I hadn't planned on coming back to Crescent Valley.
If I were being honest with myself, I would admit that I had spent years doing everything I could to forget it existed. The forests. The fog. The way the town always felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something unseen to happen. Crescent Valley was a place I had learned to push to the back of my mind, locking it away with memories I didn't want to touch.
But when my grandmother's voice trembled over the phone thin with age, strained by stubborn pride there was no version of me that could say no. I heard the effort it took for her to sound calm. I heard the pauses where she wanted to say more but didn't. And I knew, even before she asked, that I was already on my way back.
So I drove north.
Mile after mile passed beneath my tires as the world slowly changed. Road signs faded. Cell service weakened. The trees grew thicker the farther I went, pressing in from both sides of the road like silent watchers. The sky remained gray, heavy with clouds that never quite broke. By the time I reached the narrow stretch of highway leading into town, it felt like the rest of the world had fallen away.
Crescent Valley welcomed me the same way it always had quietly and without warmth.
The air felt heavier the moment I stepped out of my car. Cold settled into my skin, sharper than I remembered, seeping through my clothes like it had been waiting for me. It felt deliberate, as though the town itself wanted to remind me that I didn't belong here anymore. Fog clung low to the ground, curling around my ankles like it was alive, like it knew my name.
I pulled my jacket tighter around myself and glanced up at the line of trees bordering the road.
They looked unchanged. Too tall. Too dense. Too close. Their dark branches tangled together, blocking out light and sky alike. The forest had always loomed over Crescent Valley, but standing there again, I realized how little distance there truly was between the town and the wilderness surrounding it.
Grandmother's house sat at the edge of town, just far enough that the forest crept close to the backyard fence. It was smaller than I remembered, the paint peeling slightly, the porch steps worn down by time and weather. Still, it stood firm, stubborn in the way only old things could be, refusing to yield even as everything else aged around it.
She was waiting for me at the door.
"Elara," she said, relief softening her sharp eyes as she pulled me into a hug. Her arms felt thinner than before, but the strength in her grip was the same. "You took your time."
"I came as fast as I could," I replied, breathing in the familiar scent of herbs and old books that clung to her sweater. For a moment, I let myself hold on, grounding myself in something familiar.
Inside, the house felt warmer than the outside world, but even there, something felt off. The windows were locked despite the mild weather. Heavy curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the pale daylight. I noticed it without commenting, though a small knot of unease settled in my stomach.
That night, I slept poorly.
The forest made noise in a way cities never did. It wasn't constant, but when it moved, it demanded attention. Branches cracked sharply, loud enough to wake me. Wind whispered through the leaves, carrying sounds I couldn't quite place. Once, sometime after midnight, I thought I heard a distant how long, and full of something that made my chest tighten.
It pulled me from sleep with my heart racing.
I told myself it was just a wolf.
Morning didn't bring much comfort.
At breakfast, my grandmother frowned as she scanned the yard through the kitchen window, her fingers tightening around her cup.
"Another one," she muttered under her breath.
"Another what?" I asked, following her gaze.
She hesitated, then shook her head. "Nothing you need to worry about."
That was the first time I noticed the missing things.
The chicken coop behind the house stood open, the latch broken clean through. Feathers littered the ground, scattered in a way that didn't look natural. There were no bodies. No blood. Just absence. The kind that left too much room for questions.
Later that day, when I went into town, I heard more of the same.
Old Mr. Hayes complained loudly in the grocery store about losing two goats overnight. His voice shook with anger and something else fear, maybe. A woman at the register mentioned her dog hadn't come home in days. Someone else joked nervously about locking their doors before dark, the laughter forced and hollow.
But no one explained anything.
When I asked questions, conversations stopped.
People shrugged. Changed the subject. Smiled too tightly, as if pretending hard enough might make the problem disappear.
"It's just wildlife," they said.
I wasn't convinced.
Wildlife didn't break locks cleanly. It didn't leave behind neat claw marks etched into wood. And it didn't make a whole town act like they were afraid of their own shadows.
That afternoon, I decided to take a walk.
The path near the forest edge was one I remembered from childhood. It used to feel safe. Familiar. Now, it felt like crossing an invisible line. The closer I got to the trees, the quieter everything became. Birds fell silent. Even the wind seemed to pause, as though the forest itself was watching.
I noticed something half-hidden near the trail.
A backpack.
It was torn, the straps shredded as though they'd been pulled apart by force. I knelt and touched the fabric. It was still damp.
Recently.
My pulse quickened.
I didn't hear him approach.
"You shouldn't be here."
I turned sharply.
He stood a few feet away, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed simply in dark clothes that blended too easily with the forest behind him. His presence was unsettling not because he looked dangerous, but because he felt controlled, like a storm held back by sheer will.
"I was just walking," I said, straightening. "Is that not allowed?"
His eyes flicked briefly to the backpack, then back to me. Gray. Cold. Assessing.
"This area isn't safe," he said. "You should go back to town."
Something about the way he spoke calm, firm, and unquestionable irritated me.
"I can take care of myself."
His jaw tightened. "That's what everyone thinks."
For a moment, we just stared at each other. The air between us felt charged, sharp and uncomfortable, though I couldn't explain why. There was something about him that made my instincts scream even as my curiosity burned brighter.
Then he stepped back.
"Leave," he repeated, softer this time. "Before it gets dark."
I watched him disappear into the trees, moving with a smoothness that didn't seem entirely human.
I stood there longer than I should have.
That night, I wrote everything down.
The missing animals. The silence. The backpack. The man in the forest.
Kael Draven.
Someone in town had mentioned his name earlier, warning me away from his family without explaining why. I didn't know who he was, only that the way he had looked at me felt like he already knew something I didn't.
As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the forest howled again.
This time, it sounded closer.
And for the first time since returning to Crescent Valley, I stopped telling myself I was imagining things.
Something was wrong here.
And whatever it was, the forest wasn't going to let me ignore it for long.