The bus did not slow down.
It stopped.
Not with warning. Not with mercy. One violent jerk—metal screaming, glass rattling, bodies thrown forward as if the road itself had decided it had carried them far enough.
Cynthia's head snapped forward, her breath knocked clean out of her lungs as she collided with the seat in front of her. A sharp pain bloomed behind her eyes. Someone screamed. Someone laughed—too loud, too fast, the kind of laughter that came from fear scrambling for something familiar to cling to.
Then the engine coughed once.
And died.
The silence that followed was not empty.
It pressed in.
Cynthia became aware of her heartbeat first—too loud in her ears, too fast. She lifted her head slowly, forcing air back into her lungs, and turned toward the window.
Trees.
Too many of them.
They stood close together, unnaturally close, tall and crooked, their branches leaning inward as though conspiring. The road beneath the bus looked thin and brittle, cracked in places, like it had never been meant for wheels—or escape.
No birds.
No insects.
No wind.
Just trees.
"This bus is trash," Violet said, forcing a laugh. "Relax, guys. Old buses break down all the time."
But the driver didn't laugh.
He remained standing, one hand gripping the back of his seat so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, not on the dashboard, not on the road—but on the forest beyond the windshield.
"Everybody stay seated," he muttered.
Something about his voice made Cynthia's stomach tighten.
The driver stepped down from the bus and opened the hood. Steam hissed out immediately, curling into the air like a slow, dying breath. He wiped his forehead, muttering under his breath, then leaned deeper into the engine.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
No one spoke.
Phones came out. One by one, screens lit up—then went dark again.
"No service," Alex muttered, frowning at his phone.
A ripple of unease moved through the group.
Cynthia pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window. The forest seemed closer now, though she was certain it hadn't moved. The trees felt… attentive. As if they had noticed the bus. As if they were waiting to see what would come out of it.
"This isn't the forest yet, right?" someone asked quietly from the back.
Alex checked his map again. "No. We should still be at least twenty minutes out."
A voice spoke behind Cynthia—calm, almost thoughtful.
"Distances change," Ethan said. "Some places don't like being approached directly."
Several heads turned.
Violet scoffed. "What kind of nonsense is that?"
Ethan met her gaze, unbothered. "Just an observation."
Cynthia didn't like the way he said it.
The driver came back aboard with a grim expression.
"Engine overheated," he said. "We can wait here… or we walk."
"Walk?" Violet snapped. "Through that?"
The driver hesitated. His eyes flicked back toward the trees, lingering a second longer than necessary. "If you're going where I think you're going," he said slowly, "it's better not to stay here after dark."
"Why?" Cynthia asked, her voice smaller than she intended.
The driver looked at her for a long moment. "Because some roads don't want visitors."
No one laughed.
They gathered their things in silence.
As they stepped off the bus, Cynthia felt an immediate shift—like crossing an invisible boundary. The air felt heavier, thicker, pressing against her skin. The bus behind them looked wrong now. Smaller. Insignificant. Like it had already been forgotten.
The path ahead was narrow, dirt-packed, winding into the trees.
At first, it didn't seem so bad.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves in thin golden threads. Someone played music softly from a phone. Violet cracked jokes again. Laughter returned, brittle but persistent.
Cynthia walked beside Alex, her fingers wrapped tightly around his. She didn't remember reaching for him—but she didn't let go.
With each step, the forest closed in.
The path narrowed.
The light dimmed.
The smell came next—damp earth mixed with iron. It reminded Cynthia of rain hitting rusted metal. Or blood scrubbed away too many times.
"Do you smell that?" she whispered.
Alex shrugged. "It's just the forest."
But he tightened his grip.
Behind them, footsteps echoed—slower than theirs. Uneven. Delayed.
Cynthia glanced back.
Nothing.
Only trees.
The split in the path came without warning.
Two trails stretched ahead, both narrow, both dark, both vanishing into the forest as though swallowed.
"There should be a sign," Alex muttered, checking the map again. "There's no split marked here."
Ethan crouched, running his fingers through the soil. "People don't mark paths they don't want others to follow."
Violet crossed her arms. "So what? We guess?"
Ethan stood and pointed to a tree.
Carved into the bark was a symbol—rough, jagged, unmistakable.
A fish.
Its mouth stretched wide, teeth uneven, its eye hollowed out.
Cynthia's breath caught painfully in her throat.
Her fingers flew to her neck.
The pendant.
The one that had arrived two nights ago. No return address. Wrapped in red cloth that smelled faintly of earth and something darker she didn't want to name.
"I've seen that before," she whispered.
No one asked where.
No one argued when Ethan said, "Left."
They took the left path.
After that, the forest changed.
Not visibly. But emotionally. The air grew colder. Sounds dulled, then sharpened again without warning. Their footsteps echoed back seconds too late, as though the ground itself were learning how to imitate them.
Violet stopped suddenly.
"Where's my bag?"
They turned.
The spot where she had placed it not a minute earlier was empty.
"That's not funny," she said sharply.
No one laughed.
They searched. They argued. They retraced their steps.
Nothing.
Cynthia's phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Her heart began to pound as she opened the message.
YOU'RE WALKING IN CIRCLES.
Her fingers trembled.
Who are you? she typed.
The reply came instantly.
SOMEONE WHO NEVER LEFT.
A scream tore through the forest.
They spun around.
Footprints began to appear in the dirt—one by one. Heavy. Slow. Too many.
No bodies.
No shadows.
Just breathing.
Low. Wet. Patient.
"Run," someone whispered.
But the forest offered no space to run.
By the time they reached the clearing, dusk had bled fully into night.
The stone well stood at the center, cracked and overgrown, its mouth black and endless. Around it lay remnants of old camps—rusted tools, torn bags, scraps of cloth, bones too small to belong to animals Cynthia wanted to name.
"This is it," Violet whispered. "The treasure site."
Cynthia couldn't move.
The well pulled at her.
Her phone buzzed again.
THE TREASURE IS GUILT.
Behind her, something laughed.
Not loud.
Not cruel.
Patient.
The forest closed in.
And somewhere beneath their feet, something shifted.
Awake.