Weeks passed, and life in the town returned to a semblance of normalcy. My mother and sister were gone, their faces plastered across every news channel, their crimes dissected and analyzed by strangers who didn’t know the weight of their guilt.

But the forest didn’t change.

Cece and I visited it one last time before the authorities sealed it off, drawn by some inexplicable need to confront the place that had nearly destroyed us.

The house was gone, burned to the ground as part of the investigation, but the trees remained—silent, watchful, their branches twisted into grotesque shapes. The clearing was overgrown, the grass unnaturally vibrant, almost pulsing under the dim light of the overcast sky.

“It doesn’t feel over,” Cece said, her voice barely above a whisper.

I nodded, the knot in my stomach tightening. She was right. The forest still felt alive, its presence heavy and menacing.

As we turned to leave, a rustling sound stopped us in our tracks. It wasn’t the wind—it was deliberate, purposeful.

“Nyx...” Cece’s voice wavered, and she pointed to something at the edge of the clearing.

I followed her gaze and felt my blood run cold.

Two plague doctor masks hung from the lowest branch of a gnarled tree, their empty eye sockets staring directly at us.

Underneath, carved into the bark, was a single word:
“RUN.”

A chill ran down my spine. Cece grabbed my arm, pulling me backward, but I couldn’t look away.

In the distance, deeper into the forest, I thought I saw movement—a shadow, tall and impossibly thin, gliding between the trees.

“We need to go,” Cece whispered, her voice trembling.

But as we turned and ran, the forest came alive. The wind howled, the trees groaned, and the shadows seemed to stretch toward us, pulling us back.

I didn’t look over my shoulder. I couldn’t.