The wind whispered through the pine trees like a secret too old to remember. Lena Miller zipped up her hoodie and stepped off the porch of the cabin, Milo the cat weaving between her legs. The forest had always felt like a cage to her - quiet, endless, and suffocating. But today, something pulled at her curiosity like a thread unraveling from a sweater.
"Don't go too far," her father called from the garage, wiping grease from his hands. David Miller was a man of few words and many tools. He'd moved them here three years ago after the accident. Lena never asked why he chose this place. She figured he was running from something - maybe they both were.
"I'll be back before dark," she muttered, not looking back.
She followed a narrow trail behind the cabin, one she hadn't noticed before. It twisted through the trees like it was trying to hide. The deeper she went, the quieter the forest became. No birds. No wind. Just the crunch of her boots on dead leaves.
Then she saw it.
An old house, half-swallowed by ivy and rot, stood crooked in a clearing. Its windows were black holes. The front door hung open like a mouth mid-scream.
Lena hesitated. Every horror movie she'd ever seen screamed at her to turn back. But something else - something colder - urged her forward.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and decay. Furniture lay broken, books scattered like fallen leaves. On a table in the center of the room sat a book. It was bound in something that looked disturbingly like skin, its cover etched with symbols that seemed to shift when she wasn't looking directly at them.
She reached out.
The moment her fingers touched the cover, the temperature dropped. Her breath fogged in the air. She opened the book.
The words inside were gibberish - twisting, writhing letters that made her head ache. She read them aloud anyway, just a few lines. The house groaned. The shadows deepened.
Then she heard it.
A whisper.
Not from the book. Not from the house.
From the woods.