Chapter 2: The Bent Wire

Chapter 2: The Bent Wire

The morning sunlight, usually a welcome guest, felt like an intruder. It streamed into the kitchen, painfully bright, glinting off the polished countertops and casting sharp, unforgiving shadows. It was a sterile light that tried to scrub away the memory of the night, but Leo knew better. The horror wasn’t in the darkness; it was in the knowing.

He sat at the kitchen table, pushing a piece of toast around his plate. The familiar, comforting smells of his mother’s coffee and his father’s burnt toast did nothing to soothe the frantic hummingbird trapped in his chest. Every few seconds, the image would flash behind his eyes: seven cowled heads snapping up in perfect unison, the bottomless, light-devouring black of their eyes.

“You barely slept,” his mother, Anja, said. Her voice was gentle, but laced with a determined cheerfulness that felt like sandpaper on his raw nerves. She placed a glass of orange juice in front of him, her hand lingering on his shoulder for a moment.

“I told you what I saw,” Leo mumbled, his voice hoarse.

His father, Thomas, sighed from behind his newspaper. He was a man who built his life on logic and solid things: spreadsheets, engine maintenance, predictable weather. Last night’s events had no place in his world. “Leo, we went over this. It was a dream. A nightmare, a vivid one, but a dream.”

“It wasn’t,” Leo insisted, his voice rising with a desperate edge. “They were on the lawn. In a circle. They were doing something… and their eyes…” He shuddered, unable to finish. How could he describe those empty voids?

“Okay, okay,” Thomas said, lowering the paper. His face was a mask of strained patience. “So, let’s say it wasn’t a dream. It was kids. Teenagers from the village, bored, maybe had a bit too much to drink. They thought they’d spook the people at the edge of town. It’s a stupid prank, that’s all.”

“They didn’t move like teenagers,” Leo shot back, the memory of their gliding, unnatural retreat still chillingly clear. “They didn’t make any sound when they walked. And they just… vanished. Into the trees.”

“Shadows play tricks, son. The moonlight, the trees… your mind filled in the blanks,” Thomas reasoned, taking a sip of his coffee. He wanted this conversation to be over. He wanted his logical world restored.

Leo’s desire for them to believe him was a physical ache in his throat. It wasn't just about being right; it was about safety. If they didn’t believe him, they wouldn’t understand the danger. The house no longer felt like a fortress; it felt like a fishbowl. “There has to be proof,” he said, pushing his chair back. “Footprints. Something.”

This was an action his father could understand. A search for physical evidence. With a heavy sigh, Thomas folded his newspaper and stood up. “Alright. Let’s go look. We’ll clear this up, and then you’ll eat your breakfast.”

The three of them stepped out onto the front porch. The morning air was warm, smelling of damp earth and his mother’s roses. The lawn, under the full glare of the sun, looked aggressively normal. The grass was green and undisturbed, still sparkling with dew. There was no circle of flattened blades, no scuffed earth, not a single footprint to be seen.

Leo’s heart sank. A flicker of doubt, insidious and unwelcome, wormed its way into his mind. Was his dad right? Had he dreamt it all?

“See?” Thomas said, his voice softer now, tinged with pity. He gestured expansively at the pristine lawn. “Nothing, Leo. Not a thing out of place.”

“But they were right here,” Leo insisted, walking onto the grass, his eyes scanning desperately for any sign, any anomaly. The lack of evidence was somehow more terrifying than finding a mess. It meant they were careful. Or that they weren't solid enough to leave a trace.

He walked the perimeter of the lawn, his parents following a few paces behind. He reached the low privet hedge that separated their property from the narrow lane. And that’s when his father stopped.

“Well now, that’s odd,” Thomas murmured, crouching down.

Leo and his mother hurried over. His father was pointing at the thin, rust-coloured guide wire that ran through the hedge, meant to keep it growing straight. It was a single, continuous strand of metal.

At one point, the wire had been pulled out from the hedge. But it wasn't cut. It wasn't snapped or broken, as you’d expect from clumsy teenagers stumbling through in the dark.

It was bent.

Two perfect, precise, ninety-degree angles had been made in the wire, forming a neat rectangular ‘U’ shape that allowed it to be lifted cleanly out of the hedge’s retaining clips. After passing through, whoever did it had simply slotted the bent section back into place. It was the work of someone deliberate, silent, and unnaturally careful. It was the kind of thing you did when you didn't want to make a single sound, not even the snip of a wire cutter.

Thomas touched the bent section with his index finger, a frown creasing his brow. The certainty in his posture had evaporated. “They didn’t break it,” he said, more to himself than to anyone else. “They just… opened it.”

A cold spike of vindication and dread shot through Leo. Here it was. The impossible detail. The quiet, meticulous horror that proved his story. This wasn't the work of drunk kids. This was something else. The carefully bent wire screamed purpose.

“What kind of prankster does that?” Anja whispered, her forced cheerfulness finally cracking. She wrapped her arms around herself, staring at the wire as if it were a venomous snake.

The flimsy dam of his parents’ denial had been breached. They didn't understand what it meant, not yet, but the seed of unease was planted. The horror was now real for them, too, a small, tangible piece of it right there in their hands.

Leo felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. He looked up from the unsettling proof at his feet, his gaze drawn once more to the place the figures had retreated. To the dark, silent wall of Ardenwood.

His breath caught in his throat.

For a single, heart-stopping second, deep within the shadows between two ancient pines, he saw it. It wasn't a face. It wasn't even a full person. It was just a shape. A vertical slash of deeper black against the layered darkness of the forest, a form that resolved for a fraction of a second into the unmistakable silhouette of a tall, cloaked figure. Standing perfectly still.

Watching them.

Leo let out a small, strangled gasp and took an involuntary step back, bumping into his mother. He blinked, and it was gone. There was nothing but trees and shadows. But he had seen it. He knew he had.

The wire proved they had been there. The figure in the woods proved they had never truly left.