Then the front door of the house opened. Not creaking or groaning—just a smooth, silent slide inward, revealing a hallway so dark it looked solid.
Mark’s thumb hovered over Later . But the phone made the choice for him. The screen went black, then lit up with a new message:
The shape took a step forward. Its face was smooth, featureless—except for its mouth, which was open too wide, and inside it, something that looked like a screen flickering with blue light.
The ruts ended in a clearing. In the centre stood a house that didn’t belong there—or anywhere. It was a colonial revival, white clapboard peeling like sunburned skin, with a wraparound porch that listed to one side. All its windows were dark except one: an attic gable, glowing amber.
He should have turned around then. He knew it. But the light was fading, his gas needle flirted with a quarter tank, and his wife would give him that look if he had to call her to say he was lost again. So he drove through.
Mark’s hand trembled as he put the car in reverse. The engine revved, but the wheels only spun. He looked down. The gravel of the clearing had become something else: a tangle of pale, root-like fibres, already winding around his tires.