When you grow up in a small town, nothing ever really happens.
Same streets, same faces, same diner on the corner that smells like coffee and old pancakes. Ridge Valley wasn't the kind of place people talked about — until that day.
It started with a school project.
That's all it was supposed to be.
Mrs. Collins gave us an assignment for the summer break:
"Research a natural ecosystem near your area and document your findings."
Simple, right? Take a few pictures, collect a few leaves, write a few pages.
That's how it always goes.
So that's how me and my friends — Emma, Jake, Sarah, Tyler, and me, Ethan — ended up driving out toward Ridge Valley Forest one Friday afternoon. It was one of those warm evenings where the sun turns everything gold. The air smelled like pine and dust, and the radio barely worked, crackling between songs.
I was driving my dad's old blue Chevy pickup, the kind that rattled every time you hit a bump. Emma sat next to me, legs pulled up, reading the project notes.
Jake and Tyler were in the back seat arguing about which snacks to eat first. Sarah had her phone out, recording the view like she always did — short clips for the vlog she swore she'd never post.
We were halfway down the dirt road when it happened.
First, the air changed — still, heavy. Then, out of nowhere, the sky lit up.
A white streak tore across the horizon, brighter than anything I'd ever seen. For a second, it looked like the sun had exploded.
Emma gasped. "What is that?"
The thing — whatever it was — burned through the clouds, leaving a glowing tail behind it, and disappeared behind the mountain ridge. A few seconds later, a faint boom rolled through the air.
Jake leaned forward. "That was close. It landed somewhere near the old mines."
Tyler grinned. "We should check it out."
Sarah turned to him. "Are you serious? It could be dangerous."
But we were all thinking the same thing. Curiosity. That need to see.
So I turned the truck toward the mountain road.
The sun had nearly set by the time we reached the ridge. The sky had turned dark purple, streaked with orange. Everything felt… wrong. The air smelled like burnt metal and rain.
When we came around the last curve, we saw them — rows of black SUVs, flashing lights, and people in dark uniforms moving fast. The ground was cordoned off with yellow tape, and there were strange devices set up — long metal rods blinking red and green.
I slowed down.
"What the hell…" Jake muttered.
There was no crash debris, no smoke, just this heavy silence hanging over the place.
A man in a black vest and sunglasses walked up to my window. His face was blank, professional.
"This area's restricted. Please turn around."
His voice was firm. Not angry — just final.
I nodded, pretending I wasn't nervous. "Yes, sir."
As I turned the truck around, I noticed someone standing farther down the road.
He wasn't part of the team — too still, too calm.
He wore a long brown coat that looked older than he was, and a dark hat that shadowed his face. He was tall, thin, and pale — like someone who'd been indoors too long.
As I passed, he raised his hand slightly, motioning for me to stop.
I rolled down the window a few inches.
"Curiosity," he said softly. "It's a good thing. But it can also lead to places you don't want to find."
His voice was dry, but not unkind. I could smell something faint — smoke and damp soil.
Before I could say anything, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small leather book.
It was dark brown, with a cover that looked cracked and burned along the edges. Strange symbols were pressed into it — not letters, not numbers, just lines that seemed to twist when you looked too long.
He held it out to me.
"Take it," he said. "You'll understand soon."
I didn't move. I just stared at it.
"Who are you?" I asked.
He smiled faintly, like he'd been waiting for that question.
"A messenger," he said.
And then he turned around and walked away. His coat brushed the ground as he disappeared into the trees behind the trucks.
The weird thing was — the trees were fenced off. There was nowhere for him to go. But when I leaned out and looked again, he was gone.
Just gone.
No one spoke for a while as we drove back toward town.
The road was quiet, and the forest looked darker than before. Every time a branch brushed the window, Emma jumped. Jake tried to joke about it, but even he couldn't hide how uneasy he looked.
The book sat on my lap the whole ride. I didn't remember deciding to keep it — I just couldn't bring myself to put it down.
It felt heavier than it should've. Warm, too. Like it was alive.
When I got home, the house was quiet. My parents were out for the night. The air smelled faintly of rain.
I sat on my bed and turned on the desk lamp. The book looked darker under the light — the cover almost black now. When I ran my fingers across it, the grooves felt like scars.
I opened it.
The first few pages were blank. The paper was thick, rough, and slightly damp.
On the fifth page, faint marks appeared — almost invisible at first. Then the words began to darken, as if ink was seeping up from inside the paper.
It said:
"Find the mirror that breathes."
The handwriting was thin and shaky. The letters seemed to move slightly when I blinked, like they were floating on water.
I stared at it for a full minute. Then I flipped the page — nothing. Blank again. When I turned back, the writing was gone.
The lamp flickered once.
Then I heard it — a drip.
Slow. From the corner of the room.
I looked down. There was no water, no leak. But I could hear it — like droplets hitting the floor, one by one.
Then something whispered my name.
So soft I almost thought it was my imagination.
"Ethan…"
The sound came from the window, but when I looked, there was only my reflection staring back — pale, wide-eyed, and afraid.
I closed the book, shoved it into my backpack, and turned off the lamp.
But the dripping didn't stop.
And when I finally lay down to sleep, I could still hear that voice.
Faint.
Waiting.
Calling.