My bed felt like it had been carved from stone, and my skull pulsed with a headache so fierce I could hear my heartbeat. A blinding light pierced through my eyelids.
Why is it so bright? Did I forget to close the curtains?
I cracked my eyes open.
But it wasn’t my ceiling I saw. It was the sky. Clear and impossibly blue, like a painted dome. My heart skipped.
I sat up with a grunt. Every joint protested. The ground beneath me was cracked and dry, and the air tasted faintly like smoke and iron. A flat, blackened field stretched in every direction, like the aftermath of a fire—except the fire must’ve burned long ago.
“What the hell...?”
I turned slowly, searching for a road, a building, anything. But there was nothing. No landmarks. No sounds beyond the soft creak of the scorched grass under my weight. My mouth felt dry. My hands shook.
Not again.
I dropped to my knees and pressed my palm against the brittle soil. Focus.
“Three things,” I whispered. “Three things.”
The cracked earth.435Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNp2gyyvd8O
The faint pulse in my thumb.435Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDdD3g1Y7BT
The silence.
I forced myself to breathe.
On the horizon, I caught the faintest smudge of grey—smoke. Not rising wild like a wildfire, but thin, steady. A chimney, maybe?
I stumbled toward it, half-running now, legs wobbling under me.
I found my backpack nestled between dry stalks, almost like it had been placed there gently. That sent a shiver up my neck. I grabbed it fast and opened it.
Phone—thank god.
Ninety percent battery. No signal. No Wi-Fi. No response to the emergency number.
The last photo in my gallery showed me, Mom, and Keith smiling on our front porch.
I didn’t remember taking it.
By the time I reached the edge of the forest, the sun was bleeding orange over the field. In the clearing stood a cottage. The smoke was coming from its chimney.
Relief flared—and then died.
Rustling.
The sound crept in from behind me—low, fast, purposeful.
I turned. Something moved through the grass. Not a rabbit. Not a bird. It rose slowly—small, no higher than my thigh, but too fluid in its movements. Fur shimmered like oil on water. Its large black eyes met mine.
We stared at each other.
I tilted my head. It did the same.
I raised my hand. Its nostrils flared, and a thin snarl curled from its lip.
It bolted—toward me.
I ran.
The creature hissed behind me, fast and low to the ground. I sprinted to the cottage, heart slamming, and pounded on the door.
“Hello?! Please—someone—help!”
The door creaked open like it hadn’t moved in decades.
An old woman stared out. Not hunched, not feeble—just still. Hair white and pulled back. Eyes dark, sharp, and strangely reflective.
“What is the matter with you, child?” she snapped.
“Something chased me—an animal. I swear, it was right there—” I turned back. Nothing. Just swaying crops.
She looked unimpressed. “You expect me to believe that?”
“I’m not lying!” I insisted.
“Sure you’re not.” She eyed me again, this time with slow curiosity. Her clothing was strange: an abaya-like robe, but slit at the sides like it was made for speed, not modesty.
“I’m lost,” I added quickly. “Please—I don’t know where I am. If you could point me to a police station...”
“Police station?” She squinted. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“No, I—was on a tour. Got separated. The guide—Philip—must have missed me.”
The warmth hit her like a slap—woodsmoke and dried herbs thick in the air, as the door opened more and the women came outside. Strange trinkets cluttered the walls: feathered bundles, bones tied with string, jars that pulsed faintly with inner light. A faint crackle echoed behind her. She turned to see the old woman outside, one hand raised to the sky, lips moving silently.
She muttered something about “damn rattler” under her breath, then turned back inside. “Guide’ll be here soon. Wait outside.”
And slammed the door.
I sat down, back against the cottage. My legs throbbed. I checked my tracker again. Five miles. I wasn't imagining things.
Birdsong woke me. The sun was down. I’d slept for two hours. The field looked eerie in the twilight. That... creature hadn’t returned.
I knocked again.
The same face answered, still grumpy.
“No one came,” I said.
The old woman peered at her, unimpressed. "Another one of them, are you? Chasing fables and shadows for coin. Always sniffing at my door with wide eyes and empty heads."
"No, no, I swear—I just got lost," Alex insisted, voice too quick. She winced. Bad liar.
The woman studied her a beat longer, then turned back into the cottage. "Well, in or out. I've not the patience to stand here while you rattle your nerves."
Alex hesitated. Her fingers twitched. Then, driven by a mix of desperation and instinct, she slipped inside.
She returned with food and gestured for me to clear the table. I did. We ate in silence. The soup was rich, strange, delicious.
“What’s with those strange clothes?” she asked mid-bite.
“Uh... modern fashion?”
Alex forced a smile. "Do you... have a phone? Maybe I could call someone instead."
The woman stilled. Not for long—just enough for Alex to notice.
"Phone," the woman repeated, as if tasting the word. "No child, there is no signal here. You’ll be taken where you must go."
“What’s your name, child?”
“Alexandra. Alex.”
“Where are you from?”
“Uzbekistan... but I live in England now.”
She studied me. “You’re far from both, then.”
Before she could ask more questions I’d have to lie about, I jumped in.
“What’s your name?”
“You may call me Grandma Teri.”
She said it with a smile that wasn’t quite kind. As if letting me lie. Letting me think I was clever.
“Grandma Teri, your soup is amazing.”
She actually laughed. A low, dry chuckle. “You’d be the first to say that.”
Before I could ask what she meant, she stood. “Come.”
She led me behind a curtain to a simple bed. Next to it was a door to a small, old-fashioned bathroom.
“I’ve contacted the authorities. They’ll come tomorrow.”
Wait, when did she do that? She hadn’t used a phone.
Still, I mumbled a thank-you, kicked off my shoes, and collapsed into bed. I was too tired to protest. Too overwhelmed to question.
Alex sat, legs aching. Every nerve told her to bolt—but something else held her. Curiosity? Exhaustion? Or maybe it was the woman’s eyes. They watched her like they knew something. Something she hadn’t said aloud.
As she settled into a creaky wooden chair, she heard the woman mutter into a bundle of dried rosemary.
"Strange stars. Stranger blood. Not from this turning..."
Outside, the spell fluttered into the wind, seeking a rattler, a guide, anyone who’d answer.
Inside, Grandma Teri—known once to the people of Eldra as the Witch of Tallowmere—watched the girl with sharp, knowing eyes. Not a tourist. Not a trespasser. Something far rarer.
A lost piece of a forgotten story.
And stories always come home.
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