The Girl in the Pines

Part 1: On the Case

You do not take paranormal cases anymore.

No need for details, but if you are being honest…

Sometimes when you call something enough, you stop liking the thing that answers.

Some doors should stay closed.

Now you work as a private investigator.

Missing persons.

Surveillance.

Real worlds only.

Two weeks ago a woman named Hannah called you about her daughter, Lily.

She said Lily had been talking to a girl she saw in the house.

A girl who whispered things that made her cry.

You told her you did not handle the supernatural anymore.

She said she did not care what you called it.

She just wanted someone to listen to her daughter.

You agreed to a date two weeks out.

A simple check in.

Nothing more.

At least that is what you told yourself.

Maybe the universe has a sense of humor.

Yesterday was that date.

You pulled into the driveway expecting a stressed out family.

Maybe a frightened child holding a stuffed animal.

Instead, Hannah stared at you with empty eyes when she opened the door.

“I am sorry. We asked reporters to stop. Please respect our privacy.”

You explained who you were and reminded her of your appointment.

Her hand covered her mouth.

A small, broken sound escaped her.

“We forgot” she said.

“We should have called you. I do not even know what day it is anymore.”

Her husband stepped behind her with the same exhausted look.

He spoke softly:

“Lily has been missing for twelve days.”

The silence after that was heavy.

You think you offered your condolences.

You hope you said something helpful.

It caught you off guard.

They let you inside.

The living room looked paused in time.

Laundry folded but untouched.

Plates on the table.

A pizza box with old crust sticking out.

A blanket half fallen from the couch.

Life left in a hurry.

They asked you to sit.

Asked if you needed water.

Held each other’s hands while trying to explain.

If they were not so embarrassed, you are sure they would have cleaned the couch first.

Then they showed you Lily’s drawings.

A pond.

Trees leaning inward.

A girl standing at the edge.

A reflection in the water showing an older version of herself.

And beside the pond, a wooden door standing alone.

Not attached to anything.

A door floating in space.

She drew variations of this scene again and again.

Sometimes the reflection was there.

Sometimes not.

Sometimes the door was open.

Sometimes shut tight.

You asked when Lily drew these.

“Every day” her father said. “Up until the morning she disappeared.”

He handed you the final drawing.

The pencil marks were rushed.

The reflection girl had her hand pressed against the door.

Underneath, in faint writing:

“She cannot get through.”

Something in your chest tightened.

Not a haunting.

Not a ghost.

Something else.

Something you walked away from.

Then Hannah asked, her voice shaking:

“Can you try to contact whatever she was talking to before she went missing”

You should have said no.

You did not.

Instead you asked the question you have avoided for years.

“Where was she last seen”

The moment the words left your mouth, the air shifted.

Cold.

Watching.

Waiting.

The lights flickered.

And in the quiet that followed, you heard a whisper near your ear.

“You are late.”

You asked the family to give you a day to figure out how you might help.

Told them you would return at 8 am.

Now it is 11 at night.

You are sitting in your car.

Old emotions stirring.

Old fears too.

You have to decide what you are going to do next.

***

Part 2: Where the Scent Went Cold

(You chose: Go to the place Lily was last seen.) 

You head to the woods at first light.

The forest sits just behind the family’s property.

Tall pines.

Cold air.

A narrow trail pressed into the ground by search teams who stopped coming two days ago.

You park along the tree line and step out.

The first thing you notice.

The quiet.

Not a bird or squirrel in sight.

This was where the cadaver dogs lost her scent.

Instantly lost it.

Like she stepped off the world.

A hiker had spotted her.

When questioned, she mentioned she saw her, went after her, but the girl’s presence disappeared behind the tree line.

She said it happens sometimes when you are in the woods alone for too long.

You see things. 

She felt a figment, until she heard the evening news.

You walk forward slowly.

No sound except branches clicking in the wind.

Beneath your feet.

You pass yellow tape still tied to a tree.

Soft and faded.

You pull out a photo of Lily’s last drawing.

The pond.

The girl in the water.

The floating wooden door.

You are not sure why you brought it with you.

You only know you were supposed to.

You take a few more steps down the path.

The temperature drops.

A few degrees at least.

Enough to make your skin rise.

You stop.

Something brushed past you.

Light.

Quick.

Cold.

You turn, but nothing is there.

You keep walking.

A few yards ahead, the ground looks disturbed.

Boot prints from the search teams.

Smaller prints near them.

Lily’s size.

Then the prints stop.

Just end.

No drag.

No turn.

No scattering in panic.

Just stop.

You crouch down.

Touch the soil.

It is colder than the rest of the ground.

A soft sound comes from the trees to your right.

You freeze.

Listen.

It is faint.

Small.

Like someone breathing through water.

Then a voice.

Very quiet.

A child.

“Do not leave.”

Your chest tightens.

You straighten slowly and look toward the sound.

The woods are still.

Too still.

You step toward the trees.

Something moves in your peripheral vision.

A shape between two leaning pines.

A shadow the size of a child.

You approach.

Each step heavier than the last.

The shape flickers.

Then vanishes.

But something else remains.

A narrow gap between two rocks ahead of you.

A perfect outline.

Tall.

Rectangular.

It looks like the door from Lily’s drawings.

The one floating in nothing.

You take a step closer.

Something clicks behind your ear.

Then the same voice speaks again.

Clearer this time.

“Left.”

You turn your head.

The trees shift.

The slight breeze attempts to lift you under your arms.

Something waits in the silence.

And you know you are close.

You hold your breath just for a moment.

You take one step to the left.

Everything changes.

End of Part 2.

***

Part 3: The Cabin That Should Not Exist

(You chose: Follow the tall, rectangular door from Lily’s drawings.)

You follow the thin trail away from the rectangular opening.

It does not feel like walking forward.

It feels like slipping sideways.

It reminds you of those old cases with the really bad hauntings.

The vertigo.

The disorientation.

You are not sure what a dimensional portal feels like or should feel like,

but you would describe it that way.

The woods grow denser.

The light dulls.

The air thickens.

You keep expecting the trail to disappear again.

But it does not.

It leads you to a clearing you did not see on any map.

How did the authorities not discover this place?

At the far edge stands a cabin.

Small.

Old.

Weathered into the forest like it has been hiding there for years.

Branches claw at the roof.

The windows are dark.

You stop at the edge of the clearing.

This is not where the search teams looked.

This is not where the dogs went.

This is not where anyone thought to search.

Or perhaps a better question is whether this was ever a place anyone else could reach.

You step closer.

The door hangs slightly open.

Inside, the air smells wrong.

Dry.

Stale.

Like something has been waiting.

You push the door wider.

A haze of dust settles before your eyes.

The floor creaks beneath your weight.

And then you see her.

Lily is on the floor near the far wall.

Curled on her side.

Too still.

Her lips are dry.

Her skin pale.

Her breathing shallow.

Unconscious.

But alive.

Your chest tightens so sharply it hurts.

No food.

No water.

A tipped cup beside her.

A few scattered pages of paper near her hand.

Drawings.

The pond.

The door.

The reflection.

She did not draw these before she disappeared.

She drew them here.

Your mind catches up all at once.

Lily was not being followed by a spirit.

She was not haunted by some ghost.

She was reaching for herself.

Her consciousness did what it had to do to survive.

It left.

And because time does not move the way we think it does,

because fear does not wait for permission,

because children know how to slip through cracks adults forgot existed,

She found her way back.

To her house.

To her drawings.

To the moment before she vanished.

To you.

To us.

You kneel beside her and check her pulse.

It is weak.

But steady.

You are not too late.

You hear the gentle howling of the wind outside the cabin,

a reminder that you have to move quickly.

Your biggest concern now is whether you will be able to find your way back.

End of Part 3.

***

STORY 10: THE GIRL IN THE PINES

Part 4: The Space Between

(You chose: Stabilize her first)

You don’t move her.

Not yet.

You check Lily first.

Pulse.

Breathing.

Still weak.

But she’s still there.

You pull the blanket tighter around her shoulders and make sure her head is turned slightly to the side.

You open your backpack.

Water.

Electrolyte packets.

A thermal blanket.

A small flashlight.

A recorder you forgot was still in the side pocket.

You wet your fingers and touch a drop of water to Lily’s lips.

Just enough to register.

Just enough to remind her body how to respond.

You wait.

Her breathing shifts slightly.

Barely noticeable.

But you notice.

You move through the cabin carefully now, keeping her in sight.

You check the shelves.

Empty cans.

She seemed to have eaten what was left. 

Old tools.

A rusted lantern.

A folded blanket shoved into a corner.

You take the blanket.

Bring it back.

Layer it over her legs.

Then you see something you didn’t expect.

Near the far wall, half-hidden behind a crate, is a section of the floor that looks… wrong.

Not broken.

Just worn smooth.

Like something stood there often.

It has a slight shimmer. 

You make a mental note.

You don’t have time for it.

You return to Lily and kneel again.

That’s when the sound starts.

At first, you think it’s the wind.

Perhaps someone outside the cabin.

But it isn’t.

It’s voices.

Low.

Muffled.

Layered.

Like a conversation bleeding through a wall.

You freeze.

The words aren’t clear, but the cadence is familiar.

A woman’s voice.

Tight with worry.

A man’s voice.

Low.

Trying to stay calm.

You know those voices.

They sound like Lily’s parents.

You strain to listen.

You feel your heart drop into your stomach.

The sound doesn’t come from one direction.

It comes from everywhere.

From the walls.

The air.

The space around the cot.

Like the cabin is sitting between two moments at once.

The sound rises.

You glance at Lily.

Her brow tightens.

Just slightly.

Her breathing changes again.

She tries to speak. 

Her eyes try desperately to just barely open.

You try desperately to yell out. 

Arms flaring. 

As if they could hear you. 

As if they could…

See you. 

Her eyes appear to lock on you sitting on the edge of the bed.

You tell her she’s safe.

That she did the right thing.

That she found help.

The murmurs fade.

The cabin settles.

You reach for your phone without thinking.

Full bars.

You try to call out.

Nothing happens.

No ringing.

No voicemail.

No error.

Just silence.

You try again.

Same result.

The signal is there, but it isn’t going anywhere.

You lower the phone slowly.

You are not cut off.

You are contained.

The air feels heavier again.

More solid.

Almost reluctant.

You sit back on your heels, pulse pounding.

Whatever this place is, you don’t have time to understand it.

Outside, the forest sounds return.

Birds.

Wind.

Life.

But the quiet feels watched now.

Not curious.

Not angry.

Nearly ossessive.

And you know one thing for certain.

You didn’t just find Lily.

You found a place that should not exist.

And it doesn’t want to let her go.

End of Part 4.

***

Part 5: The Right Door

(You chose: Investigate the smooth spot on the floor)

You should move her.

You know that.

Every instinct you have says pick her up, run, do not waste time in a place that feels so wrong.

In limbo.

But the smooth spot in the floor keeps pulling at your attention.

Not splintered.

Not lifting the nails.

Worn.

You glance back at Lily.

Her eyes are open now.

Not fully alert.

Not fully steady.

But watching.

She tracks your movement like she understands why you are hesitating.

Like she has been waiting for you to notice what she already did.

You step toward the far wall and drag the crate away.

The scrape is loud.

The cabin responds with a slow creak, as if it feels the disturbance.

Up close, you realize it is not just wood.

It shimmers.

Faint at first.

Then clearer.

A wave of energy trickling across the floor.

Hauntingly beautiful in its approach.

A wave that swells, then fades back into stillness.

The air above it is colder than the rest of the room.

Not forest cold.

Something else.

A cold familiar to your own past you wish not to entertain in this moment.

You crouch down and hold your hand just above it.

The hair on your arm lifts as if lightning were to strike.

Your hand looks almost translucent in the shimmer.

The hum begins.

Low.

Guttural.

A vibration emerges as if under the cabin, inside the cabin, and, however possible, inside your body.

You swallow hard.

You reach into your backpack.

The digital recorder.

You have not used it in years.

You silently apologize for all the times you said you wouldn’t turn it back on.

But here we are. Out of ideas.

And this does not feel like death.

It feels like a signal trying to find a receiver.

You press record.

The cabin gives you quiet.

Dust falling.

Wood settling.

Wind threading through pine needles outside.

Then the shimmer returns.

The hum deepens.

The room seems to bend beneath your heavy breath.

You ask questions anyway.

Even though you do not know who you are talking to.

“What is this place”

“I found Lily, can you hear me”

“Why is this happening”

The cabin stays stubbornly silent.

You stop recording.

You play it back.

Static.

Then.

A voice.

A woman, strained with exhaustion.

“Lily, sweetheart, please come back to us. This just can’t be real.”

Your heart begins to race.

Adrenaline igniting your skin on fire.

A second voice, lower, steady but cracking at the edges.

“We should be out there. Looking for her! Not waiting for a call that will never come!”

Lily’s parents.

Not an echo.

Not a memory.

Not a ghost.

A real conversation.

Bleeding into your recorder like sound through thin glass.

This place is not haunted.

It is somehow connected.

Their world is leaking into this one.

You look at Lily.

Her gaze shifts past you.

To the wall near the window.

You follow it.

Nothing at first.

Then the shimmer blooms again.

This time, not on the floor.

On the wall.

A rippling rectangle of distortion, faint but unmistakable.

Like heat rising from a hot highway.

Like the boundary between two trees that you stepped through to get here.

And the smooth spot in the floor goes dull.

No shimmer.

It moved.

The “door” moved.

Your stomach drops.

Because that means the way out is not fixed.

It behaves like a tide.

Waves.

Surges.

A door that appears, vanishes, and reforms somewhere else.

And finding it is not something you can force.

Perhaps only catch.

You look at Lily again.

Her eyes are clearer now.

The cabin shifts.

The air thickens.

The hum rises.

The voices return all at once, muffled but everywhere, pressing through the walls in layered waves.

The sound nearly painful this time around.

The energy swells and the whole cabin feels alive with it.

The shimmer snaps into shape again.

Not on the floor.

Not on the wall.

In the doorway.

The cabin door distorts, bending light like water.

A rectangle of rippling air.

A door made of shimmer.

You do not hesitate.

You do not wait for certainty.

You grab Lily, blankets and all.

She clings to you without fear.

Like she has been waiting for this moment.

The cabin feels heavier as you move.

The air resists.

The floor vibrates under your boots.

The hum rises into a high, thin tone that makes your teeth ache.

You run.

Lily’s face presses into your shoulder.

And she whispers, like a command.

“Now.”

You hit the shimmer.

For one heartbeat, everything disappears.

No cabin.

No forest.

No sound.

Just weightlessness.

Then.

You tumble forward through cold air.

And your boots hit earth.

Real earth.

The forest explodes back into sound.

Wind.

Birds.

Leaves.

You stumble between two pine trees and catch yourself.

Behind you, there is nothing.

No cabin.

No clearing.

Only woods.

Only the trail.

Only reality pretending it never bent.

In front of you, the yellow tape.

Weathered.

And beyond it.

The pond.

The same pond from the drawings.

Still water.

Dark reflection.

You stop.

Your arms ache from holding Lily.

She shifts, lifting her head.

Her eyes meet yours.

Fully present now.

Fully here.

She looks calm in a way.

Like she has known the ending longer than you have.

She studies your face for a second.

Then she whispers:

“You found the right door.”

You can’t help it.

You smile.

Then you look up.

Past Lily.

Across the pond.

And for just a second, the surface ripples.

Not from wind.

Not from movement.

A shimmer passes over.

Just for a moment.

Enough to make you believe it was real.

End of Story 10.