Speaker 1: Emily and I had been talking about leaving the city
for years, but for a long time it was just talk,
the idea of it. The fantasy was always easier than
the reality. Work, schedules, expenses, there was always something keeping
us in place. But then Emily's job went fully remote
and my company downsized, leaving me with a severance package
and more free time than I knew what to do.
With the noise of the city, the weight of routine,
it all started feeling suffocating. Emily was the one who
found the listing. Look at this, she had said, one evening,
laptop balanced on her knease, It's perfect. I leaned over
a shoulder, expecting some overpriced cabin in the middle of nowhere. Instead,
I saw an old two story house with deep green
shutters and a wrap around porch, nestled right at the
edge of a vast, untouched forest, the kind of place
you'd see in an old postcard. I laughed. That looks
like the beginning of a horror movie, she grinned, or
the beginning of something good. Emily had always loved the woods.
When she was a kid. She used to disappear into
them for hours, coming back with twigs in her hair,
and stories about deer that let her get too close,
birds that seemed to follow her. She always said there
was something different about being deep in nature, something bigger
than her, but strangely familiar. I had never really understood it,
but I loved how much she loved it, and maybe
I needed a change too. So we packed up, left
behind the noise, and moved to the quietest place we find.
Our new home was old, but it had character, solid
wooden beams, a deep front porch, ivy climbing up the
stone walls. It sat at the very edge of town,
where the paved roads turned to dirt, where the street
lights thinned and finally disappeared. It was the kind of
place where time felt slower, where the days stretched long,
with the forest pressed in on odd sides like a
living thing. Emily loved it immediately. She spent the first
evening sitting on the porch, wrapped in an old sweater,
watching the sun set over the tree line, with a
quiet sort of happiness I hadn't seen in years. But
something about the house the land around it felt too still.
I couldn't explain it, and for a moment I wished
we weren't so alone out here. It wasn't the vastness
of the trees that unsettled me. It was how quiet
they were. I grew up in the suburbs, but even
I knew what the woods were supposed to sound, like,
the rustling of leaves in the wind, the occasional snap
of branch under foot, birds calling to each other from
the canopy. But here nothing, not even the buzz of insects.
The trees stood motionless, the leaves perfectly still in the
heavy summer air. The sky was overcast, thick with a
kind of clouds that seemed to press down on you.
But there was no breeze, not even the faintest shift
of air. I hadn't realized how much I relied on
background noise until there was none. I glanced at Emily,
expecting her to notice it too, but she just smiled,
stretching her legs out and sipping at tea like nothing
was wrong. It's perfect, she murmured. It didn't feel perfect
to me, and I wasn't the only one who thought so. Murphy,
our dog, had been exploring the yard when we arrived,
sniffing at the porch steps, trotting through the long grass
for the moment he got close to the trees, he
stopped his ears, flattened, his tail, which had been wagging
all afternoon, slowly lowered between his legs. Then he bagged away.
Emily clicked her tongue, trying to coax him forward. What's wrong, buddy,
Murphy whined low in his throat and turned, trotting back
toward the house with his tail tucked tight against his body.
I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. Maybe
he's just not used to all this, But that wasn't it.
I had never seen him act like that before. Emily
just sighed, shaking her head. He'll get used to it.
Then she turned back to the forest, and I swear,
just for a second, the tree shifted, not in the wind,
there was no wind, but something moved deep in the dark.
Emily had always been independent, but something about the woods
unsettled me. We'd been in the house for less than
a week when she told me she wanted to explore
the nearby trails. Are you sure you want to go
there alone, I'd said, watching her lace upper boots, she smiled,
adjusting the strap and a pack. It'll be fine. I
just want to get a feel for the area for
that feeling, my gut twisted. Just don't go too far.
She kissed my cheek and was gone before I could
say anything else. By early afternoon, I expected her coming back.
By late afternoon, I checked my phone, scrolling absently through messages,
waiting for a text that never came. By early evening,
I started to worry. I stood on the porch, scanning
the trees. The sun had already started dipping below the horizon,
drenging the woods in a deep orange glow. Still no
sign of her. I told myself she probably lost track
of time, that she'd be fine, But that feeling, the
one I had since we moved in, settled deeper into
my chest. And then, just as I reached for my
car keys to go looking for her, I saw her
coming out of the woods. I knew immediately that something
was wrong. She moved too slowly, as if walking was
an afterthought. Her skin looked pale, like she'd been out
in the cold for hours, but her forehead glistened with sweat.
Her clothes were dirt streaked, her sleeves damp and darkened,
but there was no sign that she had fallen, and
her boots her boots were wet. It hadn't rained in days.
I stepped forward, feeling my pulse pick up. Where the
hell were you? I was about to go looking for you.
Emily looked at me like she had just registered I
was there. I I think I got turned around, sounded dazed,
like she'd just woken up from a dream. I frowned,
you got lost a pause, then too slowly, she nodded, yeah,
I think so. She stepped past me and onto the porch,
heading inside without another word. I hesitated before following. Something
was off. She wasn't acting scared, embarrassed or frustrated, just
plank like she wasn't entirely there. That night, Murphy refused
to go near her. I had been sitting on the
couch when he suddenly stopped in the middle of the room,
his ears flattening against his head. His eyes locked onto Emily,
who was standing in the kitchen refilling her water bottle.
Then he growled, a low, rumbling sound I'd never heard
from him before. Emily glanced over, frowning, what's wrong with him?
I opened my mouth to answer, but before I could,
Murphy backed away, not ran, not bolted in paniced, just
backed away slowly. Carefully, his entire body rigid, tail tucked
between his legs, ears pinned back, like he'd just encountered
a predator. Then he turned and darted into the hallway,
disappearing under the couch. Emily laughed, but something about it
felt off. Maybe he just doesn't recognize me in my
hiking gear, but she wasn't wearing her hiking gear anymore.
And I'd never seen Murphy afraid of anything before. It
started as a whisper of unease, the kind you feel
in your gut before your brain can explain it. Emily
was the same, but not, And maybe that's why it
unnerved me so much, because the changes were subtle enough
to make me doubt myself, but noticeable enough that I
couldn't ignore them. It was a morning like any other.
I was making coffee, half asleep, while Emily sat across
from me at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of yogurt.
She was scrolling through her phone, a spoon moving mechanically
from bowl to mouth. I don't know what made me
notice it, but as I took a sip of coffee,
something felt wrong. Emily's eyes they were locked on a screen,
unmoving too still. I watched her between SIPs, waiting for
her to blink. She didn't. I shifted in my seat,
my pulse kicking up a notch. Maybe I wasn't paying
close enough attention. Maybe I was imagining things. So I
leaned forward, watching harder. Nothing. I felt my stomach twist.
Thirty seconds, a full minute too. Still, her eyes stayed open, glassy,
reflecting the blue glow of her phone screen. Did you
sleep okay? I asked, trying to keep my voice light.
She looked up at me, a slow, lazy smile, curling
at her lips. Yeah. Why. I stared at her, my
heartbeat thudding in my ears. Still, no blink. I forced
the chuckle, shaking my head, no reason. She held my
gaze a little too long before turning back to her phone.
The air felt heavy in my chest. I waited again,
and still she didn't blink. On top of this, Emily
had always been graceful, the kind of person who moved
without thinking, quick, fluid, comfortable in her own skin. But
now it was like she was adjusting to herself. I
noticed it one night when she got into bed. She
lifted the covers, sliding beneath them, but then stopped her
hand hovered in mid air, fingers curled like she was
about to grasp the blanket, but she just froze. Her
breathing didn't change, She didn't react, she didn't flinch. She
just stayed like that, mid motion, as if she had
forgotten the next step. A second passed then too. I
was about to say something to shake her, when she
finally moved again, smooth, slow, like nothing had happened. I
didn't sleep well that night. The morning air was biting,
crisping off to see my breath in little white clouds.
As I stood on the porch sipping my coffee. The
ground was damp with frost, the sky overcast with heavy
and low gray clouds. Emily stepped outside barefoot. I winced
as a foot hit the wooden floorboards. She took a
deep breath, stretching her arms above her head, staring out
into the woods like she belonged to them. I wrapped
my flannel tighter around me. Jesus, em aren't you freezing?
She let her arms fall back to her side, tilting
her head slightly as if considering the question. Then she
smiled no. She turned back to the trees, the wind
lifting her hair. I watched her arms, waiting for the
telltale bumps of goose flesh to rise on her skin.
They never did, and as I watched, I realized something
else her breath. The cold air should have made it visible,
but there was nothing. Murphy growling at Emily, but he
still wouldn't go near her. It wasn't just fear anymore.
It was avoidance. At first I thought he was skittish,
acting out, But as the days passed I started watching closer,
and I realized something that sent a chill through me.
Murphy wouldn't look at her, not once. It wasn't just
that he stayed away. It was like he couldn't see
her at all. One night, were in the living room.
Emily stood by the window, arms crossed over her chest,
gazing out into the dark. Murphy sat on the floor
a few feet away, His ears relaxed, his eyes half
lidded with sleep. But he wasn't looking at Emily. He
was looking past her, No, not past her, at the
space next to her. He stared at it, stared at nothing.
I felt a cold shiver run up my spine. Murphy,
I called, His head snapped back toward me instantly, tail
thumping against the floor. His ears perked up. I glanced
at Emily, expecting her to notice, but she hadn't moved.
She was watching me. The silence stretched between us. I
swallowed hard, my throat dry. If Murphy doesn't see her,
then what does he see? To get some fresh air,
I went to the shops. I don't know why, but
I brought it up to the shopkeeper. It was an impulse,
something about the weight to my chest, the feeling I
couldn't shake. I guess I just couldn't keep it inside
any longer. I was standing at the counter waiting for
my change when I said, my wife went hiking a
few days ago. I think she got turned around. She
was out there a long time. The shopkeeper, a wiry
old man with a permanent squint, froze. He didn't ask
where she went, he didn't ask if she was okay. Instead,
he reached from my bag and muttered, you should be
careful of there. Something in his tone made the hairs
of my arms rise. I forced to chuckle. Why is
that he hesitated sliding the bag toward me. Something stay
in the woods. My fingers curled around the paper handles.
I tried to laugh again, but it came out wrong.
What does that mean? He just shook his head. Nothing.
Just be careful. His eyes flicked up, scanning the shop
like someone else was listening. And suddenly I didn't want
to press him anymore. At home, the dditis didn't stop.
It happened the first time I touched her in days.
Emily had always run cold. She used to press her
cold feet against me in bed, just to hear me yelp.
Used to complain when I turned the ac up too high,
always pulling the blankets tighter around herself at night. Now
her skin was cold, not just cool, not just the
kind of chill you get after stepping outside on a
brisk evening, cold like stone. It was a casual touch,
just my fingers brushing against her arm as I passed
her in the hallway. But the moment I felt it,
my stomach dropped. I stopped. Jesus, M you feel frozen.
She turned her head toward me, slow and smooth, too
smooth do I I forced the chuckle? Yeah, are you
feeling okay? She smiled the same way someone smiles when
they're trying to make you feel stupid for worrying. I
feel fine. I watched her for a second too long.
Her pupils seemed darker than before. The irises like thin
rings of gold around a deep, endless void red around
her eyes strained, looking like it was taking its toll,
and then turned away, never blinking the whole time. I
told myself it was in my head that maybe she'd
just been outside too long. But later that night I
woke up to something worse. I woke in the dark,
my body heavy with sleep, my mind groggy. I rolled
over instinctively, reaching for her empty sheets. My heart jumped,
and I sat up, blinking into the darkness. Emily was
sitting on the edge of the bed. Her back was
to me, her shoulders rigid, her head slightly tilted toward
the window. She didn't move, didn't shift, didn't acknowledge me.
I swallowed em no reaction. She just stared. I swung
my legs over the bed, pressing my bare feet to
the floor, feeling the cool wood beneath my toes. My
throat was dry. Slowly, I reached out, gently, touching her shoulder.
Her skin was even colder than before, like she'd been
sitting outside in the frost all night. That's when I
noticed something else. She wasn't breathing. I froze, my fingers
curled slightly against her skin, waiting for the telltale rise
and fall of her shoulders. Nothing. She wasn't even trying
to fake it. I slowly moved my hand toward her mouth,
hovering just over her lips, waiting to feel warmth, a
soft exhale of air. Nothing. She just wasn't breathing. I
yanked my hand back, and my pulse hammered so loudly
in my ears that I almost didn't hear her almost
go back to sleep. Her voice was soft, almost too soft.
She still hadn't moved, hadn't turned her head, hadn't blinked.
I swallowed hard, Emily, what are you? She finally turned slowly,
her head tilted just enough to look at me over
her shoulder. The dim close of the moon through the
window caught her eyes at the perfect angle, so dark
they reflected nothing back at me. Her lips curled at
the corners. You should sleep, she whispered. I don't want
you tired. I didn't move, didn't breathe myself. Then, just
as slowly as she had turned, she faced forward again
and continued staring out the window. I didn't sleep again.
I barely functioned the next morning, running on coffee and
frayed nerves, feeling my body betray me with exhaustion. I
needed answers, so I went into town. I don't know
what I was hoping for. Maybe just human contact, someone normal,
someone who would pull me out of my own head,
Maybe an excuse to get away from the house for
a few hours. But when I stepped out of the
general store, he was waiting for me. An old man,
thin and wiry, with deep set eyes and a face
that looked like it had weathered decades of bad seasons.
The old shopkeeper from before on a break. He was
sitting on the bench just outside the entrance, one leg
crossed over the other, hands folded neatly in his lap.
I nearly walked past him, but then he said, you
need to leave. I stopped in my tracks, turned to
look at him. His eyes were on me, sharp and certain.
Not the words of a crazy old man, not a
warning throwing it just anyone passing by, he meant me.
I swallowed hard, forcing out a weak laugh. Excuse me,
he didn't blink. If she came back, she wasn't supposed to.
A cold sensation trickled down my spine. The way of
those words pressed into my ribs, settling into the space
between my lungs. I open my mouth to demand an explanation,
but the old man was already pushing himself to his feet.
I took a step closer. What the hell does that mean?
He shook his head, eyes darting briefly to the street,
as if checking for some one. Then he leaned in, slightly,
lowering his voice. Don't let us sleep. My mouth went dry.
Before I could say another word, he turned and walked away.
I watched him until he disappeared around the corner. I
didn't go home right away. I sat in my car,
gripping the steering wheel, staring at nothing, hearing his words
repeat over and over again in my head. She wasn't
supposed to come back. Don't let us sleep. I should
have left. That was the obvious answer. It had been
for days. If someone else told me this story, if
a friend came to me trembling, saying something is wrong
with my wife. She's not acting like herself. I think
she might not even be human. I wouldn't hesitate. I
tell them to pack a bag, get in the car,
and never look back. But it's different when it's your wife.
It's different when it's someone you love. I kept telling
myself it was in my head that maybe I was overacting,
that maybe she was just tired or sick, but that
I was just adjusting to life and in a new place,
reading too much into things. And then there was the
other thought, the deeper one, the one I didn't want
to acknowledge. What if she's still in there, what if
she just needs help? What if I leave her? And
there was never anything wrong at all except me, So
instead of running, I did the worst thing I could do.
I tried to understand. I sat at my desk late
into the night, the glow of my laptop screen the
only light in the room, trolling through old town records,
newspaper archives, anything that might tell me what the hell
was happening to my wife. I searched missing persons reports first,
and that's when I found them. Hikers, campers, locals. All
of them had gone missing near the woods by our house.
Most of them were never found, but one case stood out.
The article was over thirty years old, some news offshoot
that covered conspiracies and urban legends, the kind of source
you immediately dismiss as unreliable, Yet it was the only
thing that matched. The scanned newspaper clipping was grainy, the
text barely legible, but the headline made my blood run cold.
Local woman returns after three months missing. She was never
the same. I clicked on it, my pulse hammering as
I skimmed through the details. The woman, Margaret Delaney, twenty
seven years old, had gone missing on a solo hiking
trip in the very same forest where Emily had been.
She vanished without a trace, resumed dead. Then one evening
she simply walked back into town, no memory of where
she had been, no signs of injury, just back. There
was a quote from her husband, who spent months grieving her,
convinced she was dead. At first I thought it was
a miracle. But the longer she stayed, the more I
realized it wasn't her, not really. The hairs on the
back of my neck stood up. I scrawled further. The
report ended abruptly, no follow up, no conclusion, except for
a single ominous note at the bottom of the page.
Vanished again, this time for good. I stared at those words,
vanished again. I thought of Emily standing at the window, unmoving.
I thought of Murphy, refusing to acknowledge her. I thought
of the way she felt beneath my hands, too cold,
And I realized something there should have been obvious from
the start. I wasn't afraid of what had happened to her.
I was afraid of what was waiting to happen. Next.
I shut the laptop. My hands were shaking. I forced
myself to breathe, steadying the panic rising in my chest.
Then I stood up and went to find my wife.
She was in the living room, sitting on the couch,
her posture too straight, too still. She'd been reading, released
pretending to her book lay open on her lap, but
her eyes weren't moving. She was just staring. I cleared
my throat emily. She looked up at me, smiled. My
mouth felt dry. What happened in those woods? She tilted
her head slightly, that small, distant smile still on her lips.
What do you mean I took a step closer that day?
You got lost? What happened to you out there? Her
expression didn't change, but something about her felt different now, lighter, amused,
like I was asking the wrong questions, Like she was
waiting for me to catch up. Why do you keep
looking at me like that? She asked. My pulse stuttered.
She didn't answer, She just kept smiling. And suddenly I
felt like I wasn't looking at my wife anymore, like
something else was looking back. I wasn't getting anything out
of her, so I went back to trying to do
more research. That night, I woke to a deep, suffocating stillness.
Not just the silence of the house, not just the
quiet of the woods outside. The stillness that felt wrong.
It was the kind of quiet that felt like it
was waiting for something. Instinctively, I reached for Emily, but
the sheets beside me were cold. I sat up, my
heart hammering, already knowing where she was. She was standing
by the bedroom window. Her back was to me, her
nightgown hanging loose over a frame, her arm's limp at
her side. She wasn't moving, wasn't rocking on her feet,
wasn't shifting a weight. She stood like something propped upright,
like if I touched her she would tip over and shatter.
The moonlight poured in, outlining her in pale silver light,
and for the first time I realized how unnatural her
stillness was. I swallowed thickly, already swinging my legs over
the bed. Emily. She didn't answer, She wasn't even breathing again.
My fingers curled against the mattress. I forced myself to
stand step closer. I spent so many nights ignoring this feeling,
worried that doing something would make things worse. But I
couldn't ignore it any more, not when she looked like this.
Her shoulders were trembling, And then I saw it her
reflection in the glass. She was crying. Tears streaked down
her face, catching the moonlight slipping down her cheeks, but
her expression didn't change. Her mouth didn't quiver, her brows
didn't furrow, her face stayed eerily blank. Her lips slightly parted,
like a body had forgotten how to cry, Like the
tears were falling against the will. A cold weight settled
in my chest. Emily. I stepped closer, my voice barely
above a whisper. Her shoulders twitched, the smallest movement I
had seen from her in daze. Then she spoke. I
can't blink, she whispered. The words didn't make sense. I swallowed,
my hands, curling into fists. What do you mean? Slowly
she turned her head. The movement was painfully slow, like
a body wasn't used to moving this way anymore. When
a face finally turned to me, my breath hitched in
my throat. Her eyes they were too wide. The skin
beneath them was raw, darkened from exhaustion, but the whites
of her eyes were dry, bloodshot. How long had she
been forcing herself to stay awake? How long had she
been fighting this? If I blink, she whispered, the words
caught in her throat. Her lips trembled for the first
time in days. I'll go back. I felt my pulse
hammer against my ribs. Her breath hitched, her body swaying slightly,
her exhaustion pressing down on her like a weight. She
wasn't going to last much longer. And then she looked
at me, really looked at me, and something deep inside
her eyes was moving, a shadow behind the eye iris,
something shifting, stretching, something waiting. Her voice was barely a breath.
I was never supposed to leave. Emily swayed down her feet,
her breath coming in shallow gasps. She was losing. I
could see it now. Her body was failing. The exhaustion
was finally catching up to her, wearing her down in
ways that even she couldn't fight anymore. Her skin was
too pale, her lips slightly parted, as if breathing had
become a conscious effort. Her muscles twitched involuntarily, tiny spasms
rippling beneath her skin, and for the first time I
realized this wasn't Emily's choice. Whatever had happened in the woods,
whatever she had become, it had been forced on her.
She didn't want this. She was just trying to stay
and she was losing. Emily stay with me. I reached
for her without thinking, my fingers brushing against her arm.
She flinched at the contact, her body tensing, but she
didn't pull away. She just kept staring. The tears streamed
down her face, silent, endless, like a body knew something
she didn't, or maybe she did, maybe she had always known.
I swallowed hard. You don't have to do this alone.
Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Her
legs trembled. She was about to fall. I grabbed her shoulders,
holding her up. My own body's shaking. Now just sit down, Okay,
you don't have to I don't want to go back.
Her voice was hoarse, cracking under the weight of so
much fear. I tightened my grip. Then you won't, She
shook her head weakly. You don't understand. Her fingers clutched
at my shirt, like she was trying to anger herself
to something real. Her body was burning through its last reserves,
fighting the inevitable. I had to keep her awake. Emily,
look at me. She was looking at me. She had
never stopped. I ran my hands over her arms, trying
to steady her. Come on, just just sit down some water,
let's figure this out. Okay. She blinked. No, she almost blinked.
Her eyelids fluttered just for a second, like a muscle spasm.
Her body was giving off panic shot through me. No,
stay with me, Stay with me. She soaked in a sharp,
shuddering breath, fighting it. Her fingers dug into my skin,
her grip weak but desperate. I can't, I can't. She
swayed again, and I caught her, pulling her close, holding
her upright just a little longer, I pleaded, please, Emily.
Her chest rose in one last heavy breath, her fingers loosened,
her eyelids fluttered, and then she blinked. I was still
holding her, or at least I thought I had been.
My arms were empty, now clutching at nothing but air, nobody,
no weight. She had been there just a second ago,
warm and trembling against me, and now gone. I staggered back,
my hands still hovering where she had been, my body
refusing to understand what had just happened. I looked around frantically.
The room was empty, no signs she had ever been
there at all. No discarded clothes, no strands of hair
on the pillow, no imprint in the bed where she
had slept beside me. Just absence, the kind that felt permanent.
A soft breath of air stirred from the curtains. I
turned slowly. The window was open. I knew for a
fact it had been closed when I went to bed. Outside,
the trees stood still, their dark silhouettes waiting. Watching The
air felt thick, expectant. The woods were completely silent, not
just still, not just quiet silent. A sound broke the air,
a small, familiar sound that felt somehow alien in this moment,
a tail thumping against the floor. I turned my head,
my stomach tightening. Murphy stood in the doorway, looking at
me and wagging his tail, not cautiously, not hesitantly, just
wagging for the first time in weeks. He stepped toward me,
walked right up to me, pressed his nose against my hand,
like everything was normal again, like the house was whole again,
like she had never been here. I sank on the
edge of the bed. My hands were shaking, My head
felt tight, my vision narrowing, my thoughts, refusing to make
sense of what had just happened. I swallowed hard, staring
at the empty space beside me, at the bed where
she had slept, where we had laughed, where we had lived.
I whispered emily. The word barely made a sound. I
already knew she somehow came back, wanting to spend time together,
despite the conditions. But she was right. Whatever happened to
her out there, whatever she encountered, she was never supposed
to leave.