The forest didn't want her here.
Sophia felt it in her bones before she even crossed the town line. Trees leaned toward the road like they were listening, their twisted branches hanging low, whispering in a language made of creaks and rustling leaves. Mist clung to the pavement in long, curling fingers. The town sign loomed up ahead, cracked and half-covered in moss.
ASHWOOD – EST. 1839
The letters looked carved more by time than man.
She slowed as she passed it. Her foot hovered over the brake. Turn around, something inside her said. But she didn't.
She hadn't driven for three hours just to run again. Ashwood was supposed to be quiet, forgotten. A town no one noticed. A place where she could start over. No more therapy. No more whispered conversations behind her back. No more waking up in the middle of the night feeling like her own life didn't belong to her.
She was here now. And she'd make it work.
The road narrowed as she entered the town proper, houses crouched low along the street like they didn't want to be seen. They were old, wooden things with peeling paint and shuttered windows, and they all seemed to watch her pass.
Sophia parked in front of the realtor's office. A bell above the door gave a single, tired chime as she stepped inside. The woman behind the desk—a thin, bird-boned thing with white hair and sharp eyes—looked up but didn't smile.
"You must be Sophia."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," she said, hesitating. "I spoke with—"
"Keys are in the envelope." The woman nodded toward the counter. "Address is on the back. We don't leave lights on after dark. Not safe. You'll see why."
Sophia blinked. "I'm sorry?"
The woman stared at her. "Ashwood has rules. You follow them, you'll be fine. People like you…" She trailed off. "They don't usually stay long."
---
The house was small, tucked into the edge of the woods like it had been built for someone who wanted to disappear.
Sophia didn't mind.
She stood in the empty living room, surrounded by boxes she hadn't unpacked, staring out the window at the tree line. The forest began less than fifty feet from her door. The trees swayed in a wind she couldn't feel, like they were breathing.
She'd been here less than four hours and already felt like a stranger in her own skin.
It wasn't just the silence—it was the quality of it. Too complete. Too deep. Not a bird in the trees. Not a squirrel in the grass. Just the wind. Just the forest.
And the feeling of being watched.
---
At the grocery store, no one made eye contact.
A boy no older than sixteen rang up her items. He scanned the cans and fruit and frozen dinners without saying a word. When she reached for her receipt, he finally looked at her. His eyes were pale. Too pale.
"You shouldn't walk alone after sunset," he said. "Even here."
"Why?" she asked, half-laughing, trying to keep it light. "Are there bears?"
His mouth twitched. Not a smile. "Worse."
---
That night, Sophia couldn't sleep.
It wasn't the bed—it was fine, though the mattress creaked every time she moved. It wasn't the room, which smelled faintly of cedar and old dust.
It was the noise.
Or lack of it.
She lay still, eyes open in the dark, listening to the strange quiet. The kind of silence that presses on your ears. Her heart beat too fast. Her fingers trembled slightly under the blankets.
And then—footsteps.
Outside.
Crunching over dry leaves. Slow. Deliberate. Not an animal. Not a deer.
Someone was walking behind her house.
Sophia sat up, breath caught in her throat. She slipped out of bed and moved toward the window. The curtains were half open. Moonlight filtered through the glass, pale and cold.
She saw nothing. But she felt it. Like eyes brushing her skin.
"Hello?" she whispered, barely audible.
The footsteps stopped.
A moment later, a soft scraping sound—like nails dragging across glass—shuddered down the windowpane.
Sophia stumbled back, heart slamming against her ribs. She stared. There was nothing there.
But the next morning, she found it.
A smudge. A single, oily handprint on the glass, too large for her own. It hadn't rained. No one had been near the house. She didn't even have neighbors close enough to play a prank.
She didn't call the police.
What would she say?
Someone left a shadow on my window.
---
Later that day, Sophia wandered into the local café. It was called The Hollow. The inside was warm, with dark wood walls and the smell of cinnamon, but the people were colder than the décor.
A group of women at a corner table went silent when she walked in. The barista—a tall, red-haired man with silver rings on every finger—smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"New in town?" he asked, pouring her coffee.
She nodded. "Is it that obvious?"
He shrugged. "You smell different."
Sophia blinked. "I'm sorry?"
The barista didn't answer. He just slid her drink across the counter.
She left without finishing it.
---
That night, the dreams came.
Blood, warm and sticky, running down her arms. A hand tangled in her hair, pulling her into the trees. Eyes—gold, then red—burning through the dark.
Sophia woke gasping.
Outside, the wind howled like a voice trying to speak. Her window was open. She didn't remember opening it.
And on the glass, the handprint had returned.
But this time, there were two.