The cabin groaned as Anne stepped inside.
The door hadn't creaked—it had sighed, like it had been waiting for them. The moment her boots touched the warped wooden floor, the lights flickered on with a low hum. Not modern bulbs, but old lanterns mounted to the walls, their flames dancing without fuel.
Zahir followed, his eyes scanning every corner.
The room was small. One space. No hallway, no kitchen, no bathroom. Just a single room with furniture that looked like it had been forgotten by time. A rocking chair sat in the corner, its cushion threadbare and sunken. A wooden table stood crookedly near the wall, one leg shorter than the others. The wallpaper—if it could still be called that—was peeling in long strips, revealing splintered wood beneath.
The windows were sealed shut. Not nailed, not locked—sealed. As if the glass had melted into the frame. Anne tried one, pressing her palm against it. It didn't budge. It didn't even feel like glass.
"This place is wrong," Zahir murmured.
Anne nodded. "But it's where the letter led us."
She turned, and that's when she saw it.
The rug.
Unlike everything else in the cabin, it was new. Vibrant. A deep crimson with golden embroidery that shimmered faintly in the lantern light. It didn't belong here. It was too clean. Too warm.
Anne stepped closer and inhaled.
"Do you smell that?" she asked.
Zahir nodded slowly. "Fireplace. But there isn't one."
The heat rose suddenly, like a breath against their skin.
Zahir narrowed his eyes. "There's energy here. Below."
He knelt and pulled the rug aside.
Beneath it was a trapdoor.
Old iron hinges. A brass handle. No lock.
Anne knelt beside him. "Should we open it?"
Zahir didn't answer. He just pulled.
It resisted at first, groaning like it hadn't been moved in centuries. Then, with a final creak, it opened.
Pitch black.
A staircase descended into nothingness.
And then the music started.
A song from the late 1990s—distorted, warbling, like it was playing from a broken radio. Anne recognized it faintly. Something about being lost. Something about never coming back.
The tempo sped up unnaturally, and before either of them could react, a gust of wind slammed into their backs.
They were pushed.
Down.
They landed hard.
But not on wood.
Grass.
Anne sat up, coughing, her eyes wide.
They were outside.
Except… they weren't.
The sky above was dark, but not night. The stars were wrong—too close, too bright. The trees swayed without wind. The air shimmered like heat off pavement.
Zahir stood, his face pale.
"I know this place," he whispered. "It's a pocket realm. A memory loop. A trap."
Anne looked around. "It's beautiful."
"It's dangerous."
She turned to him. "We can't leave. Not yet. Leo might be here."
Zahir clenched his fists. "Then wish us out if things go wrong. Promise me."
Anne didn't answer.
Then the letter began to levitate.
It rose from her jacket pocket, glowing faintly, and drifted forward like it had a mind of its own.
Anne chased it.
Zahir followed.
They walked for what felt like hours, the landscape shifting subtly around them—trees changing shape, paths curving back on themselves.
And then they saw it.
A cottage.
Identical to the cabin they'd entered.
Except it was brand new.
Fresh paint. Clean windows. A porch swing that creaked gently in the breeze.
The song played again.
Clearer now. A woman's voice. Soft. Haunting.
Anne stepped forward.
The door opened.
And out stepped the woman.
She looked like she'd stepped out of a 1990s magazine.
Her hair was voluminous, curled into soft waves that framed her face like a halo. She wore a high-waisted denim skirt, a tucked-in floral blouse with puffed sleeves, and a velvet choker around her neck. Her boots were scuffed but stylish, and her nails were painted a deep maroon.
Her makeup was flawless—winged eyeliner, matte lipstick, and a hint of glitter on her cheekbones. She held a cigarette between two fingers, though it wasn't lit.
Her eyes were sharp. Intelligent. Ancient.
She smiled.
"Welcome," she said. "I've been waiting."
Behind her, on the wall, hung a map of the woods—marked with red Xs and strange symbols.
In the corner, a camcorder sat on a tripod, its lens cracked.
Anne's breath caught.
Zahir stepped in front of her.
"Mrs. Hodgins," he said.
The woman nodded. "That's one of my names."
Anne stared.
She'd seen that camcorder before.
In a documentary.
In a movie.
In The Blair Witch Project.