Hut Search
She gestured to the empty spot on her desk where the spellbook had sat, the absence of a physical ache. “Without the book, we’re blind.”
Kivior shook his head, his voice heavy with the weight of a man who’d faced demons before. “We pray for guidance, Sheriff. The Lord will light the path. But we need more than faith now. We need the book, the medallion—something to bind her again.”
Lina’s eyes met Vera’s, steady and unflinching. “We’ll keep vigil at the house. The children are scared, but they’re strong. We’ll find the hunter. God willing.”
Meanwhile, across town, Kane Baker stood before the crumbling hut by the river, the morning mist clinging to his coat like a second skin, the air sharp with the scent of wet leaves and decay. The clock in his mind ticked toward 8:30 AM, the world quiet but for the distant rush of the river and the occasional cry of a crow. He’d come alone, his horse—a sturdy bay named Scout—tethered a mile back near the old mill, not wanting to spook it with the hut’s bad air. His axe was heavy in his hand, its handle worn smooth from years of chopping wood and, lately, fighting shadows.
The hut’s door hung ajar, its wood warped from years of neglect, the faint three-pointed star scratched into the wall inside barely visible in the gray light. He stepped in, the floorboards groaning under his boots, his flashlight cutting through the gloom, the beam dancing across cobwebs and broken furniture. The place felt wrong—too still, like it was holding its breath, waiting for him to make a mistake.
Room by room, he searched, his movements methodical, the kind of care he’d learned tracking deer in the hills. The first room yielded nothing but dust and a rusted knife glinting in the corner, its blade dull but ominous. He moved to the next, pushing aside a sagging shelf, papers scattering like dead leaves—old receipts, a child’s drawing of a star, nothing useful. His boots crunched on broken glass, the sound sharp in the silence, his mind racing. The book’s gone. The medallion too. Vera’s hurt. Who’s got Moriah’s ear now? The hut felt alive, its walls pulsing with the memory of rituals, of blood and bargains. He paused in the main room, the chalk circle faint under layers of grime, and a shadow moved in the corner of his eye.
He spun, axe raised, the beam of his flashlight catching her—the woman from Vera’s story, cloaked in black, her axe gleaming in the dim light. Her face was hidden beneath a hood, her presence a chill that sank into his bones. She didn’t strike, didn’t speak. Instead, she turned, gliding toward the back door, her steps silent, the axe resting lightly in her hand. Kane’s instincts screamed—trap, danger—but curiosity, or something deeper, pulled him forward.
“Hey! Stop!” he called, his voice echoing in the empty hut, but she didn’t pause, slipping through the door like a wraith.
He followed, axe ready, the mist swallowing him as he stepped into the woods. The ground was soft and dangerous beneath his feet as the path wound around, with trees encroaching and their branches tearing at his coat. The woman advanced, a shadow just out of his grasp, guiding him farther as the air grew heavier and colder. His breath fogged, his heart pounding, but he kept pace, the axe’s weight a comfort. Where’s she taking me?
The woods gave way to a slope, the ground rising to the old graveyard on the hill, its stones weathered and leaning, half-sunk into the earth. The woman stopped at a grave, her axe pointing to the headstone, its inscription clear despite the moss: Mathias Baker, 1870–1913. Kane’s ancestor, the mob’s leader, the man who’d stoned Elena Carey and set this curse in motion.
Kane’s throat tightened, his fingers gripping the axe. “What’s this about?” he demanded, his voice low, the graveyard silent but for the rustle of leaves. The woman stood still, her cloak unmoving, then stepped back, melting into the mist.
“Baker…” a voice whispered, soft but piercing, like a blade sliding from its sheath. It came from behind him, close enough to feel the chill of it. He turned, axe raised, the mist swirling, the voice’s owner unseen, the graveyard holding its secrets.