Casey looked at her again, more serious this time.
"The Shine isn't just telekinesis," he said. "That's just the part people notice first."
Carrie frowned. "Then what is it?"
"Fire," Casey said. "Electricity. Sometimes… thoughts."
Her breath caught.
"You can read minds," he added. "Not all of them. Not cleanly. It's more like hearing a radio that won't shut up."
Carrie's fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
Her chest felt cold.
She remembered the gym.
The moment the pig's blood hit her skin.
She hadn't just heard screaming.
She'd heard laughter.
Not out loud.
Inside her head.
Dozens of voices, sharp and cruel, overlapping—mocking her, tearing her apart before she'd even moved.
"I thought I was imagining it," she whispered.
Casey shook his head. "You weren't."
Carrie looked down at her hands, flexing her fingers like they might still be stained red.
"They were laughing before I did anything," she said. "Before I got angry."
Casey nodded once. "Yeah. That's how it usually starts."
She swallowed. "Does that mean… I hurt them because I heard them?"
Casey didn't dodge the question.
"It means you reacted," he said. "Like anyone would."
Silence stretched.
Carrie's voice trembled. "What if I hear it again?"
Casey leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.
"Then you learn to tune it out," he said. "You decide whose voice matters."
He tapped the table gently.
"Here's a rule," he added. "If a voice makes you feel small, scared, or ashamed—don't listen to it."
She looked up at him. "Even if it's real?"
"Especially if it's real," Casey said.
The lights flickered once, then steadied.
Carrie took a slow breath.
"…Okay," she said.
And for the first time since the gym, the noise in her head stayed quiet.
Casey pushed his chair back and stood.
"Let's go."
Carrie blinked. "Go where?"
He walked past her and opened the back door. Cool forest air spilled inside.
"Backyard," he said. "Time to train."
Carrie stared at the trees beyond the porch. "Train… how?"
Casey glanced back at her, already halfway outside. "Safely."
She hesitated.
"What if I lose control?"
Casey paused, then smiled faintly. "Then you won't."
That didn't help.
He added, "And if you do, I'll catch it."
The words weren't loud. Or dramatic.
They didn't need to be.
Carrie stood, took a breath, and followed him out.
The door closed behind them with a soft click.
Carrie stepped into the backyard.
The forest opened up behind the cabin like it had been waiting. Tall trees. Soft earth. Birds calling somewhere overhead. Small animals watched from a distance, curious but unafraid.
She felt it immediately.
Peace.
Her shoulders loosened. Her breathing slowed.
"It's quiet," she said.
Casey nodded. "Yeah. The woods don't judge."
He walked a few steps ahead and stopped, pointing at a thick tree near the edge of the clearing. Old. Deep roots. Solid.
"Try and lift it."
Carrie's eyes widened. "The whole tree?"
"Not rip it out," he said. "Just enough to know it listens."
She swallowed and stepped closer. The bark was rough under her fingers, grounding.
"I've never tried something this big," she admitted.
"That's the point," Casey replied. "Small things don't teach control. They teach tricks."
She closed her eyes.
At first, nothing happened.
Then she felt it—not strength, not force—but awareness. The tree wasn't an object. It was weight. Balance. Resistance.
Carrie breathed in.
The leaves rustled.
The ground trembled just slightly.
The tree shifted—no more than an inch—but it moved.
Carrie gasped and stumbled back, eyes flying open.
"I did it," she whispered.
The tree settled back into place, unharmed.
Casey smiled. Not wide. Just enough. "Good."
Her hands were shaking—but she was smiling too.
"I wasn't scared," she said, almost to herself.
"That's because you asked it to move," Casey said. "You didn't force it."
She looked at the tree again. "It felt like it trusted me."
"Exactly."
A bird landed on a nearby branch. Unbothered.
Carrie laughed softly. "My mother said nature was something to be feared."
Casey glanced at the woods. "Nature only fears people who don't listen."
Carrie took another breath, steadier this time.
"Can I try again?"
Casey stepped back, giving her space. "Take your time."
In the distance, far beyond the treeline, something old and cruel felt the shift.
A girl wasn't screaming anymore.
She was learning.
And that terrified it.
Carrie nodded to herself and faced the tree again.
This time, she didn't reach out with fear.
She reached out with curiosity.
Her power stirred—quiet, controlled. The leaves trembled first, then the branches. The tree lifted just a little more than before, roots creaking in protest but not breaking.
Carrie held it there.
Seconds passed.
Her breathing stayed even.
"I'm… holding it," she said, amazed. "It's heavy, but it's not hurting me."
"That's because you're not fighting it," Casey replied. "You're sharing the load."
A bead of sweat rolled down her temple. The tree slowly lowered back into place, settling as if nothing had happened.
Carrie exhaled, laughing—an actual laugh, surprised and unguarded.
"I've never done that without panicking."
Casey tilted his head. "Because no one ever told you it was okay to stop."
She looked at him. "Stop what?"
"Listening to every voice but your own."
That made her go quiet.
Carrie stared at her hands. "Yesterday… when the blood fell… I heard them. Everyone. Laughing. Even people who weren't laughing."
Casey's tone stayed calm, but his eyes sharpened. "That's the Shine connecting you to emotional noise. Pain carries far. Especially humiliation."
"So I wasn't imagining it."
"No," he said simply. "But here's the trick."
He stepped closer, tapping two fingers lightly against his temple. "You don't have to open every door just because you can."
Carrie frowned. "How do you close them?"
Casey gestured to the forest. "Focus on something that doesn't lie."
She listened.
Wind in the leaves. A squirrel scolding something unseen. Cujo, somewhere behind the house, barking once before chasing his own tail.
The noise inside her head faded.
"Oh," she whispered. "It's quieter."
"Good," Casey said. "Now try something smaller."
He picked up a fallen pinecone and tossed it into the air.
"Stop it."
Carrie lifted her hand without thinking.
The pinecone froze midair.
Perfectly still.
Her eyes went wide. "I didn't even try."
Casey smirked. "That's when you know you're learning."
She slowly lowered it back into her palm.
"Casey," she asked softly, "why are you helping me?"
He looked away, toward the treeline.
"Because if you don't learn control," he said, voice flat, "something else will teach you."
She didn't like the way he said something else.
Before she could ask, Casey straightened.
"That's enough for today," he said. "First rule of power—stop before it starts feeling good."
Carrie hesitated. "It does feel good."
He met her eyes. "Exactly."
From deep in the forest, unseen and patient, something smiled.
The game had begun.
In a different places
Sue stopped walking.
The trees thinned just enough for her to see it.
A fence—old, half-buried, more a suggestion than a boundary. Beyond it, the forest felt… different. Quieter in a way that made her skin prickle.
Tommy came up beside her, squinting. "This is it?"
Sue nodded slowly. "This is where the trail ends."
They'd followed rumors, half-burnt gossip, and one shaky description from a kid who swore he'd seen a house that wasn't on any map. Every step after that had felt wrong, like walking into someone else's backyard without permission.
Tommy rubbed the back of his neck. "So let me get this straight. A missing girl, a creepy woods house, and a kid who looks like he benches trucks."
Sue shot him a look. "You saw him too. He wasn't normal."
"Neither are we," Tommy muttered. "Didn't stop a bucket from landing on my head."
Sue didn't laugh.
She stared through the trees.
Lights glowed between the branches. Warm. Yellow. Domestic.
A home.
That scared her more than a shack would have.
"No police tape," she said quietly. "No screaming. No cult symbols."
Tommy frowned. "That's… good?"
"No," Sue replied. "That means whoever lives here isn't hiding."
They stepped closer.
The air shifted.
Tommy slowed, his grin fading. "Okay. Now I feel it."
"Feel what?"
"Like I just walked into a church," he said. "But I don't believe in anything."
Sue swallowed.
Somewhere deeper in the property, a dog barked—once. Not aggressive. A warning.
Then silence.
She hugged her arms. "We shouldn't be here."
Tommy hesitated. For once, he didn't argue. "But Carrie might be."
Sue closed her eyes, then opened them with resolve.
"We don't go in," she said. "Not yet."
Tommy blinked. "That's it?"
"We watch," Sue replied. "We learn. And we don't knock on doors we don't understand."
The lights in the house flickered once.
Just once.
Tommy stiffened. "Tell me that wasn't a signal."
Sue stared into the woods, heart pounding.
"It wasn't," she said.
Tommy looked at Sue. "So, like should we tell the authority about this?".
Sue shaked her head. "We can't, they will burn the forest down to find the house".
Tommy looked at her in disbelief "Really?"
Sue looked back. "Our town is primarily white".
Tommy stared at her for a second, then looked back at the trees.
"…That's not paranoia," he said slowly. "That's just true."
Sue crossed her arms. "They won't look for a house. They'll look for a monster. And when they don't find one fast enough, they'll make one."
Tommy kicked at the dirt. "And Carrie gets caught in the middle."
Sue nodded. "Or worse."
They stood there, listening. Wind through leaves. Somewhere deeper in the woods, something heavy shifted—wood creaking, branches bending, like a tree being asked to do something trees shouldn't.
Tommy's eyes widened. "Did you hear that?"
Sue did. She felt it more than heard it. Pressure. Like the air leaning.
"That's why we don't call anyone," she said quietly. "Whatever's back there? It's controlled. Careful."
Tommy swallowed. "You're saying the scary thing isn't the house."
Sue looked toward the glow between the trees again.
"No," she said. "The scary thing is that Carrie looks safe."
Another sound rolled through the forest.
A deep crack.
Both of them flinched as a tree—an entire tree—slowly lifted into the air somewhere beyond their sight. Not ripped out violently. Not exploding.
Just… raised.
Like a demonstration.
Tommy whispered, "That kid. Casey."
Sue's jaw tightened. "Yeah."
The tree settled back down. Gently. Almost respectfully.
Silence followed.
Sue took a step back. Then another. "We leave. For now."
Tommy didn't argue this time. "And if Carrie doesn't come back?"
Sue paused.
"Then we'll know she chose not to," she said. "And that means going after her would be the stupidest thing we could do."
They turned away from the fence.
Behind them, unseen, the forest watched.
And it did not object to their decision.
Back in the house.
Carrie looked at William. "You… people are Christian?"
William glanced at her, then nodded. "Yeah."
Her eyes moved around the room.
She searched without meaning to.
A cross on the wall.
A Bible on a shelf.
A picture of Jesus watching from a frame.
There was nothing.
Just a lived-in house. Warm wood. Old furniture. A place that felt safe without asking permission.
Casey noticed her pause. "Everything okay?"
Carrie flinched, then shook her head quickly. "N-nothing."
But her hands were clenched in the fabric of her borrowed clothes.
William caught the look. He didn't comment. Didn't smile. Didn't judge.
Instead, he stood and poured himself another cup of coffee.
"You don't have to believe the way we do," he said calmly. "And you don't have to be afraid either."
Carrie froze.
No threats.
No scripture.
No warnings.
Just a statement.
Clara appeared in the doorway, drying her hands on a towel. "Lunch's almost ready," she said. Then, gently, "You're safe here, Carrie."
Safe.
The word hit harder than anything that had happened the night before.
Casey watched her carefully—but said nothing.
Not yet.
To be continued
Hope people like this ch and give me power stones and enjoy