Chapter 18: Shadow in the Woods

EVELYN POV

The metallic clang of the village bell echoed across the valley, a heavy, dismal sound that always meant trouble was brewing.

I wiped my wet hands on my faded apron, leaning over the low wooden railing of the porch. The morning fog was still hanging thick over Oakhaven, blanketing the dirt roads in a ghostly gray shroud. But despite the early hour, the path leading to the village square was already buzzing.

"Did you hear?" Mama Agnes called out from across the muddy alley, her voice raspy from years of inhaling woodsmoke. She was leaning heavily on her bamboo cane, her dark eyes wide with a strange mix of terror and fascination. "The city men have come. They brought those big black motorcars—the ones that roar like thunder."

I didn't answer right away. I pulled another damp bedsheet from the wash tub, twisting the rough fabric until my knuckles turned white. "They're just passing through to the county seat, Mama Agnes. City people don't stop in Oakhaven."

"Not this time, child," she hissed, stepping closer to the fence, her chin quivering. "They aren't going to the county seat. They've set up camp right at the edge of the deep timber—up by the old ironwood ridge. Dozens of them. Men in dark suits, carrying shiny metal boxes and talking into little wires. They say a wealthy family from the capital bought up the whole northern reserve."

My heart gave an uneasy, hard thud against my ribs.

The mountain forest reserves weren't just trees to the people of Oakhaven. They were sacred, wild, and dangerous. For generations, the elders warned us never to venture past the second stream after dusk. The thick, suffocating canopy swallowed light whole, and the narrow hunting paths were treacherous enough to break a man’s neck.

Why would wealthy city tourists want anything to do with our wet, unforgiving woods?

"Evelyn!"

Auntie Beatrice’s sharp voice sliced through the foggy air from inside our cramped kitchen. A second later, the screen door banged open, and she stepped out onto the porch, her jaw set tight and her eyes dark with suspicion. She didn't look at Mama Agnes. She looked straight at me, her gaze lingering on the faded collar of my dress where my half-jade pendant lay hidden against my chest.

"Stop idling and finish the wash," Auntie Beatrice ordered, her tone colder than the morning mist. "And when you're done, you take the dry firewood straight to the pantry. You don't step foot near the market square today. Do you hear me?"

"Why?" I asked softly, squeezing the water from the cloth. "Is something wrong in the village?"

"Nothing that concerns a ten-year-old girl," she snapped, stepping down the stairs and grabbing my chin with her rough, calloused fingers, forcing me to look her in the eye. "The world outside this valley is full of vultures, Evelyn. Rich people don't come to places like Oakhaven to admire the trees. They come to take what isn't theirs. You stay inside, keep your head down, and keep your mouth shut."

She shoved my chin away and marched down the steps toward the garden, her heavy steps sinking into the damp earth.

I stood there, my chin stinging from her grip, watching her back. There was fear in her eyes—a sharp, frantic kind of fear I had never seen before. Auntie Beatrice wasn't afraid of the local chief, the tax collectors, or the dark. But the mention of city people had turned her hands into shaking leaves.

By midday, the rumors had spread through the village like wildfire on dry grass.

When I went down to the well to draw fresh water, the local women were huddled in a tight circle, ignoring their buckets altogether.

"I saw one of their young boys," Papa Lawson was telling a small crowd near the blacksmith's hut. "Dressed in clothes made of silk and fine wool, riding a horse that looked worth more than all our crops combined. They say his father owns half the banks in the capital. The Hales, that's what the driver called them. The Hale family."

The name meant nothing to me, but the moment it left his lips, a strange, prickling heat bloomed along my collarbone. Beneath my dress, the cool stone of my half-jade pendant felt suddenly heavy, almost humming against my skin.

Hale.

I swallowed hard, my hands tightening around the wooden handle of my water bucket. Why did that name feel like a shadow lingering at the edge of a forgotten dream?

"They aren't here for sightseeing," Papa Lawson lowered his voice, leaning in toward the crowd. "My nephew works the night shift at the railway junction. He overheard the guards talking. They're searching for something in those woods. Something lost years ago during the big landslide."

"Or someone," a woman whispered, crossing herself.

I turned away from the well, my breath catching in my throat. I couldn't stay in the village listening to the whispers any longer. Every word felt like a tiny needle pressing into my mind, stirring up memories I couldn't reach—flashes of a soft, gentle voice singing in the dark, the smell of expensive perfume, and the terrible sound of screeching metal.

Instead of heading back to the cottage, I carried the bucket into the woods behind our garden, slipping past the wooden boundary fence where Auntie Beatrice couldn't see me.

The forest was unusually quiet today. Usually, the canopy vibrated with the chatter of birds and the rhythmic hum of cicadas, but today, an eerie stillness hung over the damp pine needles. The air was colder here, carrying a crisp, metallic scent that didn't belong to the earth.

I walked deeper along the narrow goat path, my bare feet navigating the slick roots with practiced ease. I told myself I was just gathering dry twigs for the hearth, but my eyes kept wandering toward the upper ridge, where the dark ironwood trees pierced the fog.

Suddenly, a strange sound broke the silence.

It wasn't the wind, and it wasn't a forest animal. It was a sharp, frantic whistle, followed by the heavy, thudding sound of something crashing through the underbrush higher up the slope.

I froze, ducking instantly behind the thick trunk of an ancient oak.

"Richard!" a distant voice shouted—a cold, harsh voice that sounded nothing like the soft-spoken villagers of Oakhaven. "Where did he go? Find him before the Chief sees!"

Heavy, crunching footsteps echoed through the trees off to my right. Men in heavy leather boots were moving fast, tearing through the ferns without any regard for the treacherous drop-offs.

I held my breath, pressing my back against the rough bark of the oak tree. Through the gap in the wild berry bushes, I caught a flash of dark blue fabric—a man wearing a sleek, tailored uniform, holding a long, metallic rod that glinted menacingly in the pale sunlight.

They weren't searching for a lost item. They were hunting.

My heart hammered wildly against my ribs as the footsteps drew closer, the heavy boots snapping thick branches like bone. I pulled my knees into my chest, terrified that a single loose breath would give me away.

Then, right above me on the steep slope, a shower of loose pebbles came cascading down the dirt bank.

I looked up.

A young boy, no older than twelve, was sliding down the muddy incline, his fine wool jacket torn and covered in pine needles. His dark eyes were wide with pure panic, his chest heaving as he desperately tried to catch his balance on the slick slope.

Our eyes locked for one agonizing second.

He lost his footing. With a sharp gasp, he tumbled over the edge of the root barrier, falling straight toward the sharp, jagged rocks of the ravine below.