Chapter 8
Wild Rose
In the Footsteps of Ghosts
We are a cold case waiting to unravel, seams fraying with every step deeper into the forest’s gnarled heart. As we push past clawing bushes and low-hanging branches, our decision replays in my mind like a broken vinyl, its rough rhythm refusing to fade. The moonlight, once our silent guide, has long been swallowed by the canopy of overgrown trees, leaving us with nothing but the weak, flickering beams from our phone’s flashlight.
What better way to announce ourselves to whatever creatures gorge and burrow in these woods than with a stuttering light, practically screaming prey into the forest's darkness. Our destination had been a long drive from where we started, but getting a cab this late was a joke, and walking—well, that should’ve never been an option. Yet here we are, the night blossoming, each step a gamble we can’t take back.
The driver tried to groom his facial expressions but failed forlornly when he dropped us off. And it got worse when he uttered, “Are you kids troubled?”
It was not that the old man knew our interest in being here. But because anyone clutching to their sanity wouldn’t ask to be left on the side of the road that led a narrow path into an opaque-looking forest.
For a fleeting second, I was on the verge of calling it quits, ready to abandon this madness and turn back. But the reality of what this means to all of us anchored my steps. So, like any desperate soul clinging to purpose, I let Naseria lead us deeper into the maw of whatever awaited, even if it meant walking straight into our own graves.
The past ten minutes have been a symphony of crickets, snapping twigs, and nameless sounds slithering through the dark—each one tightening the coil of fear in our chests, each one convincing us we’re not alone.
“Just a little more, and we’ll be there,” Naseria whispers, her voice barely more than a breath against the oppressive hush of the woods. The words hang in the air, offering a fragile promise that feels as thin and brittle as the branches beneath our feet.
It’s cold and too quiet for my liking.
With each step I take, it feels as though we’re treading across the fragile surface of a frozen lake. The inevitable lurks just beneath, clear as glass, the peril palpable, and fear seeping deeper into my spine like ice water finding every crevice. Yet, I keep moving forward, even as the metaphorical ice groans beneath my feet, threatening to shatter. I know deep down that not all questions deserve answers, especially the ones that tear at your insides.
Closure doesn’t always bloom from unearthing painful truths. Sometimes it lies in the quiet acceptance that you won’t have all the answers, that some shadows are meant to remain undisturbed. It’s supposed to be enough to sit with the unknown, to find peace in the dark corners.
So why can’t I make sense of my own healing?
Why can’t I hold onto the understanding behind my words? Why do they crumble in the face of my torment, failing to soothe the ache that eats at me night after night. I lie awake, the questions circling like vultures, begging for answers that never come? Why did I lose my family? Why is the silence louder than the truth could ever be?
So I remain on the ice bed, for those damn answers that might never come.
My thoughts shred away when I bump into Miro’s back. They’ve stopped walking, and it takes me a short breath to realize why.
Singing
We exchange tense glances before shifting our focus back to the path, where the sound grows heavier, closer . Naseria moves to step forward, but Miro grabs her wrist, his fingers tight around her skin as he signs “turn the flashlights off.”
Without hesitation, we do. Darkness wraps around us, thick and suffocating, until our eyes adjust to a faint, flickering glow ahead. As we edge closer, weaving through twisted roots and low branches, the source reveals itself—a fire, burning low and steady just beyond a massive, gnarled tree.
We drop into a crouch behind a dense thicket of shrubs, parting the leaves with slow, careful hands to get a clearer view. The flames lick the air, casting shadows that dance and distort, silhouettes moving in ways that don’t feel entirely human.
We might be hidden from them, but the thought claws at the back of my mind—what else is out here, unseen, watching us in the same way we peer into the circle of firelight? The forest feels alive with unseen eyes, the murkiness pressing in like a living thing, breathing down our necks.
Miro nudges me, “What the actual fuck?”
I’m at a loss for words at what graces our eyes.
A clearing stretches before us, encircled by trees that bow inward, their twisted branches like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky. In the heart of it all, a towering fire crackles, its flames licking the air with a feral hunger. Had that been all, I might’ve mistaken it for an ordinary campsite, some late-night gathering of wanderers. But this—this is something else entirely. Something uncanny, something that scrapes at the edges of reason.
Around the roaring blaze, naked women kneel in a perfect ring, their bodies swaying in unison as they chant in tongues unknown to any language I’ve ever heard. Their hands are clasped together, a fragile chain of flesh and bone, while strips of black cloth blindfold their eyes. And unlike the wild, overgrown forest surrounding them, the earth beneath their knees is bare, stripped of life as though the ground itself recoils from their presence.
Their voices rise and fall, an otherworldly harmony that slithers through the air like smoke. The words of their incantation are incoherent, sounds that likely don’t belong in any human mouth, let alone a dictionary. Yet, their melody is intoxicating—a siren’s song, beautiful and wicked in equal measure. The firelight dances across their skin, casting shifting shadows that blur the line between reality and nightmare. The longer I watch, the more the flickering light feels like a lure, pulling me into its hypnotic embrace.
A jolt of relief surges through me when I steal a glance at Miro and Naseria. Their faces are slack, eyes glazed, caught in the same trance that coils around my mind like a noose. I’m not alone in feeling like a sailor, drawn to the rocks by the sweet, deadly call of something ancient and merciless.
Then—a rustle.
Sharp and sudden, it tears me from the spell. My head snaps toward the sound, back into the suffocating dark beyond the fire’s reach. The trees stand like silent sentinels, their shapes barely distinguishable from the shadows. But the longer I stare, the more certain I become. There’s something there. A shape, a silhouette, something not quite part of the forest.
My breath catches in my throat, heart pounding so hard it drowns out the distant chanting. I squint, trying to pierce the veil of darkness, and as my eyes adjust, I see it move. Just a shift—subtle, deliberate—but enough to confirm the dread crawling up my spine.
Someone is out there.
Watching us.
The rustling grows louder, closer, like dry leaves whispering secrets beneath an unseen tread. My body stiffens, the cold grip of fear trickling down my spine like melting ice. The chanting seems too quiet, or maybe it’s just the thunderous roar of my heartbeat eclipsing all other sounds.
The figure in the shadows inches closer—not enough to reveal itself fully, but just enough to let me know it’s real.
And it knows we’re here.
What did I truly expect when I agreed to this?… nothing. I thought this would be another dead end, a fruitless search through the shadows of old stories and faded records. I hoped it would be. Everything we unearthed from dusty library archives and the dim corners of the internet spoke of events long buried in time. I clung to the belief that it was just folklore, that Nova’s death and the ac cident were cruel twists of fate, nature’s indifferent hand reclaiming its own.
I wanted to believe that this… thing, this whispered tale of a cult clawing its way back from the past, was nothing more than myth. That the recent deaths, scattered like broken beads on a string, were mere coincidence. But the knot tightening in my gut, the chill crawling along my skin, tells me otherwise. The figure watching me from the shadows is a silent confirmation, a dark echo of my worst fears, and it only feeds the storm inside my head.
Then, it happens, a piercing howl shatters the night, raw and primal. I flinch, my heart slamming against my ribs as I whip my gaze back to the clearing. And I wish I hadn’t.
A man, cloaked in flowing black vestments, stands behind one of the kneeling women. His hand is tangled in her hair, yanking her head back to expose the pale column of her throat. In his other hand, a blade glints in the firelight, wicked and gleaming like a fang. His face is a mask of malice, eyes hollow, mouth twisted into something that doesn’t belong on any human face.
He looks sinister, not just in appearance, but in the way his presence seeps into the air, poisoning it, making it heavy and suffocating.
However, they don’t resist. Instead, as if on cue, they all bow forward, their foreheads pressing into the barren earth, arms stretched out in reverence or surrender. The fire crackles louder, as though it too bears witness to this ritual, feeding on the dread that coils tighter with every heartbeat.
“She is the anointed,” the man bellows, his voice a jagged blade slicing through the night’s stillness, “for the creation of our mercy and creed. She shall save us all, and with her blood, our mother shall rise from the earth’s gaping womb. ”
The chanting intensifies, a guttural symphony of voices that claw at the edges of sanity, relentless and oppressive. It’s as if the forest itself breathes with them, the shadows thickening, the air growing heavier with each cursed word.
“She surrenders her soul,” he hisses, tightening his grip on the woman’s hair, her neck stretched taut beneath the blade’s cruel gleam. “For us to be reborn. And in her blood, our seed shall fester and consume.”
The words hang in the air like the stench of decay, sinking into my skin, my veins, my very soul. The fire roars as if it too thirsts for the offering, casting monstrous reflections that writhe and convulse, mocking the fragile line between life and death.
And as I stare into the abyss of their ritual, I realize—this isn’t salvation. This is damnation, and we are far too deep to crawl our way out.
Goosebumps erupt on my skin and terror scolds my flesh. The man looks up to the sky and silently mouths something. He then draws his knife and ploddingly slits the girl’s throat. His blade digs deep, tearing into her as blood gushes out and splashes onto the ground. When he seems pleased with his butchery, he drops the knife. And, with his finger, he collects some of the blood and swipes it across his…. cut tongue.
Naseria stumbles back, her foot snapping a twig beneath the weight of her panic. The sound is slight, barely a whisper against the crackle of the fire—but it’s enough. The man’s head jerks up, his hollow eyes locking onto the shadows where we crouch. He lets the lifeless body slip from his grasp, the dull thud of it hitting the barren earth echoing louder than any scream.
“Show yourself,” he commands, his voice a low, venomous growl that seems to creep through the trees .
I can see the panic spiraling in Naseria’s eyes, wide and wild, her breath hitching in her throat. She’s on the brink of losing it, the scream bubbling up, ready to tear free and betray us all. Before it can escape, I shove off my knees and clamp a hand over her mouth, muffling the terror threatening to spill out.
Miro’s eyes are as wide as mine, bulging like they might rocket from his skull. It’s almost absurd, three fools fumbling in the dark, poking at things better left buried. If this were a horror movie, we’d be the cliché, the idiots who went looking for trouble, found it, and now wait their turn to be swallowed whole by it. And as the man steps closer, his shadow stretching toward us like the hand of death itself, I can’t shake the sinking feeling, we won’t make it out of this scene alive.
“Let’s go,” Miro signs urgently, his hands moving with sharp precision. Before we can be discovered, we scramble backward, though not as quietly as we’d hoped. Once we’re out of sight, we break into a sprint, crashing through the undergrowth, the pounding of our footsteps mingling with our ragged breaths. No one dares to speak as we tear through the forest, hearts pounding like war drums until we finally burst onto the tarred road, the cold night air biting at our lungs.
I lean over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. “Are you all alright?” I manage, my voice hoarse. Miro, pressed against a tree, gives a tense nod, his chest heaving. But when I glance at Naseria, I freeze. Her face is streaked with tears, her breaths coming in short, panicked gasps, her whole body trembling.
A panic attack .
“Hey, hey, look at me,” I murmur, pulling her into my arms, trying to steady her. “Breathe, okay? Just breathe.” But her quiet sobs swell into full-blown crying, shaking her from the inside out.
“Aux Champs-élysées, Aux Champs-élysées, Au soleil sous la pluie, à midi ou à minuit…” I start singing softly, the way Mama used to when I was falling apart. My voice wavers, but I keep going, rocking her gently as the world narrows down to just this moment. I don’t know how long we stand there, but I only stop when her sobs quiet and her breathing slows, the tremors easing out of her limbs.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice raw.
“Always,” I reply, pressing my forehead against hers.
Miro pushes off the tree and flicks his lighter, offering us a cigarette. I shake my head, but Naseria takes it, her fingers still trembling slightly as she brings it to her lips.
“Our cab should be here soon,” Miro signs, his expression still tight, eyes darting toward the shadows.
“Thanks,” I mutter, though the word feels hollow. The sense of being watched clings to me, a prickling unease that refuses to fade, even now, far from that cursed clearing.
The cab arrives quicker than expected, headlights cutting through the dark, and we climb in without a word. The ride back is silent, but the images refuse to leave me—the fire, the chanting, the man’s face. Those piercing blue eyes. I can’t shake the feeling that this is only the beginning, the first thread of a blood-soaked tapestry unraveling in our hands.