The sun never rose in Blackthorn the same way twice. That morning, it smeared across the clouds in streaks of ash and rust, as if the sky itself were bleeding.
Eva Marlowe stood at the edge of the ravine, wind snapping her coat against her legs. Kane knelt beside the charred remains of a marker stone, brushing away the moss with a gloved hand.
"This is it," he muttered. "The original boundary. Pre-dates the village by centuries."
Eva squinted into the mist. "You think the entrance is still intact?"
"I think whoever wrote that journal—whoever called themselves Ashrem—believed it was."
She stepped forward carefully. The earth here was different—too soft, too hollow, like breathing skin. Her boots sank an inch into the damp soil with each step. The forest fell unnaturally silent behind them, as though even the crows had fled.
Kane rose, tightening the strap across his chest. "If we go in, we go in ready."
Eva slid her revolver from her hip and checked the cylinder. "I'm always ready."
---
The descent began at the cracked roots of a dead yew tree, half swallowed by the slope. Beneath it, a narrow crevice had been carved into the side of the hill, jagged and lined with stone bearing symbols not yet touched by moss or decay.
"Hold up," Kane said, pressing his palm against the symbols. "These markings... they're not just warnings. They're seals."
Eva tilted her head. "Seals? You mean like containment?"
He nodded. "Or invitation. Depending on who carved them."
They lit their lanterns, oil-fed and fitted with violet-glass. The path downward was slick and twisting, the stone walls close enough to touch with both elbows. Every few meters, carved faces stared from the shadows—some screaming, others smirking, all twisted in unnatural forms.
When the tunnel finally widened into a chamber, the air changed. Heavier. Sweet with rot. A circle of bone totems stood arranged around a sunken altar, its surface covered in dried black residue.
Eva stepped closer, lips tightening. "Blood."
"And not recent," Kane added. "But not ancient, either."
She scanned the chamber. Symbols were etched into the walls, trailing into the stone like veins. In the center of the altar, a small indentation remained, as if something once rested there.
A voice echoed from the darkness behind them.
"You shouldn't be here."
Eva turned sharply, revolver raised. "Show yourself."
From the far end of the chamber, a figure emerged—cloaked in ragged ceremonial robes, face hidden behind a carved wooden mask shaped like a serpent with a third eye.
The figure didn't flinch. "You bear the mark. The dreamer's stain."
Kane stepped between them. "Who are you?"
"I am no one. A vessel. A memory. But I serve the same purpose you defy."
Eva's heart pounded. "You know about the Ashrem rituals?"
The masked figure tilted its head. "Ashrem was never a man. Ashrem is a door."
"A door to what?" Kane asked.
"To the void that dreams in the dark. To the womb that births silence."
Eva fired a shot.
The bullet struck the figure square in the chest—but there was no blood. Instead, the robe collapsed inward like dust, scattering across the chamber in spirals. Where it stood, only the mask remained, resting on the altar now, as if it had always been there.
Kane moved cautiously forward. "We're not alone in this place."
"No," Eva whispered. "We never were."
---
They camped that night at the edge of the ruins, near a glade too still for wind. Kane studied the markings they'd recorded, tracing them into his journal.
"There's a pattern to it," he said. "Every site we've found traces back to this... womb imagery. Always in circles. Always beneath the surface."
Eva stirred the fire absently. "And the dreams. They're getting worse."
He glanced up. "You saw something again?"
She nodded slowly. "But this time, I wasn't watching. I was inside it."
---
In her dream, the altar had become a cradle, rocking beneath an impossible sky. From its center rose a hand—not human, not flesh, but bone and light, wrapped in cords of pulsing thread.
A voice whispered through her bones: "You will bring the final echo."
She had tried to scream, but her mouth had been sewn shut.
---
"You think we're too late?" Kane asked.
Eva stared into the flames. "I think something's already been born."
---
At dawn, they returned to the chamber. But it wasn't the same.
The walls had shifted. The faces had moved. And in the center of the altar sat not a mask, but a stone vial—sealed with wax, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
Eva reached for it.
"Wait," Kane warned. "That's not just a relic. It's bait."
She hesitated, fingers inches away. The vial whispered her name.
"Eva..."
And then the floor cracked beneath her.
She fell—swallowed by darkness, by whispers, by blood.
Kane lunged, but it was too late.
---
To be continued in Episode 10: The Heart Below the Ashes