The afternoon light had started to fade by the time John and Devon sat back in the car. The quiet hum of the engine filled the silence between them, neither speaking for several long moments. The house behind them stood still—too still—as though holding its breath after what had just unfolded inside.
Devon finally exhaled, his hands tightening around the steering wheel. "So… what now?" he asked, glancing at John. "Because, man, that was—" He shook his head. "That was a lot."
John stared out the window, eyes distant. His mother's face—her anger, the fear behind it—kept replaying in his mind like a broken reel. "I don't know," he murmured. "She's hiding something. I just know it."
"Yeah, I got that part," Devon said, forcing a shaky laugh. "But I need to know what we're doing next. Because my parents are already gonna kill me for being gone all night. If I don't check in soon, they're gonna think I joined a cult or something."
John didn't respond right away. The late-day sunlight spilled across the dashboard, warm but fleeting, casting long shadows through the windshield. Finally, he looked over, his expression unreadable.
"Go home," he said quietly. "Get some rest. I'll figure out the next step."
Devon frowned. "John, don't start that 'I'll handle it myself' crap again. Whatever this is—we're in it together."
John gave a faint, tired smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah," he said. "Together."
John shifted the car into gear, the tires crunching softly over the gravel as they pulled away from the curb. The streetlights were beginning to flicker on, one by one, their amber glow catching the edges of the fog that was starting to creep in from the hills. Neither of them spoke for a while—just the steady rhythm of the road beneath them and the low hum of the engine filling the quiet.
Devon leaned his head back against the seat, watching the familiar shapes of houses and trees pass by. "You think she'll talk?" he asked finally. "Your mom, I mean. If you press her."
John's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "She will," he said after a pause. "She has to."
Devon nodded, though he didn't sound convinced. The tension in the car hung thick, coiling around them like the mist outside. As they turned onto Devon's street, the comforting normalcy of porch lights and laughter from nearby homes only made the night's events feel more unreal.
John slowed to a stop in front of Devon's house. The porch light was already on, casting a pale circle on the driveway. Devon sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Guess this is me."
"Yeah," John said softly.
Devon opened the door, then hesitated. "Promise me you won't do anything stupid tonight. Just… wait till tomorrow, okay?"
John looked straight ahead, the glow of the dashboard painting faint lines across his face. "I'll try," he said.
Devon studied him for a moment longer, then nodded and stepped out. The door closed with a muted thud, and he started up the walkway, glancing back once before disappearing inside.
For a few seconds, John just sat there, staring at the empty spot where Devon had been. The neighborhood was quiet, peaceful in a way that felt foreign now. Then he shifted the car into drive and pulled away, the headlights cutting a narrow path through the growing fog as he headed back toward the dark edge of town.
John's thoughts churned as he drove, the rhythmic thrum of the tires doing little to quiet the storm in his head. The folder on the passenger seat seemed heavier than paper should be, like it carried the weight of everything he didn't yet understand—his mother's silence, Grayson's letter, and the lingering shadow of Eli's disappearance.
He replayed the day in fragments: the construction site, the strange tension in his mother's eyes, the old newspaper clipping that had sent her spiraling into the past. Every memory layered atop the next until they blurred together, leaving only a hollow ache in his chest.
The fog thickened as he left the main streets behind, swallowing the world beyond his headlights. The town's glow faded into a hazy smear in the rearview mirror. Out here, the air felt older somehow—like the land itself was holding its breath.
John tightened his grip on the wheel, his gaze fixed on the winding road ahead. The old back road curved along the treeline, leading toward the outskirts of Ashwood Park. He used to bike this way as a kid, back when Eli would race him, laughing as the wind tangled in his hair.
He blinked hard, that memory cutting too deep.
Then—movement.
His heart lurched. A shape flickered through the fog just ahead. Small. Human.
John slammed on the brakes. The car skidded, gravel spitting beneath the tires as the headlights flared across the road—
—and landed on a boy.
Standing in the center of the lane. Barefoot. Still.
John's breath caught in his throat. The boy couldn't have been more than ten, his hair damp and tangled, his clothes faded and wrong—like they belonged to another time. The fog swirled around him, clinging to his outline.
For a long, shattering heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then the boy lifted his head.
The world seemed to tilt, the sound of the idling engine dimming beneath the thunder of John's pulse. His voice broke as he whispered, "Eli?"
The boy's lips parted, a faint, tremulous sound slipping through the fog—soft, almost pleading.
John's breath hitched, his pulse thundering in his ears as Eli's faint, ghostly outline began to move—slowly, deliberately—turning away from the car and stepping toward the treeline.
"Eli!" John shouted, fumbling with the door handle. His voice cut through the fog, raw and desperate. "Wait—Eli!"
The boy didn't look back. He just kept walking, small feet silent on the damp earth, vanishing deeper into the mist with every step.
John's door flew open, and the cold air rushed in like a slap. He stumbled out, gravel crunching beneath his boots as he sprinted toward where Eli had been. The headlights carved thin slices through the fog, but beyond their reach, the world dissolved into shifting gray.
Branches brushed against his jacket as he pushed into the forest, the air thick and heavy with the scent of rain-soaked pine. His breath came quick and shallow. He could just make out Eli's figure ahead—pale, half-formed through the haze. Every time John quickened his pace, Eli seemed to drift a little farther, just beyond reach.
"Eli! Please—just stop!" he called, his voice cracking.
No answer. Only the crunch of leaves underfoot and the low whisper of the wind threading through the trees.
The deeper he went, the quieter the forest became. Even the insects had gone still. The fog pooled thickly around the bases of the trees, curling like smoke around his legs. And then—there it was.
A shape materializing through the mist.
An old shack. Weathered boards slumped inward, roof caved slightly on one side, windows dark and hollow as empty eyes. Ivy strangled its frame, and the door hung crookedly from one hinge.
Eli stood at the threshold.
John froze, his breath catching in his throat. For a heartbeat, Eli turned—his eyes meeting John's through the fog. There was no malice in them. Only sadness. A deep, endless sadness.
Then the boy stepped inside.
The door creaked shut behind him with a slow, aching groan that echoed through the woods.
John stood there, trembling, staring at the shack swallowed in the mist—his heart pounding so hard it hurt.
After a long, wavering moment, he took a single step forward. Then another.
Until he was standing just a few feet from the door.
The air around him felt colder now. Thicker. Like the forest itself was holding its breath, waiting to see if he'd follow.
John hesitated at the door, his hand hovering over the warped wood. The air was colder here—unnaturally so—as if the world beyond that threshold existed in a different season entirely. He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the silence, and pushed the door open.
The hinges groaned, and the smell hit him first—damp rot, dust, and something metallic, faint but unmistakable, like old blood on rusted iron. His flashlight beam cut through the darkness, revealing the interior in narrow, trembling slices.
The shack was small, barely large enough to stand in without brushing against the low, slanted ceiling. A single table sat in the middle of the room, one leg splintered and propped up by a stone. Old tools hung on the walls—hammers, chisels, and rusted saws—all long abandoned to time.
"Eli?" John whispered, his voice barely a breath.
Nothing answered him but the creak of the wind pressing against the boards. He stepped farther in, the floorboards complaining under his weight. His light drifted over the far wall—and froze.
There were markings carved into the wood. Dozens of them. Names. Dates. Each one etched with a trembling, uneven hand. The oldest had faded into near illegibility, but some were still sharp and deep: Thomas Reed – 1952.Lydia Marsh – 1967.Henry Cole – 1984.
And then, lower down—smaller letters, written as if by a child's hand—Eli Holden – 2014.
John's breath caught. His knees weakened as he reached out, his fingers brushing the carved letters. They were cold to the touch, like the chill of the grave.
"Eli…" he murmured, his chest tightening.
Something shifted behind him. A soft creak—barely audible. John turned, swinging his flashlight toward the sound. The beam caught dust swirling in the air, but nothing else. He took a shaky step toward the back corner, where an old trunk sat half-buried under debris.
He crouched down, brushing away the dust and leaves. The lock was rusted, the hinges swollen with age. It looked like it hadn't been opened in decades. Still, he hooked his fingers under the lid and pulled.
The trunk gave a protesting groan, then snapped open.
Inside were scraps of paper—yellowed drawings, fragments of old photographs, and small toys worn by time. John lifted one out: a child's marble, cloudy with age but still faintly blue. Another—a torn photo of children playing in a sunlit park. Ashwood Park.
And written across the back, in faded pencil, were three words: "He never left."
John's flashlight flickered. The air seemed to thicken around him. From somewhere deep within the shack, a faint whisper threaded through the silence—soft, distant, but unmistakable.
"Johnny…"
His head snapped up, heart pounding.
"Johnny… open it…"
John spun toward the sound, his flashlight beam slicing across the cramped interior of the shack. "Eli?" he called, his voice trembling. The whisper had sounded close—right next to his ear—but when he turned, the space was empty. Just dust, old tools, and the low, unsteady groan of the building breathing in the cold night air.
"Johnny… open it…"
The voice came again, faint but insistent. It wasn't echoing through the room—it was inside it, threading through the wood itself, humming low in the boards under his feet.
John's light swept over the floor until it caught on something—a patch of wood darker than the rest, a small square cut neatly into the floorboards. A hatch.
He crouched down, his heart hammering in his chest. The edges were lined with iron hinges, corroded and half-eaten by rust. He hesitated, glancing around once more. The air was heavy now, almost pressing against him, thick with the scent of earth and decay.
"Eli?" he whispered again.
The answer came softer this time, almost pleading. "Please, Johnny… before he takes us…"
That was enough. He wedged his fingers into the seam and pulled. The wood groaned, reluctant, then gave way with a sudden crack. A rush of cold, damp air poured out, smelling of soil and something older—something that had been waiting.
The beam of his flashlight fell into darkness. A narrow staircase descended into the ground, the steps carved from stone slick with moss.
John swallowed hard, his breath shallow and uneven. "Okay," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone—or anything—that might've been listening. "I'm here, Eli. I'm coming."
He set the flashlight between his teeth and began to climb down, one careful step at a time. The air grew colder, wetter, until it felt like he was breathing fog. His shoes splashed against shallow water at the bottom, the sound echoing faintly down what looked like a tunnel cut into the earth.
The walls were lined with roots and faint carvings—more names, more dates—spanning decades, maybe centuries. As he walked deeper, the tunnel widened into a small chamber. His light caught on shapes—figures—painted across the stone in dark pigment. Children holding hands in a circle. A tall, indistinct shape looming over them, its outline smeared and clawed as though someone had tried to erase it.
And at the center of the chamber sat an old wooden box, half-sunken into the mud.
John's pulse pounded in his ears as he stepped closer. The whisper came again, but softer now, gentler—almost like Eli's voice was right beside him.
"Open it, Johnny."
John knelt in front of the box, the beam of his flashlight trembling in his grip. The air felt thicker here, close and heavy with the scent of earth and something faintly metallic—blood or rust, he couldn't tell which. The box itself was simple in shape, but old—so old that the wood had blackened with age, its corners eaten away by time. Strange symbols had been carved into the lid, their grooves filled with something dark that glistened faintly under the light.
He hesitated for just a second, Eli's words still echoing in the back of his mind. Find the key, Johnny. Free us.
Taking a breath, he reached forward and pulled the lid open. The hinges gave a low, shuddering groan, like the sound of something exhaling after being held shut for far too long. Inside, wrapped in brittle linen and bound with tarnished metal clasps, was a book.
An ancient grimoire.
The cover was thick and leathery, though it didn't feel like any leather John had ever touched—cool to the skin, almost alive beneath his fingertips. Etched into it was a sigil that matched the carvings on the walls around him—a circle of children holding hands, encircling a dark, formless shape at the center. His flashlight flickered as he brushed away the last of the dirt and lifted it out.
The moment he did, the air in the chamber shifted. The roots along the ceiling trembled faintly, and somewhere in the distance came the sound of a whispering wind that didn't belong underground.
He swallowed, steadying his breath, and undid the clasps. The grimoire opened with a low, crackling sigh. The first page was filled with dense, handwritten text in a language that twisted across the parchment like crawling vines. The ink shimmered faintly, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Before Johnny could make sense of the words on the page, the air around him split—a sharp crack like thunder echoing through the rotting beams of the shack. His flashlight sputtered violently, throwing jagged bursts of light across the walls.
And then Eli was there.
He didn't appear so much as bleed out of the darkness, his small form materializing inches away, his face twisted with terror. His eyes—those same soft, familiar eyes John remembered from a decade ago—were wide, reflecting the trembling beam of the flashlight like glass.
And then Eli was there as he screamed, "Johnny Run!"