Elara Reed didn't believe in monsters.
At least, not the kind that howled at the moon or lived under beds. The real monsters were the ones you saw in daylight—bullies who smiled, secrets whispered too loudly, people who promised forever and left anyway.
She had grown up in the sleepy town of Havenridge, nestled between sharp hills and endless trees. The kind of place where everyone knew everyone's business—except hers. The Reeds were quiet people. Kept to themselves. Smiled politely but rarely attended cookouts or church gatherings. Some said it was because her mother was a widow. Others said she was strange.
Both were true, in a way.
Elara didn't mind the whispers. She liked the quiet. Mornings spent sketching in the sun-dappled kitchen. Afternoons working at her part-time job in the town's dusty bookstore. Evenings curled up with tea and a book while her mother hummed old songs in the garden.
It was a simple life. Predictable. Safe.
Until the dreams began.
They started like whispers—barely there. Trees reaching for her in her sleep. Eyes glowing in the dark. The feeling of running barefoot, fast and free, heart pounding like a drum. Then came the sounds—bones cracking, breath heavy, voices calling her name from the woods.
At first, she dismissed them. Nightmares. Stress. Too much reading. But one morning, she woke up with dirt under her fingernails and a pine needle tangled in her hair.
That was when everything began to change.
Elara stood in front of the mirror, her brush frozen mid-stroke through her long curls.
There it was again.
A shimmer beneath her skin. A flicker—barely noticeable—like something alive was watching her from the inside. It passed in a blink, and she told herself it was just the bad lighting in the bathroom.
"Get it together," she muttered, tying her hair up in a loose bun.
Downstairs, the scent of lavender and fresh bread drifted from the kitchen. Her mother, always awake before dawn, had a habit of baking when she couldn't sleep. It happened more often lately.
"Morning," Elara said as she padded into the kitchen.
Her mother glanced up, eyes warm but tired. "You're up early."
"I couldn't sleep."
She nodded knowingly, wiping flour from her hands. "Dreams again?"
Elara paused. "No. Just… restless."
Her mother didn't press, which was typical. She never asked for details. Never offered explanations. Just an understanding silence that sometimes felt heavier than any lecture.
They sat at the kitchen table in companionable quiet, the morning sun slanting through the windows. Outside, the trees rustled gently in the breeze—tall, ancient things that lined the backyard like silent sentries.
"Have you ever felt like…" Elara hesitated. "Like something inside you is changing?"
Her mother didn't look up. She kneaded dough slowly, rhythmically. "Change is a part of growing."
"That's not what I mean." Elara leaned forward, eyes searching. "It's like I'm not just me anymore. Something's… waking up."
There was a flicker then—quick, almost imperceptible. Her mother's hands stopped.
Just for a second.
Then she smiled, soft and distant. "You've always had a vivid imagination."
Elara frowned. "Right."
The moment passed, and the dough hit the counter with a dull thud. Her mother hummed an old tune under her breath, the same one Elara had heard since she was a child. She didn't know the words, but it always made her feel both comforted and unnerved, like a lullaby with a warning buried in its melody.
Later that day, Elara took the back path to work—a winding trail through the edge of the woods behind their house. It was faster than walking through town, and quieter. But lately, the woods felt different.
Alive.
She walked briskly, clutching her bag close. The trees seemed to lean in as she passed, shadows clinging to her skin. She told herself it was nothing. Just nerves. Just dreams.
But then she heard it.
A whisper.
"Elara…"
She spun around. Nothing.
"Elara…"
It was soft, almost like wind through leaves, but it was her name. Clear. Distinct.
She took a step back, heart racing. "Who's there?"
Silence.
A crack of twigs behind her sent her heart skittering. She turned, ready to bolt—when a figure emerged from the trees.
It was a boy.
Tall, lean, familiar.
Kellan Wright.
Elara let out a shaky breath. "You scared the hell out of me."
He smiled, hands raised in mock surrender. "Sorry. Didn't mean to sneak up on you."
"You didn't sneak. You materialized."
He laughed. "I've always been good at that."
Kellan had been in and out of Havenridge over the years, mostly staying with his uncle who ran the antique shop. He was the kind of guy people didn't ask too many questions about—quiet, observant, with eyes too sharp for someone his age.
"What are you doing out here?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Walking. Watching. Thinking."
"That's vague."
"Isn't everything?"
She narrowed her eyes. "You didn't… say anything before, did you?"
His expression changed—just slightly. "Like what?"
"Never mind."
They walked together in silence for a while. It was strange, but calming. Like he belonged in the woods in a way she couldn't explain.
"You've been dreaming," he said suddenly.
Elara froze. "What?"
He glanced at her. "Havenridge doesn't always tell its secrets out loud. But it remembers. You've felt it, haven't you? The change. The pull."
She stared at him, heart pounding. "What are you talking about?"
Kellan didn't answer. Just looked at her like he was waiting—for her to remember something she hadn't yet learned.
By the time she reached the bookstore, Elara's hands were trembling.
Something was wrong. Or maybe everything was finally right and that was the terrifying part.
One thing was certain—her life in Havenridge, her quiet safety, her fragile sense of normal…
It was unraveling.
And deep down, some wild, hidden part of her had been waiting for this.