Laura was out before the door fully clicked open, her sneakers hitting gravel with a defiant crunch. Adrenaline surged through her veins, hot and electric, drowning out the rational voice screaming *wait*. The yellow police tape gleamed ahead like a forbidden veil, fluttering in erratic bursts, daring her closer.
"Laura—wait!" John's voice cracked from the driver's seat, his hand fumbling for the door handle like it might bite. He twisted toward Taya, eyes wide behind fogged glasses. "Taya, tell her this is insane. We're literally one bad decision from becoming podcast fodder. 'The Trio Who Ignored the Tape.' Come on, back me up!"
Taya hesitated for a split second, her fingers drumming the wheel—then the door flew open, and she was out, bag slung over her shoulder, a reckless grin splitting her face. "Sorry, Johnny. But think about the shots. This fog? Cinematic gold." She shot him a wink, already rounding the hood. "Grab the camera. You know you want the glory."
John groaned, slumping dramatically against the seat. "Glory? This is betrayal. Mutiny. I'm mutinying right—"
"John!" Laura called over her shoulder, already striding forward, the fog swirling at her ankles like curious ghosts. "Camera now, or you're editing porta-potty footage for the blooper reel."
That did it. John scrambled out, camera in hand, muttering curses under his breath as he jogged to catch up. Leaves crunched beneath their feet—sharp, brittle snaps that echoed too loudly in the hush, like bones breaking underfoot. The path to the restricted area sloped gently downward, the fog thickening into a milky veil that blurred the tree line, turning the woods into an endless, breathing void.
Laura moved like she was pulled by invisible strings, her breath shallow, eyes locked on the tape. It loomed closer now, a ragged barrier strung between splintered posts, the yellow faded to sickly ochre, words like **DO NOT CROSS** peeling into illegibility. Her hand extended, fingers inches from the plastic weave, the fog parting just enough to reveal glimpses of the path beyond—overgrown, mud-slick, vanishing into shadow.
Taya and John trailed her, their steps syncing in reluctant rhythm, leaves shattering like glass under their weight. The camera whirred softly in John's grip, capturing the slow advance—the fog's ethereal dance, the tape's hypnotic sway—like a scene from a fever dream.
And then:
"Are you blind? Can't you see that's restricted?!"
The voice sliced through the mist like a whip—young, sharp, laced with a rolling Scottish burr that carried equal parts fury and frayed concern. They whipped around as one, hearts slamming, the fog parting to reveal him: a lad no older than nineteen, standing at the treeline like he'd materialized from the bark itself. He was dressed in threadbare layers—an old woolen coat over a linen shirt, trousers tucked into scuffed boots that looked pulled from another century—wild curls framing a face sharp with anger, eyes stormy gray under furrowed brows. In one fist, he clutched a fistful of herbs, their bruised leaves releasing a sharp, medicinal tang that cut through the rot.
The three of them froze, breaths syncing in stunned silence. John's camera dipped, the lens catching the kid's glare like a spotlight.
Before Laura could unclench her jaw, he barreled on, striding forward with the herbs waving like a battle standard.
"Tourists like you—barging in, poking where you don't belong, all out of some foolish curiosity! You think this is a game? Playing at death's door for a selfie? Folks vanish here, you know? Swallowed whole, and not a whisper left! You're not helping—you're stirring the pot, making it worse for the rest of us who actually live it!"
His voice cracked on the last word, anger fracturing into something rawer—fear, maybe, or exhaustion etched too deep for his years. He jabbed a finger at the tape, herbs scattering like green confetti. "Turn around. Now. Or I'll report you myself—have the sheriff dragging you back to whatever fancy coach you rolled in on."
"No, wait—we're not tourists, we're ju—" Laura started, hands up in placation, but he steamrolled right over her, his accent thickening with the rant.
"Yeah, that's what they all say! 'Just looking,' 'Just passing through'—till you're the ones leaving clothes in the branches! Out! Before you drag the Maw's hunger right to your own throats!"
"WE ARE JOURNALISTS!" Laura's voice cracked like thunder, louder than she'd meant, echoing off the trees and silencing the wind for a beat. She stepped forward, chest heaving, eyes blazing. "And we're trying to make a documentary—expose the missing cases, the cover-ups, get answers for the families. Real stories, not tourist traps. That's it. That's us."
He blinked, the fury stalling mid-breath. His gaze raked over them—Laura's defiant stance, Taya's wide-eyed nod, John's camera still half-raised like a shield. Silence stretched, broken only by the fog's lazy drift. Then, brow furrowing deeper: "Doc... what?"
Taya jumped in, voice bright but edged with nerves. "Documentary. Y'know—like a film? Investigating the truth?"
He tilted his head, herbs dangling forgotten in his grip. "A... film? What's that got to do with—"
"You don't know what a documentary is?" John blurted, lowering the camera, disbelief cracking his voice.
The kid—Cedric, though they didn't know it yet—scowled, cheeks flushing under the scrutiny.
"No, I don't! We don't get your fancy TV signals out here—barely get the radio on good days. But whoever you are, people or not, I'm not letting you past that tape. You must've heard the tales—the vanishings, the whispers pulling folk under. It's not curiosity fodder; it's a curse, you fools! Turn back, or—"
"Fine!!" Laura cut in, hands out like she was taming a wild thing. "Then we're not going in. But... can you help? For the documentary. An interview—just you, talking about what you've seen. Your side. It could make a difference."
He paused again, eyes narrowing as he studied her—really studied, like he was peeling back layers to the bone. "Interview? What's that now?"
Laura exhaled, awkwardness creeping in as she gestured vaguely at the camera.
"It's... like talking. On record. You tell us about Haceol—the real stuff. We film it, share it with the world. Make people listen. No poking around, promise. Just your words."
The scowl held for a beat longer, then—impossibly—cracked. A slow smile tugged at his lips, crooked and wary, like sunlight piercing storm clouds. "Yeah? The world, huh? Fine then. Follow me."
John's eyes bulged. "Where?!"
"You want folk for your... doc-thing, right? Real voices? Then follow. I'll show you some who'll talk true."
The three exchanged glances—Laura's spark of triumph, Taya's thrill-tinged nod, John's flat-out horror. "No," John hissed, shaking his head like a bobblehead. "Absolutely—"
"Okay," Laura and Taya chorused, already stepping forward.
John's groan was epic, but he trailed after, camera slung like a reluctant anchor.
The fog thinned as they fell into step behind him, the path winding back toward the road. Taya, ever the icebreaker, piped up: "I'm Taya, by the way. That's Laura up front, and the walking panic attack's John. What's your name?"
"Cedric," he tossed over his shoulder, not breaking stride. "And you'll see where I hail from soon enough."
"Cool, cool," Taya said, grinning. "Thanks for... not reporting us. So, what were you doing out here? Foraging?"
Cedric lifted the herbs, their scent sharp and green. "Yeah—for poultices. Medicine. The woods give what they take, if you know where to look."
John, huffing to keep pace, adjusted his glasses. "You're not... afraid? Out here alone, with all the stories?"
Cedric paused, fishing something from under his collar—a locket on a leather thong, etched with swirling patterns like knotted vines and eyes woven into thorns. It caught the fading light, almost pulsing. "Afraid? Nah. This wards it off." He tapped the locket. "Keeps the negative energies at bay—lets you wander without the pull."
Silence blanketed them, thick as the fog. Taya's steps faltered. Laura's eyes narrowed. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
"Negative... energies?" Laura echoed, voice low, probing.
Cedric shrugged, resuming his stride. "Yeah. The shadows that linger, the hungers that whisper. We all wear 'em here—one for every soul in Haceol. Passed down, forged in the old ways. Keeps the Maw from claiming what isn't yours to give."
John sidled up to Laura, voice a frantic whisper as Cedric pulled ahead. "You think he's... tribal? Like, full-on ancient-ritual vibes?"
Laura glanced at Cedric's back, the locket glinting. "Probably. Fits the folklore we've read."
"Oh no," John hissed, eyes darting like a cornered animal. "Tribal means group, right? What if he's gesturing to his clan right now? Like, 'Oi, lads—fresh meat! Fry 'em up with a side of herbs and eat us for supper!'"
Laura's step hitched, her face paling as the image slammed home—spit-roast over a fire, Cedric chanting while they dangled like kebabs. "John! Oh God, why'd you say that? Now I'm picturing it—us as stew!"
John clapped a hand over his mouth, stifling a wheeze. "Sorry! But seriously—look at him! Old clothes, magic bling, herb hands? We're one bad vibe from the wicker man!"
"Shut up!" Laura whisper-shoved him, half-laughing, half-traumatized, her eyes wild. "If we end up as soup, I'm blaming your big mouth!"
They crested the rise, the car emerging from the mist like a lifeline. Laura cleared her throat, forcing casual. "Cedric—can we drive? To wherever?"
He eyed the vehicle, shaking his head. "Nah. The way's too narrow—mud and roots, you'd bog down in seconds. We walk."
He crossed the road.
John leaned into Laura's ear, voice a theatrical murmur: "See? No car. Now I'm *sure*—he's gonna eat us, bury the evidence, and sell the hubcaps for tourist trinkets."
Laura slapped a hand over his mouth, hissing, "One more word, and *I'll* feed you to the woods!" But her eyes danced with suppressed giggles, the terror absurdly funny in the fading light.
She straightened, tone shifting to steel—journalist mode, probing deep. "Cedric... talk to me about Haceol. How's life really out here? The missing—what do you think? Has anyone from your... area vanished? Walk us through it. The truth."
Cedric slowed, his steps measured now, the herbs forgotten as he turned to face them fully. The fog had lifted enough for the woods to loom clear—pines like silent judges, their needles whispering judgments. His voice dropped, laced with the weight of generations, young but ancient in its timbre—like a storyteller reciting curses by firelight.
"Life? It's a tether, lass. We cling to the roots, harvest what the land spares, mend what it breaks. But the missing... yeah, that's the rot at the heart. Not luck, not chance—it's the Maw's tithe. Every few seasons, it hungers. Calls the lost ones with voices sweeter than kin, pulling 'em into the green dark. Folk hear it first as songs, then pleas, then nothing. Clothes left as mockery—bare branches dressed in what was stolen."
He paused, eyes distant, tracing patterns in the air like sigils.
"From my kin? Yeah. My auntie, seven summers back—Wandered harvest moon, chasing lights in the mist. Found her shawl knotted. No body, no bone. Just the echo. but it's growing. Hungrier. The old ones say it's the witch-blood waking, from the burnings long ago. Blood in the soil, calling debts unpaid."
The words hung heavy, dramatic thunder in the hush—wind dying to a reverent hush, leaves still as if listening. Laura's pen scratched furiously in her mind, the air electric with dread. Taya's breath caught; John's camera trembled.
The path dipped abruptly, revealing a narrow descent—mud-slick steps carved into the hillside, roots snaking like veins, slick with moss and recent rain. They hesitated at the lip, the group peering down into a shadowed throat that swallowed light.
"Careful now," Cedric murmured, extending a hand. "One slip, and you're tumbling to the bones."
Laura went first, gripping his callused palm, boots sliding on the muck—heart in her throat as she half-climbed, half-fell the ten feet down. Taya followed, nimble but cursing under her breath, mud flecking her jeans. John was last, camera awkward in one arm, the other flailing for purchase.
"Whoa—shit—Cedric, wait—!" He teetered, nearly toppling, until Cedric hauled him down with a grunt, both landing in a heap of limbs and laughter-tinged panic.
As they dusted off, a sound swelled from below—familiar, insistent: the roar of water, building like a heartbeat from murmur to thunder. They pushed through a curtain of ferns, the air misting cooler, sweeter—and there it was.
A waterfall cascaded from jagged rocks, silver threads plummeting into a crystalline pool ringed by ferns and wildflowers, sunlight fracturing through the spray into rainbows that danced like spirits.
Mist hung in veils, the roar a living pulse that drowned doubt, mesmerized them into stillness. Taya's eyes lit, phone whipping out for Snapchat. "Oh my God—this is—" Click.
Cedric nodded ahead. "Beauty hides the teeth. Come.."
They plunged deeper, single file: Cedric leading with purpose, Laura and Taya close, John trailing with muttered gripes. "How much farther? My legs are screaming mutiny..." The pines here parted like benevolent giants, sunlight spilling golden and warm—unlike the gloom above—dappling the needle-strewn floor in patterns that almost seemed to shift, watchful.
"Oww!" John scratched his neck mid-stride, voice pitching high. Everyone spun.
"What?" they chorused, Taya's eyes wide.
"Somethin' bit me," John grumbled, rubbing the spot. "Mosquito, probably. Little bastard—"
Cedric's gaze sharpened, freezing them. "Don't move."
John's hand stalled mid-air. "What?!"
Cedric stepped close, peering at John's collar. Something glinted—tiny, iridescent—crawling free from the fabric, skittering down his sleeve toward the earth. A spider!
"That spider," Cedric breathed, voice grave as a dirge. "its venomous"
John's face drained to ash. "What?!"
Taya and Laura surged forward, panic igniting. "What happens? ?!" Taya demanded, voice shrill.
Laura's hand clamped John's arm.
Cedric's eyes darkened, the waterfall's roar fading to a mocking hush. "If not treated in thirty minutes... he fades....Dead by dusk."
John's knees buckled. "I'm... gonna die? Tell Ma I love her—tell her the lasagna was always worth it—" His eyes rolled back, body crumpling to the pine needles in a boneless heap.
"John!" Laura dropped beside him, shaking his shoulders, his head lolling limp. Taya knelt too, fingers at his pulse—thready, faltering—tears pricking her eyes. "Wake up! John, you idiot—come on! "
Cedric loomed over them, face etched with shadows, the locket at his throat seeming to hum. No hospital near—takes an hour, too long. Desperation clawed the air.
Laura looked up, voice breaking. "What do we do?!"
Cedric met her gaze, dramatic resolve hardening his young features, the words falling like a ritual incantation:
"Take him."
To be continued -