Dark Path (Part 2)

The old man fell silent after speaking, his words hanging in the air like a final warning. Rayen studied his eyes, searching for something—anything—that could explain what he truly meant. But there was no mystery to unravel, no hint of a lie. Just pure, unfiltered fear.

This wasn't a story. This wasn't a misunderstanding. This was real.

And the old man had nothing left to say. As if what he'd already spoken was more than enough.

But for Elara, it wasn't. With a flat, unreadable tone, she said, "If this village won't let us leave, I suppose that means we're staying."

The old man's fingers absentmindedly sifted through the loose dirt near the well's murky water. A deep sadness weighed on his face—the kind worn by a man who had spoken these words before. Many times. And had never once been heard.

"You won't be able to leave," he murmured, so softly that even the wind might not have caught it.

Elara turned to Rayen, her expression sharp. You're not actually buying this, are you?

Rayen gave a small, wordless nod. "Let's go."

Elara hesitated, then glanced back at the old man—then at the woman standing near the bakery, watching them. She wasn't just suspicious. She knew something.

Rayen shifted his attention to her. "We need a place to stay for the night."

The woman let out a slow breath, then gestured toward the back of the bakery. "There's a room behind my shop. You can stay until morning."

Rayen nodded. "We won't be here long."

But deep down, something gnawed at him. As if the words he'd just spoken… weren't true.

Rayen and Elara moved through the dimly lit backrooms of the bakery. The air here was heavier, as if this place was detached from the rest of the village—like it existed in its own silence. The room was clean, but eerily still.

Elara pulled out a chair and sat down, absentmindedly running her dagger's edge against her thumb, testing its sharpness. Rayen, ever watchful, kept his sword within reach.

"What's on your mind?" Elara asked, her voice casual, though the hint of amusement never fully left her tone.

Rayen took a slow breath, his expression unreadable. "This village isn't normal."

"I figured that out when the old man said, 'The village disappears.'" Elara let out a short laugh, but there was a gleam in her eyes now—the kind that said she was just as intrigued by this mystery as he was.

And then, they heard it.

Tok.

Rayen's head snapped up.

A pause. Then—

Tok. Tok.

A soft, deliberate tapping. Like fingers lightly rapping against the door.

Elara met his gaze. "Sounds like we have a visitor."

Rayen rose swiftly, stepping toward the door. He placed a cautious hand against the wood. The tapping stopped. Then, suddenly, the door creaked open on its own.

No one was there.

But something was.

A worn, tattered diary lay on the ground, its cover faded with age. Rayen picked it up in silence, flipping through its brittle pages. And then, in neat, unsettling handwriting, a message stood out:

"Those who read this diary… are meant to stay."

For a brief moment, Rayen's heart stilled. Then, from behind him, Elara smiled. "Well," she murmured, her voice laced with intrigue. "This just keeps getting better."

Rayen held the diary in his hands, its worn, brittle pages turning with slow precision. The ink had faded, the words scrawled in rough, unsteady strokes. But some lines—some words—were different. Darker. As if someone had traced them over and over again. Or spilled their own blood onto the page.

"Those who stop… never walk again."

Elara glanced at the diary, but this time, her usual smirk was gone. "This doesn't strike you as odd?" she murmured.

Rayen exhaled slowly. "The only thing that feels odd to me is why this diary was waiting for us in the first place."

Beyond the door, the heavy silence of the village remained unchanged.

But then—the air shifted.

A sudden, bone-deep chill crept into the room, subtle yet unmistakable, like the ghost of a breath that did not belong to either of them. Rayen felt it instantly. So did Elara—her fingers had already brushed against the hilt of the dagger strapped to her waist.

Then, something fell.

A chair in the corner—old and forgotten—tilted, swayed, and then, ever so slowly, collapsed onto its side.

Elara's sharp gaze flicked toward the corner. Was someone there?

Rayen said nothing. Instead, he placed the diary on the table and crouched to pick up the fallen chair. But the moment his fingers brushed against it, something felt… wrong.

The chair was warm.

Not just warm—soft. Like someone had been sitting there. Like someone had just stood up.

Elara remained silent, but the way her fingers curled tightly around the edge of her blade told him she felt it too.

Rayen's voice was low, almost careful. "What if this village isn't just cursed?" His eyes lifted to hers, unreadable. "What if it's pulling us in?"

Elara met his gaze, but for once, she had no response.

Then—a sound.

This time, from outside.

But unlike before, it wasn't the eerie hush of the wind. It wasn't the slow creak of unseen footsteps.

It was a voice.

"If you want to stay alive… keep a fire burning all night."

Rayen turned sharply toward the door. But there was no one there.

Only a small, neatly stacked pile of firewood, placed just outside the threshold. As if someone had left it there deliberately. As if this was their only warning.

And yet, the question remained.

Who had left it?

And more importantly—why weren't they staying to fight the night themselves?

The flames in the fireplace flickered, swaying with the wind outside, but within the house, everything had fallen unnaturally still. Rayen clutched the diary tightly in his hands, while Elara's gaze remained fixed on the chair that had moved without cause.

Yet, the silence inside was unchanged—dense, heavy, as if someone stood just behind the wall, breathing softly.

Elara's voice was barely above a whisper. "We shouldn't be here."

Rayen glanced at the diary again. The words he had read before seemed larger now, as if the ink itself had swollen, as if the diary was screaming.

"Those who stop… never walk again."

Then, another sound from outside.

This time, it was different—a thin, trembling voice, hesitant, as if someone was desperate to come inside but too afraid to step forward.

Rayen and Elara exchanged a glance.

Elara's lips curled into a faint smirk, but her eyes were wary.

"Maybe we've found an ally," Rayen murmured.

"Or maybe," Elara said, her tone dry, "someone else just walked into their death."

But when Rayen pulled open the door, he was met with the sight of a woman.

Wide, pale eyes. A frail figure wrapped in an old, tattered shawl. And in her hands—a thin, twisted rope.

Her breathing was uneven, shallow, like she had been running.

"You… you're both still alive?" she asked, her voice laced with unease.

Rayen nodded slowly. "Who are you?"

The woman lowered her gaze to the rope in her hands, fingers tightening around its frayed knots. She hesitated, as if unsure whether she should answer.

Then, in a quiet voice, she stepped inside and said, "I'm Anaïs. And I'm here to help you."

Rayen's eyes flickered to the rope in her grip. One end slipped from her fingers, falling toward the floor—

And the moment it touched the ground, the rope twitched.

Like something beneath the floor had grabbed it.

Like something unseen was pulling it down.