Robin's Whispered Clues

The air in the dilapidated lodge was thick with the scent of decay and something else, something acrid and coppery that made my stomach clench. Mark’s flashlight beam danced across the rough-hewn walls, illuminating the disturbing symbols etched into the wood. We’d found the map, a crude thing of charcoal and desperation, but it hadn’t brought any real comfort. If anything, it had amplified the gnawing dread that had settled in my chest like a cold stone.

“This is insane,” Mark muttered, his voice tight. He ran a hand through his already messy hair, his usual bravado replaced by a brittle edge. “Who draws a map like this? And why?”

I didn’t answer. My eyes were drawn to the scratches on the floor, deep gouges that looked too fresh to be the work of time. They radiated outwards from a central point, like the spokes of a monstrous, unseen wheel. I felt a prickle on the back of my neck, the familiar sensation of being observed, but when I spun around, there was only the oppressive darkness pressing in from the broken windows.