like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky. Something glittered deep inside, flashing gold, calling to her. When she stepped forward, the ground beneath her feet began to move. Water pooled around her ankles, then her knees. Fish—dead ones—floated past her, their eyes wide open, mouths gaping as if screaming without sound.
And then a voice whispered her name.
She shot upright in bed, drenched in sweat.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Violet.
Violet: So… are we really doing this or are some people scared already? 😉
Cynthia stared at the screen, irritation flaring. Violet had been relentless lately—always watching, always poking, always pushing. Cynthia typed a reply, then erased it. Instead, she dropped the phone face-down on the bed.
Her gaze drifted to the far corner of the room.
That was when she noticed it.
A small box sat neatly on her desk.
Her stomach tightened.
She hadn't left anything there.
Slowly, cautiously, Cynthia stood. Each step toward the desk felt heavier than the last. The box was wrapped in dull brown paper, tied with a thin black ribbon. No name. No address.
Her hands trembled as she untied it.
Inside was a silver pendant shaped like a fish.
Not a normal fish.
Its body was twisted, elongated, the mouth carved open in a silent scream. Tiny symbols were etched along its scales—symbols Cynthia had never seen before, yet somehow felt disturbingly familiar.
A note lay beneath it.
Just two words, written in shaky ink:
"It begins."
Cynthia dropped the box as if it had burned her.
By afternoon, the group chat was alive.
Maps were shared. Supplies listed. Dates argued over.
Two days. One night.
The forest trip was no longer a joke.
Alex tried to sound reasonable, suggesting safety measures—flashlights, extra batteries, first-aid kits. But even he couldn't hide the thrill in his voice during their call.
"This is just a vacation," he said. "We go, we explore, we leave. Simple."
But nothing about it felt simple to Cynthia.
Mara called later that evening.
"I won't be coming," Mara said quietly.
Cynthia frowned. "What? Why?"
"There's a church program. A vigil," Mara replied. "And… I don't feel right about that place."
Cynthia hesitated. "What do you mean?"
Mara paused, as if choosing her words carefully. "Some doors don't open for no reason. And some treasures are buried because they were never meant to be found."
A chill crept over Cynthia's skin. "You're scaring me."
"I'm serious," Mara insisted. "If you go… promise me you'll call. Check in. If anything feels wrong—leave."
Cynthia swallowed. "I promise."
After the call ended, Cynthia sat alone, staring at the pendant now locked inside her drawer. Her reflection in the mirror looked paler, her eyes darker, as if sleep itself was avoiding her.
Elsewhere, in a quiet café far from campus, a man sat watching the rain streak down the window.
Ian.
He stirred his coffee slowly, eyes unfocused, listening to the distant hum of voices around him. The plans were unfolding exactly as expected. Not because he had suggested them—but because people always believed the worst ideas were their own.
His phone vibrated.
A single message appeared.
Smoke: It's moving.
Ian exhaled slowly.
"Good," he murmured.
He paid for his coffee and stood, blending back into the crowd like a shadow slipping into darkness.
That night, strange things began happening.
Cynthia's lights flickered, though the power grid was stable.
Her phone played static when she tried to make a call.
At exactly 3:17 a.m., she woke to the sound of dripping water.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
She followed the sound to her bathroom—only to find the sink dry.
When she returned to her room, her closet door was open.
She was certain she had closed it.
Inside, hanging neatly among her clothes, was the silver fish pendant.
Her scream tore through the silence.
By morning, fear had threaded itself into everyone's nerves.
Alex admitted his car radio had turned on by itself during the night, blasting distorted music.
Violet laughed it off, but dark circles rimmed her eyes.
Ethan grew quieter, watching everyone too closely, as if measuring how much they knew—and how much they didn't.
Yet no one suggested canceling.
Fear didn't stop them.
It pulled them forward.
By the end of the day, the decision was final.
They would leave soon.
The forest waited.
And somewhere deep within it—beneath roots, beneath rot, beneath lies older than any of them—something stirred.
The treasure was real.
But so was the hunger guarding it.