The gate slammed behind them with a finality that rattled the hinges.
Alex turned back immediately, grabbing the wooden boards as if he could pry them open. The heavy frame didn't budge—not even a creak. Behind the gate, the forest exhaled a long, low growl that vibrated through the wood.
Then silence.
As if the moment they crossed the threshold, the creatures lost interest—or were forbidden to follow.
Jordan keeled forward with his hands on his knees. "Holy—holy shit, we made it."
Tara pressed a hand to her racing heart. "Did we?"
Liam clutched the faintly glowing lantern the stranger had given him. Its light was now only a dim pulse—like a dying heartbeat.
Alex let go of the gate and turned toward the village.
Direford was not what they expected.
The mist was thinner here, but everything looked… abandoned. Houses slumped inward on crooked frames, roofs sagging under years of neglect. Wooden shutters dangled open like unblinking eyes. The dirt path ahead was worn, but no footprints marked it—fresh or old.
Not a single person walked the streets.
Not even a dog barked.
The entire village felt like it had forgotten how to move.
Jordan straightened slowly. "I take it back. We're not safe."
Tara stepped ahead cautiously. "Someone built that gate. Someone hung those lanterns. Someone lives here."
Liam swallowed. "Or lived."
Alex forced himself forward. They needed shelter. Answers. Anything that made sense.
The first house on the left loomed over them—two stories, walls warped by frost and damp. Its door hung partially open, revealing only darkness inside.
Jordan stepped closer, peering in. "Uh… hello?"
No answer.
No movement.
Just the faint sound of water dripping somewhere deep inside.
"Don't go in there," Liam said immediately.
Jordan stepped back without argument.
Tara turned her gaze toward the center of the village. A crooked bell tower leaned at a precarious angle near the square. Its rusted bell hung half-detached, swaying gently in the slight breeze—but never ringing.
Across the square, a candle flickered inside a window.
Alex saw it first. "There. Someone's home."
Liam visibly relaxed. "Thank God."
Jordan exhaled. "Finally."
But Tara took a slow step backward. "Why is only one house lit?"
The question froze them all.
Because she was right.
If the village was lived-in, there should have been more signs of life—more lanterns, more fires, more noise. But every other house remained dark and hollow.
Only the small cottage by the square had any light at all.
A candle, flickering once.
Then twice.
Then vanishing completely.
Liam choked on his breath. "Why did it go out?!"
"Maybe they moved it," Tara said.
Alex shook his head. "No. Someone blew it out."
The road ahead forked—one path toward the silent square, the other toward a narrow row of townhouses whose windows were boarded shut.
Jordan looked from one to the other. "Okay, so… which way leads to 'not instant death?'"
"Left," Tara said.
"Right," Liam insisted.
Alex sighed. "We stay together. We go left first—the square. If anyone's alive, they'll be near the center."
He stepped forward.
The others followed, though slowly, their eyes scanning every shadow.
As they approached the square, the fog seemed to recoil from the buildings, revealing more details:
—A toppled horse cart, wheels snapped—A fountain choked with algae and dead leaves—Doors nailed shut from the outside—Windows smeared with dark handprints
Jordan pointed. "Uh… should we be concerned about that?"
Tara crouched by the fountain, touching the stone. "Cold. But not ancient." She paused. "Someone was here recently."
Alex scanned the surrounding buildings. "Then where are they?"
Liam held the lantern up. The dying glow flared weakly, as if reacting to something—listening, sensing.
Jordan leaned closer to Alex. "Maybe we shouldn't… you know… yell. Or knock. Or breathe. Just spitballing."
Alex ignored him and approached the cottage where the candle had been.
He reached the door.
He knocked.
The sound echoed through the quiet square like a gunshot.
Jordan whispered, "That was so loud oh my God—"
Silence.
Alex knocked again, softer.
Still nothing.
He was about to step back when—
Creaaaaak.
The door opened a crack.
A single eye stared back at him—wrinkled, bloodshot, filled with terror.
An old woman's trembling voice hissed through the narrow opening:
"Close it. Close it now. They'll hear you."
Alex froze. "We're not—"
"Shh!" she snapped. "Don't speak out here! Not in the open!"
Tara stepped forward. "We just need shelter—"
"No one shelters outsiders," the woman whispered. "Not anymore. Not since he started watching."
Jordan blinked. "Who?"
The door opened another inch.
The woman's voice dropped to a trembling whisper:
"Lord Drakov."
Alex felt his throat tighten. "Who is he?"
The woman shook her head violently. "If you speak his name too loudly, he sees you. If you see him, you don't leave. If you leave—" She stopped herself, eyes darting around the square.
A sound echoed down the empty street.
A soft, rhythmic tapping.
Not footsteps.
More like something sharp striking wood.
Tara whispered, "What is that?"
The old woman's voice cracked with fear.
"Get inside," she said. "Now. Before he sends his eyes."
Without waiting for permission, she seized Alex's sleeve and yanked him through the door.
The others scrambled after him.
As soon as they were inside, the woman slammed the door shut—bolted it—then dragged a heavy chest in front of it.
She didn't look at them.
She didn't speak.
She just whispered to the door:
"Not tonight. Please… not tonight."
The tapping outside grew louder.
Closer.
Jordan mouthed to Alex: What the hell was that?
Alex didn't know.
But when he looked back at the old woman—at her trembling hands, her sunken eyes, her sheer terror—
He realized something with ice-cold certainty.
Whatever waited inside Direford…
It might be worse than what hunted them on Lantern Road.