The late afternoon sun dipped behind the tall pines, casting long, slanting shadows across the quiet, narrow lane that wound its way through the outskirts of Greyson. Rose walked alone, her footsteps soft against the gravel, her sketchbook clutched to her chest like a shield. The town had grown colder in recent days – not in temperature, but in feeling. As if the very air held its breath, waiting.
She had stayed behind at school a little longer, trying to avoid the uneasy silence of Aunt Marian's house. Her sketches were growing darker – sharper edges, deeper shadows, faces twisted with secrets she couldn't speak of. And always, Mr. Whitlock's eyes.
The road home twisted just past the grove where the trees stood dense and motionless. Rose had passed it countless times, but today felt different. A hush had fallen over the birds. No rustling leaves. No footsteps but her
Then she felt it.
The weight of a presence – not seen, but felt – creeping just at the edge of her senses. Her pulse quickened. Her grip on the sketchbook tightened. Her breath caught.
A twig snapped.
Rose froze.
From the corner of her eye, a shadow broke away from the trees.
She turned, barely in time to see him emerge – Mr. Whitlock.
His eyes were hollow and unreadable, his face partially in shadow, but his presence chilled her to the bone. He stepped forward slowly, not speaking, his lips curled into a small, unnatural smile that never reached his eyes. The wind stirred, lifting the edge of Rose's skirt, carrying with it the faint scent of damp earth – and something else. Something metallic.
Rose stepped back.
He moved faster.
Suddenly he was upon her – grabbing her arm with startling strength. She tried to scream, but no sound came. Her voice, still locked deep within her, betrayed her again. Her sketchbook slipped from her grasp, falling unnoticed into the underbrush.
Mr. Whitlock leaned closer, his whisper rough and cold:
"You saw, didn't you, little mouse?"
Tears welled in her eyes as she struggled, panic clawing at her chest. The air around her pulsed with dread. Her fingers scratched at his sleeve, desperate. But then –
"Hey!! Get away from her!!!"
Jake's voice tore through the stillness like a thunderclap.
Everything happened in a blur. Jake tackled Mr. Whitlock, forcing him back. The man stumbled, snarling something low under his breath, then shoved Jake hard before disappearing into the trees, the shadows swallowing him whole.
Jake turned to Rose, his face pale with fury and worry. She stood trembling, her knees weak, her eyes wide and empty with shock. Jake didn't ask questions. He just wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as she trembled against him.
"It's okay," he whispered. "you're safe now. I've got you, muffin."
But even in Jake's arms, Rose didn't feel safe. Her mind kept replaying those moments – the way Mr. Whitlock had appeared from nowhere, the chill of his grip, and most of all, his words.
You saw.
Jake led her back home, his arm around her shoulder. He tried asking what happened, but Rose couldn't speak – not even to him. Her silence wasn't new, but this was different. It was heavier. Like something had settled over her – something ancient and dark and watching.
Only after they were far from the grove did Jake realize her sketchbook was missing.
––—
Later that evening, Rose sat curled in her bed, the blanket pulled to her chin. The house felt colder now, even though the fire crackled in the next room. Aunt Marian hadn't asked where she'd been – just looked at her for a long, unreadable moment, then disappeared into her room.
Jake hovered near Rose's door, glancing in with concern. "I'll find your book tomorrow," he said gently. "Don't worry."
But Rose was worried.
Because that sketchbook… it held more than drawings.
It held witness.
And now, it was in the wrong place.
Or worse – in wrong hands.
As the night deepened and the moon cast silvery shapes across her wall, Rose didn't sleep. Her eyes stayed open, fixed on the window.
Somewhere out there, in the quiet folds of Greyson's woods, Mr. Whitlock still wandered.
And he knew the truth.
She saw him.
And now, he had every reason to silence her for good.