The Shadow in the Dark Chapter Twenty Five

 

NOW:

I didn’t move at first.

 

I stood in the narrow hallway between the kitchen and the back door, my hand hovering inches from the latch, my whole body locked in a strange, humiliating paralysis. Outside, the woods waited - dark, tangled, unknowable. Behind me, through the front windows, the private road curved out of sight like a deliberate secrecy, and at its far end two masked figures had appeared from the cabin of a flatbed truck. 

 

They were distant, still small enough to be shapes rather than men, but I could see them on the grainy security cam footage that was playing on Rosemary’s television set. Masks. Long blades catching the dull light through the trees. Their approach was unhurried, almost ceremonial.

 

I told myself to breathe.

 

I was FBI. I had been trained for this. Situational awareness, threat assessment, decision under pressure. This was the kind of moment I was supposed to handle cleanly, decisively. So why were my hands shaking?

 

The thought made me angry. Ashamed.

 

My heart was pounding so hard it hurt; a wild, panicked rhythm that didn’t belong in my chest. I pressed my palm flat against the wall, grounding myself, feeling the cool plaster beneath my skin. I waited for the fear to settle into something usable - focus, clarity, purpose.

 

It didn’t.

 

Instead, it bloomed.

 

My mouth was dry. My knees felt loose, unreliable, like they might fold if I leaned too heavily on them. I became acutely aware of the silence inside the house, and how exposed it suddenly felt. Every creak of wood sounded accusatory. Every breath I took felt too loud.

 

This didn’t make sense.

 

I had faced dangerous people before. At least, I knew I had. I carried those memories with the same certainty I carried my name. Briefings. Late nights. The weight of a badge against my ribs. I had walked toward threats, not away from them. I had believed - no, known - that I could manage myself under pressure. So why did this feel different?

 

I glanced again through the window. They were closer now. Close enough that I could see the masks clearly – the leather, closely stitched pig faces, like something out of a Home Invasion horror movie. I hated those kind of films. They moved side by side, not scanning their surroundings, not cautious at all, as if they already owned the place. As if they had all the time in the world.

 

A cold thought slid into me, uninvited and unwelcome: They are here for you. Not the house. Not to rob it, not to scare someone off. Me. My breath caught, sharp and shallow, and suddenly I was aware of how alone I was. No radio crackle. No backup. No reassuring sense of procedure clicking into place. Just me, a quiet house, and two men who didn’t need to hurry.

 

I looked at the back door again. The woods terrified me. That was the truth, plain and undeniable. I didn’t know them. I didn’t know where they led, how far they went, or what waited inside them. They were dense, unwelcoming, already darkening with the season. Once I stepped into them, there would be no structure, no edges. Just instinct and chance.

 

And I wasn’t supposed to be feeling fear like this. The realization made my throat tighten. Adrenaline, I could understand. Panic, even. But this - this shaking, this childish urge to hide, to stay perfectly still and hope the moment passed - it felt like a betrayal.

 

As the men reached the bend in the road, one of them lifted his head slightly, as if scenting the air, and something inside me finally broke loose.

 

I understood then - not logically, not cleanly - that if I stayed, I would be found. Whatever explanation I gave myself later, whatever justification or bravery I pretended to reclaim, it wouldn’t matter. Staying was not strength. Staying was surrender or possibly death.

 

My hand closed around the latch. I hesitated one last time, caught between the lie that said you can handle this and the instinct that screamed run. My chest ached with the effort of choosing. Then the sound of a footstep on gravel reached me through the walls, and I opened the door and plunged into the woods, still trembling, still confused - still believing I was someone braver than I felt, and hoping the forest wouldn’t notice the difference.

 

I heard footfalls on the gravel drive, slow and deliberate, crunching through fallen leaves that were already damp from the morning frost. I had nothing. No gun. No plan that made sense. Just the sense that they were coming for me.

 

The autumn air was sharp, biting at the skin around my eyes, and the smell of damp leaves filled my nose. The trees felt close, their branches scratching at my arms, at my stupid, childish, powder blue party dress, with its starched petticoat that insisted on flaring away from my body as I moved, and the ribbon sash tied into an aggressively neat bow at the front. I must have looked ridiculous, running in my white socks and my cross strap Mary Jane shoes, the petticoat rustling as I ran past the wood shed, ducked under the low branches and slid over some mossy roots, trusting my instinct over my judgement. 

 

I didn’t know these woods. Every tree looked like the last, every shadow like the one before it, but I ran anyway. The sky overhead was a cold grey, clouds dragging themselves across the horizon like tired animals, and the wind seemed to push me forward. I could hear them behind me now. Footsteps, heavier than mine, matched with occasional low voices muffled through the masks. I dared a glance back once and froze for a heartbeat. They weren’t hurrying, but there was an inevitability to their pace, a patience that made it clear they would not give up. Not until I was caught. I forced myself to turn back to the woods, to the uncertain tangle of trees and undergrowth. One wrong step, and I could twist an ankle, fall, make a noise that would give them my location - but standing still wasn’t an option. I ran harder, my lungs burning, my ears straining for every sound that told me where I was, where they were.

 

Branches tore again at my flared skirt, snagged my hair, and slapped across my face as if the woods themselves were trying to warn me off. Every time I tripped over a hidden root, I forced myself upright immediately, knowing even a second’s hesitation could let them catch up. My lungs were burning, my chest tight, but I couldn’t stop. I refused to stop. The undergrowth thickened, brambles clawing at my legs. My hands were scratched, bleeding in thin lines, but I barely noticed. I was more aware of the sound behind me - the soft but certain crunch of leaves under their boots, the way the dull scrape of machetes against each other seemed to echo through the trees. They weren’t shouting, not calling my name or laughing. Silence, like a predator’s patience, followed me, and it was worse than yelling.

 

But even through my fear one thought strained to be heard. Was this all just a game? Was it the God Game that Conchis had played on Nicholas Urfe in the novel, the Magus? Was Elijah Bannon really insane enough to have taken inspiration from that book? Had he devised this elaborate challenge to push me deeper and deeper into his manipulative scheme? Conchis had suggested his God Game was some cerebral journey of enlightenment that would open Nicholas Urfe’s eyes and change his perception of the world. Was I really in danger, or was it just the illusion of danger? What would actually happen if I stopped in my tracks, turned round, and waited for the men to catch me? What would happen if I simply stood there and told them I knew it was a game, and the game was now over? Could I take that chance? Could I really take that chance? 

 

Of course I couldn’t. All the evidence pointed to Elijah being completely insane. Even if this was a game, there wouldn’t be any guard rails in place. Elijah wasn’t the sort of man who would simply fold his hand of cards when another player called his bluff.  

 

The game wouldn’t end until… 

 

But of course I didn’t know what ending he had in mind. I was just a rat running through his maze as doors opened and shut around me. 

 

I ran blindly at first, turning left, then right, letting instinct guide me more than knowledge. The forest was bewildering, and I had no map, no compass - nothing but the sound of pursuit. Every so often I thought I heard a snap close to my shoulder, a twig breaking, a branch snapping with deliberate force - but each time I risked glancing back all I saw were two dark shapes moving with a quiet, terrible determination.

 

I ducked behind a thick oak, pressing my cheek to the rough bark, listening. My breath came in harsh, rasping bursts, and my heart drummed in my ears. The men had slowed - just a fraction - but I knew it was a tactic. Patience. They could wait hours. They would wait until I made a mistake.

 

I forced myself forward again, choosing a narrow path between two fallen logs, squeezing through and scraping my arms raw. The ground was uneven, roots like twisted fingers reaching up to grab me, mud sucking at my childish shoes. I stumbled once, almost falling face-first, but rolled and kept moving, ignoring the stinging pain in my palms.

The forest seemed endless, darkening as the afternoon waned. The grey sky filtered through the branches like a dying light, and shadows grew longer. I tried to memorize landmarks - the curve of a large pine, a patch of yellowed ferns - but nothing stayed familiar for long. Every time I thought I had a sense of direction, the forest swallowed me again.

 

And then I heard it: the whisper of movement to my right, subtle, too deliberate to be the wind. My stomach knotted, and I froze. They were close. I could hear the faint scrape of metal again.

 

I pressed myself against a tree, shaking so hard I could barely hold my weight. My heart thumped so hard I thought it might give me away. A snap of a branch to my left made me spin, and I realized I had run into a small clearing. My pulse spiked. There was nowhere to hide here. No cover but the trees at the edge. And I knew they were circling me.

 

I clenched my fists and forced myself to move again, skirting the edge of the clearing, my ears straining for every sound. One step, another, another. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have time. But maybe, just maybe, if I could put the thickest part of the woods between us, I could vanish - could slip away into something bigger than fear itself.

I didn’t dare move at first, just sat pressed against the trunk of that pine, listening to the wind and the dead leaves whispering secrets I didn’t want to hear. But I knew I couldn’t stay there. Not for long. They were still out there, somewhere, and eventually, they’d find me.

 

I stood, shaking, and started moving again, slower this time, careful. My shoes sank into wet leaves, my hands brushed against brambles, and every sound I made felt amplified, like a flare in the quiet forest. The moon was rising just a little, silvering the tips of branches, and I tried to use the shadows to my advantage.

 

A wry thought crossed my mind: I didn’t want to die like this, not dressed like a twelve year old girl going to an Alice in Wonderland themed birthday party, for fuck’s sake. That was a really pathetic way to die. No one wants to die looking like that. 

 

There was suddenly a sharp crack. Something breaking in the undergrowth just ahead. My stomach lurched. Footsteps. Close. Too close.

 

I tried to duck behind a fallen tree, but as I scrambled, I realized I was in a small depression in the earth, almost a shallow ditch. My escape route was narrowing. Panic slammed into me. One machete glinted through the trees, and I knew the other must be circling. They had me.

 

I crouched, ready to spring, but the ground was slick with mud. My hand slipped, and I scraped it against a root. A dry, sharp sound, like a gunshot in the silence. My blood ran cold. Then I saw it. A thin path between two large pines, just barely wide enough for me to slip through if I could move fast enough. They hadn’t closed it off yet.

I didn’t hesitate. I lunged for the gap, twisting my body sideways, almost scraping my face along the bark. Mud splattered my hands and sleeves, brambles tore at my childish dress, but I forced myself through, forcing every ounce of energy into forward momentum.

 

I heard them curse behind me. The scrape of a machete against bark sounded again. One of them lunged - just barely, I felt the brush of their arm against mine - but I kept going, bounding through the leaves and over roots, barely daring to breathe. I still didn’t know where I was running, only that I had to keep running. The forest opened into a small clearing, and I stumbled through it, panting, shoes sliding in mud. My eyes caught sight of a low hill covered in thick ferns. Without thinking, I dove into it, pulling the ferns over me as best I could, flattening my body against the earth.

 

Is it a game?

 

Is it just a game?

 

I heard them stop at the edge of the clearing, their heavy work boots crunching softly on leaves. The scrape of metal sounded again as they scanned the area. I could see the moon reflecting off the curve of one machete as one of them stepped closer, moving cautiously. My heart thumped so hard I thought it might give me away. Seconds stretched into eternity. I held my breath, willing the forest itself to swallow me. I felt their presence, felt them hesitate, then heard them move again - away from me. Slowly, carefully, they searched the clearing and then, with a grunt, vanished into the trees behind me.

 

I stayed still for what felt like hours, listening to the underbrush settle, listening to the wind in the branches, praying they hadn’t circled back. My body shook, shivering, broken, but alive. Finally, I forced myself to rise, using the ferns as cover. My legs were trembling, my chest burning, but I had survived. For now. The woods stretched endlessly ahead, dark and silent except for the whispers of the leaves. Somewhere deeper in that darkness I could disappear - could make it harder for them to find me, maybe even survive the night. And I had to.

 

Don’t die, Ashlee.

 

Not like this. 

 

I kept moving, staggering through the forest, branches clawing again at my hair and clothes, my shoes sucking at the wet earth, my white socks now streaked with mud. The moonlight was fading now as clouds obscured it from view, leaving the world in a grey blur of shadows and shapes that seemed to twist and reach for me. My legs were leaden, my lungs on fire, but I forced myself onward. Always onwards. 

 

I almost ran straight into him.

 

One moment I was pushing through the trees, breath ragged, eyes fixed on the ground so I wouldn’t trip, and the next there was a shape where there absolutely should not have been one. A man, solid and sudden, emerging from between two trunks no more than a few yards ahead of me.

 

I stopped so abruptly it felt like my bones locked.

 

The leather pig mask was closer than I was prepared for - closer than any rational part of me could process. The machete hung loosely in his hand, angled downward, its edge dark and wet-looking in the low light.

 

Every instinct screamed. I didn’t think. I couldn’t have. My body moved on its own, jerking sideways as I threw myself behind the nearest tree. My shoulder slammed into the bark hard enough to knock the breath from me, and I pressed myself flat against the trunk, arms wrapped around it as if I could merge with the wood and vanish.

 

I didn’t breathe.

 

I couldn’t breathe.

 

My heart was beating so violently I was sure he would hear it - each thud a betrayal, a signal flare in my chest. My legs trembled uncontrollably, muscles twitching, threatening to give out beneath me. I clenched my jaw until it hurt, trying to force myself still.

 

This wasn’t right. I was FBI. I knew I was. I had faced armed suspects, hostile rooms, moments where everything balanced on a single decision. I was trained to control fear, to channel it. Fear was supposed to sharpen you. But this wasn’t sharpening anything. This was paralysis.

 

Footsteps crunched softly on leaves.

 

He was moving now, slow and deliberate, close enough that I could smell him - something damp and metallic beneath the scent of wet earth. The machete brushed against branches as he passed, the faint scrape sending a spike of terror straight through my spine. He was so close I could see the stitching along the edge of the mask. I could see where it curved around his cheekbone, where a human face should have been.

 

I squeezed my eyes shut for half a second, then opened them again, terrified that even blinking was too much movement. My fingers dug into the bark, nails splitting, sap sticking to my skin. I pressed my forehead against the tree, trying to make myself smaller, quieter, less real.

 

Why am I feeling like this?

 

The question screamed through my head, frantic and accusing. Why couldn’t I move? Why couldn’t I think? Why did my body feel like it belonged to someone else - someone weaker, someone untrained?

 

And then the pig masked man stopped. Right there. On the other side of the trunk.

 

The world narrowed to sound and sensation. The rasp of his breathing. The faint creak of leather. The weight of his presence, heavy and intentional. If he took one more step, if he shifted his grip, if he turned his head just slightly… 

 

He would see me.

 

My vision blurred at the edges. My chest burned with the need for air, but I held it anyway, certain that even the smallest breath would give me away. I felt like a child playing hide-and-seek, convinced that not being seen was the same as not existing. Seconds stretched, warped, lost all meaning. Then, slowly, impossibly, he moved again.

His footsteps receded, drifting away through the leaves. The sound of the machete faded with them, swallowed by the forest. I stayed pressed to the tree long after he was gone, shaking so hard my teeth chattered despite the effort to stop them. When I finally slid down the trunk and crouched there, my knees drawn to my chest, I felt hollowed out. Ashamed. Confused. Alive. I didn’t understand the fear that had claimed me so completely. I didn’t understand why my training - my identity - had vanished the moment I needed it most. All I knew was that I had come within inches of being found. And that whatever was chasing me through these woods knew exactly how close it had been.

 

Finally, after what felt like hours, I saw it - a faint glimmer of grey ahead. The ground sloped downward, and instinct told me it might lead somewhere open, somewhere safe. I scrambled down the bank, slipping, mud coating my hands and knees, brambles tearing at my dress. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest, but I didn’t stop.

At the bottom, the forest ended abruptly. My mud stained shoes hit hard asphalt, and I stumbled, sprawled across the cool surface of a tarmac road. I groaned, scrambling upright, and then I saw him: a young man, probably in his twenties, leaning over the hood of a car parked at the roadside. He had unfolded a large paper map and was studying it, completely absorbed, unaware of the world behind him.

 

Hope struck me like a sudden punch to the chest. I pushed through the exhaustion and the pain in my limbs, ran toward him, my voice cracking as I called out:

 

“Hey! Help! Please!”

 

The map jerked in his hands, his head snapping up, eyes wide as they landed on me. Relief, confusion, and alarm flickered across his face all at once. My legs burned, my breath came in ragged gasps, but I forced myself forward. I could still hear it - the forest behind me, the rustle of leaves, the scrape of metal. My pursuers weren’t far away. I knew they would be close. Every step on the asphalt, every gasp, was a reminder that time was running out.

 

“Please! You’ve got to help me!” I shouted, waving my arms, desperate for him to understand.

 

The man looked at me, and then I saw his face clearly for the first time. I stumbled to a stop, trying to comprehend what this meant.

 

“Ashlee?” The man looked both surprised and relieved. “My God, Ashlee!”

 

It was Martin Bastable – the boyfriend I had been driving to visit before this nightmare had begun.