The path to the lake cut through the trees in a narrow strip of packed dirt and old leaves, sunlight breaking through the branches in shifting pieces that moved every time the wind did. It felt warmer out here. Cleaner. Like the morning had decided this patch of the world was allowed to be simple.
Madaline didn’t trust that feeling.
Ahead of her, Ymir was already filling the silence before it had a chance to settle.
“I’m telling you now,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder as he walked, “if that water is freezing, I’m not doing it. I’ll support you all emotionally from shore.”
“You don’t support anyone emotionally,” Ethan said.
“That is so rude.”
“It’s also true.”
“No, what’s true is that I’m being brave enough to say what everyone else is thinking.”
Mira laughed softly beside Madaline, the sound light enough to loosen something in her chest.
“You’re not brave,” Mira called ahead. “You’re dramatic.”
“Same skill set.”
“Not even a little.”
Madaline smiled despite herself. The conversation felt familiar. Easy in the way only old group habits ever did. Like they’d all slipped into roles they knew well enough not to think about.
Like nothing had changed.
The trees thinned a minute later, the path widening before opening onto the lake clearing. Water stretched out ahead of them, bright enough under the sun that it threw broken reflections across the dock and the shoreline. The dock itself jutted into the water in weathered gray boards, the surface sun-bleached and uneven underfoot.
It was beautiful.
And quiet in a way that made Madaline’s shoulders tighten anyway.
“Okay,” Ymir said, stepping into the clearing and squinting toward the water. “That doesn’t look terrible.”
“You haven’t touched it,” Ethan said.
“Don’t ruin this.”
Ymir kicked off his shoes and tested the edge of the water with one foot.
He jerked back immediately. “Oh, absolutely not.”
Mira laughed again, brighter this time, and slipped past Madaline to try for herself. “It can’t be that bad.”
She dipped her foot in.
Then flinched so hard she almost lost her balance.
“Okay,” she said, drawing back. “It’s a little bad.”
“A little?” Ymir repeated. “That is lake-shaped ice.”
“You’re weak.”
“You literally just agreed with me.”
Madaline stepped up beside them, looked down at the water, then at Mira. “Move.”
Mira shifted just enough to let her through.
Madaline dipped one foot in.
The cold hit quick and clean, shocking enough to steal a breath, but not enough to make her retreat.
She exhaled slowly. “You’re both dramatic.”
“Thank you,” Mira said.
“You’re welcome.”
Ymir pointed at her. “You are lying to yourself.”
“I’m choosing dignity.”
“That’s worse somehow.”
Mira bumped her shoulder lightly. “Go in, then.”
“You go in.”
“I did.”
“That was your foot.”
“It counts.”
“It absolutely does not.”
Madaline stepped forward before she could reconsider it. Water climbed around her legs, colder the deeper she went, and by the time it reached above her knees she had to laugh through the sharp pull of it.
“Okay,” she said, wincing. “No, that’s awful.”
“THANK you,” Ymir said, vindicated.
Mira followed her in fast, like she knew hesitation would make it worse. The cold hit her harder. She caught Madaline’s arm instinctively, fingers tightening just long enough to steady herself.
“Why is it worse when you commit?” she asked.
“Because you’re actually in it.”
Mira laughed breathlessly, still clinging for one second more before letting go. “Great. Love that.”
They stayed there for a moment with the water shifting around them in small silver ripples, sunlight breaking across the surface in flashing pieces. It almost worked.
The lake. The light. The noise of Ymir complaining like the universe had singled him out personally.
Almost.
Behind them, Ethan stepped into the shallows more carefully than either of them had, his attention flicking once toward Mira before settling again. He didn’t say anything about it. He just stayed near enough to if he had to.
Madaline noticed.
Kane hadn’t gotten in at all.
She looked toward the dock and found him near the end of it, arms loose at his sides, one foot angled toward the water without any real intention of entering it. He looked out over the lake rather than at the group, expression calm, unreadable, separate without seeming disconnected.
Her attention shifted again.
To Noah.
He stood farther back than the rest of them, closer to the tree line than the dock, not sitting, not speaking, gaze moving over the lake and then past it. Watching the far edge. The woods beyond. The path they’d come down.
Noah wasn’t really with them.
He was just… there.
And for some reason, that unsettled her more than Ymir’s jokes had managed to soften.
Mira bumped her again with a small splash between them. “You’re zoning out.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Same thing.”
Madaline smiled faintly, but it didn’t stay long. The wrongness from the house had followed them here somehow, thinning itself into the bright air and waiting for a place to land.
Katarin broke it.
She had finally come down to the dock now, sunglasses pushed up in her hair, arms folded, bare feet near the edge without any intention of actually getting wet.
“He better not come back and act like we overreacted,” she muttered.
The line hit the clearing harder than it should have.
Ymir turned first. “If he comes back, I’m fine with being wrong.”
“That’s because you were the one acting like we were in a slasher movie.”
“Because your friend disappeared.”
“He didn’t disappear.”
“Then where is he?”
She didn’t answer.
Not directly.
And in the pause that followed, Noah said quietly, “He didn’t walk off.”
The words weren’t loud.
They didn’t need to be.
Something about the certainty in them cut cleanly through the whole scene.
Ymir straightened. “Okay, man—”
“No,” Noah said, finally looking at them. “He didn’t.”
Katarin’s posture sharpened instantly. “And how exactly would you know that?”
Noah didn’t answer right away.
That made it worse.
Ethan was the one who spoke next. “Why do you say that?”
Noah glanced once toward the trees, then back. “Because people don’t leave their phone, their jacket, and no explanation if they’re just taking off.”
“Some people do,” Katarin snapped.
“Not like that.”
The answer came too easily.
Too sure.
Madaline felt something cold pull low in her stomach. Not because she thought he was wrong. Because suddenly it sounded like he’d been thinking about it longer than everyone else.
Ymir rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, or he’s just an idiot.”
Noah didn’t smile. “Maybe.”
But he didn’t sound like he believed it.
Katarin laughed, sharp and humorless. “You’re all making this way bigger than it is.”
“Or you’re making it smaller,” Ethan said.
Katarin turned on him. “Whose side are you on?”
“No one’s.”
Mira shifted beside Madaline, shoulder brushing hers again. “Can we not do this here?”
The words were soft, almost gentle, but they pulled the tension back from the edge only a little.
Not enough.
The conversation tried to recover after that.
Ymir made another joke. Ethan answered, but slower. Mira kept her tone light. Katarin looked away like she was done with the whole subject.
But the ease from earlier didn’t come back.
It hovered just out of reach.
Madaline let the water move around her legs and looked away for a second—over the dock, the bright water, the trees at the edge of the clearing.
When she looked back, Noah had been there a second ago.
Now he wasn’t.
She frowned and scanned the edge of the clearing. There—maybe movement between the trees off to one side of the lake, just past where the path curved away. A darker shape slipping out of sight.
“Where’d he go?” Ymir asked, noticing it too late to know anything useful.
“Noah?” Ethan turned slightly.
No one answered.
Because no one had seen him leave.
Madaline stared at the trees a second longer than she should have. There was no sound. No crack of branches. No sign of where he’d gone.
She just knew—
he wasn’t there anymore.
Back at the house, the quiet had settled differently.
Not empty.
Just waiting.
He moved through it without thinking much about it at first.
The living room still looked the same as when they’d left—glasses on the table, the blanket half slipping off the couch, sunlight stretched across the floor in pale still lines. It felt strange being the only one there, but not wrong enough to question. Just quieter than it had been all morning.
“Hello?” he called once, half-hearted.
No answer.
He huffed under his breath and headed for the kitchen. “Yeah, okay. Definitely just left.”
The words sounded thin as soon as he said them.
He filled a glass with water and drank it fast, leaning back against the counter as the house creaked faintly overhead.
He stilled.
Then shook his head. “Old house.”
Another sound followed. Softer. Like something shifting upstairs.
He looked up at the ceiling. “…Hello?”
Nothing.
Just the same quiet again.
He set the glass down harder than he meant to. “Whatever.”
The back door creaked.
Not open.
Just shifting slightly in the frame.
He turned toward it slowly.
It was closed.
Exactly like before.
“Okay,” he said, quieter now. “That’s fine.”
He stared at it a second too long, then looked away and grabbed his phone from the counter. No service. Nothing new. He shoved it back into his pocket.
Upstairs.
He needed something from upstairs.
That was it.
The stairs creaked under his weight as he climbed them. The hallway greeted him exactly as it had before—sunlight, closed doors, everything in place.
Nothing out of order.
Nothing wrong.
And yet—
something felt off.
He reached for one of the doors and pushed it open.
The room inside was empty.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Of course it is.”
A floorboard creaked behind him.
Not the one he’d stepped on.
Another one.
Farther back.
He froze.
Then turned slowly.
The hallway stretched behind him, empty, unchanged.
No one there.
“Okay,” he said again, voice thinner now. “Not funny.”
No answer.
The house stayed quiet.
Too quiet.
He took one step backward into the hallway—
and didn’t notice the shadow shift just slightly along the wall behind him.
At the lake, the water kept moving like nothing had changed.
Ymir forced himself under and came back up complaining loud enough to make Ethan roll his eyes. Mira drifted closer to Madaline again, their shoulders brushing every few seconds in the cold water.
For a moment, it almost worked again.
The sunlight. The noise. The distraction.
Almost.
“He’s taking a while,” Ymir said eventually.
“He said he’d come later,” Katarin replied from the dock.
“Yeah, but later usually means like five minutes, not—” He glanced toward the trees. “Whatever this is.”
“You’ve been in the water for ten minutes,” Ethan said.
“That’s not the point.”
Madaline looked toward the edge of the clearing again.
Still no Noah.
Mira nudged her lightly. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Thinking too much.”
Madaline huffed out a breath. “That’s twice today.”
“You’re welcome.”
The smile she managed didn’t stay.
Because when she looked back toward the path again—
it was still empty.
Mira shifted beside her, then pulled away slightly. “I’m gonna run back for a second. I left my bag up by the path.”
Madaline blinked. “Now?”
“It’s right there.” Mira nodded toward the clearing’s edge. “Two minutes.”
It sounded small. Reasonable. Normal.
“Want me to come?” Ethan asked, already half-stepping forward.
“No.” Mira softened it with a quick smile. “I’m fine.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Don’t take long.”
“I won’t.”
She squeezed Madaline’s arm once, quick and grounding, then stepped out of the water, grabbed her shoes, and headed toward the path.
Madaline watched her go.
The trees swallowed her faster than they should have.
Or maybe it only felt that way.
Katarin muttered something from the dock. Ymir answered. Ethan looked once toward the path and then back to the water like he was trying not to make more of it.
Kane hadn’t moved.
Still dry. Still on the dock. Still visible.
Madaline noticed that too.
The quiet stretched between the trees a little too long.
At first, he told himself that was all it was.
Quiet.
A house too empty. An old place making old sounds. Everyone else was gone long enough that every creak and shift had room to seem bigger than it was.
He stood in the upstairs hall with one hand still half-lifted from where he’d turned away from the open bedroom door, listening hard enough that his own breathing started to get in the way.
Nothing.
No footsteps.
No voice.
Just the long stillness of the house settling around him.
“This is stupid,” he muttered, though his voice came out lower than he meant it to.
He took a step toward the stairs.
Then another.
The floorboard behind him creaked again.
This time closer.
He turned too fast, pulse kicking hard enough now that he could feel it in his throat.
The hallway looked exactly the same.
Sunlight stretched thin across the floorboards from the window at the far end. Closed doors. Blank walls. Nothing moving.
And still—
something in his chest had already decided this was wrong.
“Hello?” he called again, louder now. “If someone’s up here, this isn’t funny.”
No answer.
He backed up one step.
His shoulder brushed the wall.
Then he heard it.
Not behind him.
Ahead.
A soft movement from the far end of the hall. So small he might have missed it if he hadn’t been listening for something by then. A shift of weight. Fabric against wood. The kind of sound a person made trying very hard not to make one.
His mouth went dry.
“Who’s there?”
Nothing.
The light at the end of the hall stayed pale and harmless. The house didn’t change shape. The doors didn’t move.
But he knew now.
He wasn’t alone.
He started for the stairs.
Fast now, not caring how loud his feet hit the boards. One hand shot out to the wall to steady himself as he moved, his breathing already shortening before he’d even made it halfway.
He never reached the landing.
Something came out of the side room so quickly it barely registered as shape before it was force.
A body.
A shove.
His back slammed into the wall hard enough to knock the sound out of him. His shoulder cracked against wood. His head clipped the edge of a frame or molding—something sharp enough to send light bursting white behind his eyes for half a second.
He threw an arm up instinctively, catching cloth, skin, something solid and close. Too close.
“What the fuck—”
The knife hit before the sentence could finish.
Low and brutal.
A hot, sickening pressure driving in under his ribs, not pain at first so much as impact, the body’s refusal to understand what had just happened. Then the blade twisted.
Pain arrived all at once.
His knees nearly gave.
A broken sound tore out of him as he lurched forward, grabbing harder, trying to push, to wrench free, to see—
But all he got was fragments.
Dark clothing.
A shoulder.
The shape of a face turned away too fast to hold.
The blade came out.
Warmth spilled down his side in a rush that made his stomach drop with sudden, animal terror.
He tried to shout.
What came out was thinner than he meant it to be.
“Help—”
The second hit landed higher.
He gasped and folded, one hand flying to his middle, the other clawing uselessly at the wall. His fingers slipped over painted wood. He caught nothing. The hallway tilted sickeningly to one side.
The attacker said nothing.
That was the worst part.
No rage. No warning. No breathless panic. Just silence and movement, deliberate and close.
He stumbled sideways, shoulder slamming into a doorframe as he tried to get past, to get down the stairs, to get anywhere that wasn’t this hallway.
His foot slipped.
Blood.
His or someone else’s, it didn’t matter. His heel slid out from under him and he hit the floor hard on one knee, then one hand, pain ripping up through him in jagged bursts.
The boards beneath him were warm where they shouldn’t have been.
He looked down.
Red spread beneath his palm.
Too much.
Too fast.
“No,” he said, though he didn’t know if he meant it as protest or prayer.
He tried to crawl.
Tried to drag himself toward the stairs with one arm while the other clamped uselessly over the wound. His vision had started narrowing already, edges blurring, the bright slice of light from the hall window turning hazy and wrong.
Then fingers caught the back of his shirt.
He twisted, grabbing wildly, and for the first time his hand found something real enough to hold—fabric bunching in his fist, a body jerking with the force of it.
He heard a breath.
Quick.
Close.
Human.
His head snapped up.
He almost saw—
The knife buried into him again.
Everything dropped out.
The grip in his hand went weak instantly. His body gave in pieces, shoulder hitting first, then his cheek, the floor cold and sticky beneath him now. The hallway stretched strangely in front of him, longer than before, the stairs just out of reach.
He could still hear the lake in his head.
Or maybe not the lake.
Just the memory of voices.
Ymir yelling.
Somebody laughing.
The sound of people existing somewhere else, somewhere safe.
A hand gripped his ankle.
He jerked weakly on instinct.
Then the dragging started.
His body scraped over the boards, each jolt sending raw, blinding pain through him. His shoulder caught on the edge of the runner rug in the hall. His fingers clawed uselessly once, twice, leaving a wet streak he never saw clearly enough to understand.
The nearest bedroom door stood open.
He was being pulled toward it.
“No,” he tried again, but there was nothing left behind the word.
The room swallowed them both in shadow and morning light.
The dragging stopped.
Something moved above him.
A shape.
A hand.
The last thing he saw before the world blurred into brightness and dark was the bedroom door beginning to swing inward.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Until the gap narrowed—
and almost closed.