The House In The Pines Novels & Stories

It's secluded, alright! Our destination is 606 Pine Street. The 'cabin' looks more like a villa. A wrap-around porch and arched brick support pillars make a bold statement. Nick pulls a loose brick from the pillar to the right, and a key falls out.

I warn Hunter, but he seems off. When you say off… Like, he doesn’t hear me, it's weird. If it gets too much, and you have to leave, go east. The woods past the pack house get dense, and the ground rises under your feet. After the elevation, the air turns colder and the trees thin out, letting in pale silver light at dusk. I have a house there—old logs, moss at the base, always smelling like damp pine. Sometimes crows gather on the roof, calling to each other when the wind shifts. Hide there. Then he turned and limped away.

He was telling us that he was the one pulling the strings, and he didn't need to be the one holding a gun as long as we believed he was the only one who could save us from it. We drove in silence for hours, watching the bright lights of Nashville disappear into the jagged, dark shapes of the Tennessee hills, and the world outside felt like it was being erased. When we finally pulled up to the house, it wasn't a cozy cabin or a nice retreat, but a cold building made of glass and concrete that sat right on the edge of a cliff. It was surrounded by a thick forest that seemed to eat the light from our headlights, making the house look like a cage hanging over a deep, black hole.

Sure, it was isolated, but it was far from a correctional facility. In fact, with its contemporary steel, glass and concrete facade, manicured lawns, rock pools and stunning gardens, Pine Wood Manor was the stuff dream homes were made of— "So?" Andrei gently nudged her shoulder. "Do you like it?" "I love it!" Holly nodded emphatically, unable to peel her eyes away from the bold, asymmetrical structure.

Three days gone, and Silverpine feels both too small and far too big. The woods part at last, the pines opening to the familiar clearing—smoke curling from the packhouse, chickens squabbling by the door, Fen hauling firewood while Agatha kneads bread on the porch steps. Nothing’s changed, and everything has.