Where the Blood Lies

Previously

…He lunged. Instinct took over. I dropped the journal and scrambled towards the window, fumbling with the latch. It creaked, a mournful protest, but it gave way. I threw the window open and climbed out, landing awkwardly on the damp grass below. The journal. I had to get the journal. He was right behind me, his footsteps unnervingly silent. I didn’t dare look back. I ran, my lungs burning, my heart pounding like a drum against my ribs. I ran towards the creek, towards the old oak, towards the hope that lay buried in the past. The Weaver was on my heels, and the whispers of the past were no longer just words on a page, but a terrifying reality chasing me through the darkness.