Ashwood may have looked like a postcard—blooming hedgerows, cobbled streets, laughter skipping across marketplaces—but beneath its charm, rot festered.
And at the edge of it all, hidden in plain sight, lived a boy named Asher.
Asher wasn't born into this town. He had been dropped into it like a secret no one wanted to claim. Just another forgotten soul shoved into a crumbling foster home where the walls creaked more than the people spoke. The Smiths weren't villains by storybook standards—but monsters wore quieter masks here.
James Smith, bloated with cheap liquor and cheaper regrets, haunted the house like a ghost with fists. He never looked Asher in the eye—unless it was to blame, to bark, to remind him he didn't belong. Sarah had once offered gentle words and warm hands, but she'd disappeared like spring in a dying year—her kindness now just a fading scent in the hallway.
Rave and Ryan, the Smiths' biological sons, were wolves in secondhand hoodies.
Their cruelty wasn't loud—it was casual. A tripped foot on the stairs, a slammed door to the face, stolen food, stolen peace.
They didn't hate Asher; they didn't need to.
To hate would mean acknowledging he existed.
He'd grown used to the silence. To the throb in his chest that never quite dulled. To the way his name sounded wrong in their mouths—like a stain. His room was a closet with cracked windows and colder nights, the wallpaper peeling like skin. It smelled of mildew and old dreams.
But Asher... he endured.
He moved through the days like smoke, thin and quiet.
At school, he barely spoke unless spoken to. He'd learned long ago that people only listened when they wanted to hurt.
His notebooks, though, were another world—pages inked with drawings of things he couldn't name. Creatures with too many eyes. Forests with breathing trees. A girl with wings made of ash.
Sometimes, he dreamt differently.
He didn't know why, only that when he felt like he was in another dimension.
Not scary. Not painful. Beautiful. Like something deep inside him was waiting to burn its way out.
And sometimes, the house whispered.
Not loud. Just barely—a hum in the pipes, a voice in the walls, a flicker of something not quite real. Or maybe too real.
He didn't tell anyone.
Why would he?
No one ever listened to the boy with hollow eyes and mismatched socks, who walked the line between seen and invisible.
But something was coming. He could feel it in his bones.
And Ashwood—perfect, painted Ashwood—was about to remember the things it had buried.
And the boy it had tried to forget.
Yet, on that quiet, shivering evening, something cracked open inside Asher.
It wasn't loud—not the kind of break that makes glass fall or people notice. It was subtle, like breath fogging up cold glass. A flicker of something… unfamiliar. Dangerous.
Hope.
The house had long fallen into its usual silence—James drunk and passed out in the armchair, the boys locked away behind bass-thudding headphones and adolescent cruelty. The air was thick with the scent of beer.
He laid in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling as if that might give him answers.
Then, without warning, he rose.
He got up, each motion slow, deliberate. No hesitation. Just that flicker—burning, guiding.
He crept barefoot across the splintered floor, every creak of the wood threatening betrayal. But the house slept on, drowning in its own dysfunction. He reached for his backpack, already packed from nights spent dreaming of escape but never daring to try.
Until now.
There wasn't much: a few shirts, a flashlight, a book with dog-eared pages he couldn't stop rereading. And two things he guarded like treasure.
The pendant..
It glowed faintly in the moonlight—gold, shaped like a crescent moon, engraved with ancient markings no one could explain not even Sarah could explain.
Sarah had pressed it into his hand the last night she'd been lucid. "For protection," she whispered, "when the world shows its true face."
And the journal.
Small, leather-bound, with empty pages. Sarah had given it to him when he turned twelve. "Write what matters," she'd said, "even if it's ugly." He hadn't written a single word.
Until tonight.
He put the book into his bag and slung it over his shoulder.
He took one last look at the room. The chipped paint. The broken lamp. The faint, lingering scent of her.
Then he slipped out.
Into the night.
The cold hit like a slap, but it woke him, steadied him. Ashwood under moonlight was a different beast. The streetlamps flickered. The trees whispered. He moved like a shadow down the back alley, past rusted gates and sleeping dogs.
No plan. No map.
Just away.
The forest greeted him at the town's edge, vast and silent. The Whispering Woods. People didn't go there. Superstition. Old tales. Monsters.
Asher stepped forward.
The branches shivered overhead like something breathing.
Still, he walked.
His heart beat against his ribs like it wanted out. Doubt gnawed at the edge of his thoughts. Where would he go? What was he running toward?
The pendant pulsed warmly against his chest.
He kept walking.
Behind him, the town remained still. Blissfully unaware that one of its ghosts had slipped loose.
And something ancient was beginning to stir.
In the dark.
Beneath the roots.
Waiting.
""Where will I go now?"
Asher whispered the words into the cold, listening forest, as if the trees might answer.
But they didn't. They just stood, ancient and silent, watching.
Each step into the woods felt heavy, the night's air colder and tighter—like it had teeth.
The ground cracked under his boots, dry leaves and twigs snapping.
He told himself it was just the forest. Just nature being eerie at night.
Then—snap.
Right behind him.
Not a subtle rustle. Not a breeze.
No—this was close. Intentional.
He turned around, his torchlight trembling in his grip, cutting sharply into the dark. His shadow danced, the trees leaned in, and for a quick second, the whole world held its breath.
"it must be a rabbit," he muttered, though his voice broke through the lie.
He didn't believe it. Not for a second.
The air shifted. He could feel it. That sickening sensation—eyes crawling up his spine. Watching. Waiting.
He walked faster, his boots crunching faster, the night pressing harder. His pendant felt hot against his chest now, like it was warning him, glowing faintly through his shirt.
Then—impact.
A blur. A weight.
He hit the ground hard—back first. Wind knocked clean out of him. His torchlight flew into the darkness.
He tried to scream—but a hand came over his mouth.
Rough. Cold. Human? No—something colder than that.
He thrashed, but his limbs were sluggish, heavy—like the forest itself was pinning him down. His thoughts scrambled, heart screaming, lungs burning.
Then—
Nothing.
Not black.
Worse than black.
A velvet, suffocating void folded over him like sleep laced with poison.
And Asher slipped under.
Somewhere behind the trees, the Veil stirred.
And something stepped through.