The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers across the narrow dirt path, winding through the dense forest. The air was thick and heavy, filled with the damp earth and moss. Birds sang in the treetops, their melodies weaving into the rustle of leaves stirred by a lazy wind. The path was familiar, yet somehow different-more sinister in its solitude.
I walked, though I didn't know why. The path ahead was endless, stretching out like a ribbon of earth winding through the darkening woods. My feet moved on their own, one after the other, a slow and deliberate rhythm that I could not break. My legs were heavy, my muscles sore, but I could not stop. I must keep walking. I had to go home. I had to go back to the village.
The trees closed in around me like a towering sentinels, their branches arching overhead to block out the dying light of the sun. The forest was quiet, too quiet, and every step I took seemed to echo louder than the last. My eyes were fixed ahead, staring straight down the narrow path, but I saw nothing-nothing but the dirt and stones beneath my feet. I didn't know how long I'd been walking. I didn't remember when I started. There was only the road, the endless road, and the pull that dragged me forward.
I tried to think, but my thoughts were muddled, like I was wading through thick fog. There was a part of me that knew something was wrong, that screamed at me to turn back, to wake up. But that part was buried deep, smothered by the strange calm that filled my mind. I couldn't seem to hold on to anything for more than a moment; memories slipped away like water through my fingers. I knew that my name was Jane. I knew that I was supposed to be somewhere else. And I knew that I didn't want to be here. But I had to go home. I had to go back to the village.
I heard a rustle in the undergrowth, and my eyes flickered to the side. Shapes moved in the shadows, quick and darting, but I couldn't make them out. Were they animals? My heart beats faster, a flutter in my chest, but my feet didn't falter. Whatever was there, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the road.
I passed a familiar boulder, half buried in the moss, its surface etched with strange marks. I think I'd seen it before. Yes, I knew this place. I'd played here as a child, climbed this very rock, scraped my knees on its rough surface. But the memory felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. I knew the way from here; it was just beyond the bend, past the old birch that split into two trunks. I could almost see the crooked roofs of the village houses peeking over the treetops. The pull grew stronger.
My body ached. My lips were dry and cracked, and my throat burned for water, but I could not stop. My mouth opened, and I tried to call out, to hear my own voice, but no sound came. I didn't know if I'd forgotten how to speak or if my voice had been stolen from me. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms, hoping for pain, for anything to break this strange, numbing grip on me, but there was nothing- just the dull throb of my own heartbeat in my ears.
The road seemed to blur, wavering in and out of focus. I blinked hard, trying to clear my vision, but it only made things worse. The trees looked like twisted shadows, their branches reaching out like skeletal arms. I felt them brushing against my skin, cold and brittle, but I knew that it wasn't real. None of this felt real. It was like a dream that I could't wake up from.
I tried to remember what happened before this-how I ended up here. I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling the ground shift beneath me, and I saw flashes, fleeting images that came and went too quickly to grasp. A face, stern and sharp, eyes boring into mine, a voice, deep and commanding, whispering words I couldn't quite recall. I remembered a hand on my shoulders, and a strange heat that spread through my skull, sinking down into my bones. And then-nothing. Just the road.
I snapped my eyes open, gasping, and almost stumbled. My feet caught me before I fell, and I kept moving, always moving. There was no choice. The pull was like a hook, lodged deep in my chest, tugging me onward, and I couldn't fight it. I didn't even know if I wanted to fight it anymore. It would be so much easier to just keep walking, to let my feet carry me all the way back. Back to where I was supposed to be.
The forest was darker now, the last light of day bleeding away into twilight. The air grew colder, thick with the scent of damp leaves and pine. I shivered, but I didn't stop. I saw the birch tree up ahead, its twin trunks rising like pale ghosts in the gloom. A small voice in the back of my mind whispered, Don't go there. Turn back. Run. But my legs kept moving, step after step, and I knew that it would pass soon. I'll keep walking, just like I had been, and nothing would change.
And then I see them-figures standing by the road, half-hidden in the shadows. My heart skipped, and I blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. People? No, not people. They were too still, too silent, like statues carved from the very darkness itself. Their eyes were on me, I could feel it, cold and heavy, and my skin prickled under their gaze.
Keep walking.
The words weren't mine, but they echoed in my mind, filling every corner of my thoughts. I wanted to scream, to cry, to turn and run, but my body didn't listen. My feet marched forward, step by step, drawing closer to the figures. Closer to the village. Closer to home.
I was almost there. I had to go home. I had to go back to the village. And as I moved past the birch, its eyes followed me, unblinking, watching.
I reached the village as twilight faded into night, the sky overhead turning into a deep shade of blue-black. My feet carried me down the narrow, winding streets, past darkened windows and sagging rooftops. The pull that had dragged me here was still there, stronger than ever, tugging me forward, guiding me like a puppet on strings. My mind was heavy, dulled, wrapped in a thick haze that wouldn't lift. All I knew was that I was home.
But the houses looked different somehow, as if they'd shifted while I was gone. Windows were broken; doors hung ajar. There was an eerie stillness, a kind of silence that felt too complete, too empty. My feet knew the way, even if my mind didn't. I turned left at the old well, its stone rim cracked and crumbling, then right past the smithy, where the sign creaked on its hinges. I smelled smoke and ash, stale in the damp night air. There were no voices, no lights. No one was here to welcome me back.
And then I saw it-my house. Or what was left of it.
The door hung loose on its hinges, barely holding on. The windows were shattered, jagged shards of glass sticking out like broken teeth. I stopped at the threshold, but only for a moment. The pull was still there, urging me inside. My body moved without thinking. I stepped over the splintered wood and into the darkness beyond.
Inside, it was chaos. The table was overturned, chairs broken and scattered. The shelves had been emptied, their contents thrown across the floor-broken plates, smashed pots, food scattered and trampled. My mother's ceramic jar, the one she kept by the hearth, was shattered into a hundred pieces. I saw a torn blanket tangled in a heap, and my stomach churned. I knew this place, and yet it felt so wrong. A part of me knew I should be horrified, but my mind was too foggy, too clouded to feel anything but that constant dull compulsion.
My feet moved deeper inside. My foot crunched on broken glass, and I barely register the sting as a shard bit into my heel. The small hearth, once warm and bright, was cold and dark, the ashes of the last fire scattered across the floor. The walls were gouged with deep scratches, as if something clawed at them in a frenzy. The smell of earth and decay filled my nose, thick and choking. I looked around, but there was no one here. The house was empty.
I stumbled into the small bedroom at the back of the house. The bed was overturned, the mattress slashed open, its stuffing spilling out like entrails. The wardrobe doors were wrenched off, the clothes inside torn and scattered. I moved towards the small window, its frame splintered, the glass shattered. I reached out, my hand trembling, and touched the jagged edge. Blood welled up from the cut on my finger, warm and real. I stared at it, trying to feel something-pain, fear, anything-but there was nothing.
I turned back towards the empty doorway and froze. There was a small mirror hanging on the wall opposite me, one of the few things left untouched in the chaos. My reflection stared back at me, and for a moment, I didn't recognise myself. My eyes were wide and blank, my face pale and gaunt, streaked with dirt and sweat. I looked like a ghost-hollow, lost. Something inside me stirred, a faint spark of panic, but it was smothered almost as soon as it flared.
I heard a noise behind me-a soft rustling, like fabric dragging across the floor. I turned slowly, my body moving with the same strange, unnatural calm that had guided me this far. At first, I saw nothing, only shadows stretching across the walls. But then, in the corner of the room, I saw it-a shape, hunched and unmoving, wrapped in darkness. My breath caught, and for a moment, something broke through the fog, a thin sliver of terror cutting through my numbness.
The pull inside me grew stronger, more insistent, like a hand gripping my spine. I stepped closer, and the shape came into focus-a figure, half-covered by a heavy blanket. My mother's blanket. I knelt down, my hands moving to pull the fabric away, but they were shaking now, clumsy and slow. As I lifted the edge of the blanket, I saw a face, eyes staring wide and empty at the ceiling, mouth frozen in a silent scream.
It was my mother.
Her face was pale, almost grey in the dim light. I could see her hands curled against her chest, the skin stretched tight over bone. She looked so small, so fragile. Like she'd been left here for days. Like she'd been forgotten.
I should've felt something-I knew I should. Fear, or grief, or horror. But I couldn't. My mind was still thick, still muddled, wrapped in a haze that kept me numb. I knew she was dead. I knew she was gone. But it was like watching this through someones else's eyes, someone who couldn't reach me. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. My throat felt like it was closing up, tightening with something I couldn't name.
I reached out, my hand hovering over hers, waiting for some kind of spark, some kind of connection. I didn't know why I was doing this. She was cold. So cold. I almost pulled back, but then my fingers touched her skin, and I finally felt it-a jolt, a sudden rush of something sharp and electric, like waking up from a nightmare. My breath hitched, and I felt my chest tighten, a painful squeeze that made my eyes burn.
"Mother?" The word comes out hoarse, like I'd swallowed glass. My voice sounded so small, so far away. I didn't know if I was even speaking. I wanted to shake her, to make her wake up, to scream at her to move, to tell me this wasn't real. But she didn't move. She wouldn't. She couldn't.
A noice escaped my lips, low and broken, and I felt my knees buckle. I sank to the floor beside her bed, my hand still clutching hers, cold and unyielding. Tears prick at my eyes, but they didn't fall. My mind was fighting against itself, trying to make sense of this, to understand how I got here, why I was here. But I couldn't. I didn't know anything except that I was here, and she was gone, and I couldn't seem to find my way back to myself.
The ringing in my ears grew louder, almost deafening now, drowning out everything else. I felt like I was slipping, like the room was tilting beneath me, but I couldn't let go of her hand. I couldn't. I didn't know if I was holding on to her, or if she was holding on to me.
"Mother." I whispered again, but the word felt empty, hollow. The room was spinning, the shadows twisting around me. I couldn't see. I couldn't breath. All I knew was the coldness of her skin and the darkness pressing in, and the pull-still there, still dragged me deeper.