The Watcher in the Woods

It’s strange how the most profound changes in your life can begin with something so mundane, like the sound of branches scratching against your bedroom window in the middle of the night.

For weeks, I’d been waking to that sound, a persistent scraping that pulled me from dreams into the disorienting darkness of 3 AM. Each time, I’d stumble to the window to find nothing but our ash tree swaying innocently in the breeze, its branches nowhere near the glass. David, my husband of eight years, would grumble and roll over, pulling the covers tighter around his shoulders while I’d stand there, squinting into the darkness, wondering if I was losing my mind.

“You’re just anxious about the move,” David would murmur sleepily, his voice muffled by pillows. “It’ll pass.”

Perhaps he was right. After living in San Francisco for our entire adult lives, relocating to a remote property in northern Oregon had been a dramatic shift. The old farmhouse sat on five acres of pine and ash trees, with our nearest neighbors half a mile down a winding gravel road. It was precisely what we’d wanted—space, privacy, an escape from the crowded, noisy city—but its isolation felt more pronounced at night.

In the darkness, the unfamiliar creaks and groans of the century-old house seemed to multiply, the surrounding woods a mysterious presence just beyond our windows. Still, I’d chosen this place, fallen in love with its worn wooden floors and quirky angles. It was the perfect place to revitalize my stalled art career, I’d insisted to David. The perfect place to start fresh.

The scratch came again three nights later, more insistent this time, jarring me from a deep sleep.

“There’s someone out there,” I whispered, already pushing myself upright, heart pounding. “David, wake up.”

David didn’t stir. He’d taken a double dose of the sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed for his insomnia—a condition that had worsened since we’d moved, despite the quieter surroundings.

I slid out of bed, bare feet soundless on the cool hardwood floor. The scratching had stopped, but now I heard something else—a soft, rhythmic sound. Breathing? Or was it the wind moving through the trees? I crept to the window, easing the curtain aside just enough to peer out.

The moon was nearly full, illuminating our yard with pale silver light. The ash tree stood still, no breeze to move its branches. The gravel driveway curved away empty. Nothing moved in the yard below.

Then I looked up.

On the sloped roof of the porch directly beneath our window, a dark figure crouched. Human in shape, but hunched, unnatural. It stared back at me, its face lost in shadow, but there was no mistaking the deliberate tilt of its head. It was watching me.

I stumbled backward, a scream frozen in my throat. When I gathered the courage to look again seconds later, the roof was empty.

“David!” I hissed, scrambling onto the bed, shaking his shoulder roughly. “David, wake up! There was someone on the roof!”

He groaned, fighting through his medication-induced haze. “What? What’s wrong?”

“There’s someone outside,” I insisted, my voice tight with fear. “On the porch roof. I saw them.”

David sat up slowly, rubbing his face. “Are you sure? It’s not just shadows from the trees?”

“I know what I saw,” I said, a note of desperation creeping into my voice. “Please, just look.”

With a sigh, he threw back the covers and shuffled to the window, peering out with bleary eyes. After a moment, he turned back to me with a gentle, slightly patronizing smile.

“There’s nothing there, Eliza. Just the tree and the moon.”

“Check the rest of the house,” I pleaded. “They could have come inside.”

To his credit, David didn’t argue further. He retrieved the baseball bat we kept in the closet (a halfhearted security measure I now realized was laughably inadequate) and methodically checked every room, closet, and conceivable hiding place in our sprawling old house. He even went outside with a flashlight, examining the porch roof and the ground around the house.

“No footprints,” he reported when he returned, placing the bat back in the closet. “No signs of anyone being here. The roof doesn’t even have any scuff marks where someone might have climbed up.”

“I know what I saw,” I repeated, but my conviction was wavering. Had it been a trick of light and shadow? A half-dream lingering as I woke?

“I believe that you think you saw something,” David said carefully, sitting beside me on the bed. He took my cold hands in his. “But this is the third time this week you’ve woken up convinced there’s someone outside. Maybe it’s the new environment, or maybe…” He hesitated, then continued with obvious reluctance. “Maybe it’s time to talk to Dr. Winters again.”

Dr. Winters. My psychiatrist from four years ago, after the incident. The memory of those sessions—the sterile office, the tissue box strategically placed within reach, the careful way Dr. Winters would observe me as I spoke—made my spine stiffen.

“I’m not hallucinating,” I said flatly. “And I’m not going back to therapy.”

“El, that’s not what I—”

“I know what I saw, David.” I pulled my hands away from his. “But fine. I’ll convince myself it was nothing so you can go back to sleep.”

He sighed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “That’s not fair.”

He was right. It wasn’t fair. David had supported me through my darkest months, never once suggesting my breakdown was inconvenient or embarrassing, though it had surely been both. He’d defended me to his skeptical parents, stood by me when friends drifted away, uncomfortable with my fragility. He deserved better than my bitter retort.

“I’m sorry,” I said, softer now. “I’m tired, and I got scared. Let’s just go back to sleep.”

But even after David’s breathing had deepened into the rhythms of sleep, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, unable to shake the certainty that something had been watching me through the window. Something that might still be out there, waiting.

---

Morning brought clarity with its golden light, dissipating the night’s fears like mist. I felt foolish, overwrought. Probably just a raccoon, I told myself as I prepared breakfast. They were common in these woods, and nimble enough to climb onto a roof. It had been small, after all. My fear had magnified it in my mind.

“Feeling better?” David asked, kissing my cheek as he passed by to pour his coffee.

“Much better,” I lied, forcing a smile. “Just new-house jitters, like you said.”

He seemed relieved, and I was grateful he didn’t press the issue. We ate breakfast in companionable silence, David reviewing emails on his tablet while I gazed out the kitchen window, admiring how the morning light filtered through the trees. It really was beautiful here, the kind of natural setting I’d dreamed of capturing in my paintings.

“I think I’ll explore the woods today,” I announced, surprising myself. Despite living here for three weeks, I’d yet to venture far beyond our immediate yard. “Maybe get some sketches done.”

David glanced up, an approving smile spreading across his face. “That sounds great, El. It’s been a while since you’ve sketched outdoors.”

He didn’t need to elaborate. We both knew exactly how long it had been—four years, since before the incident. Before I’d put away my larger canvases and oils in favor of small, controlled watercolors, I could paint at the kitchen table. Before I’d stopped exhibiting altogether.

After breakfast, I gathered my supplies—a sketchbook, charcoals, a few pencils—and tucked them into the leather satchel David had given me for my thirty-fifth birthday two years ago. I added a bottle of water and a granola bar, then hesitated before grabbing my phone as well. Just in case.

The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. A light fog still clung to the lowest parts of the property, creating an otherworldly atmosphere that immediately sparked my artistic interest. I found myself pausing every few steps to observe how the light played through the mist, how it transformed ordinary tree trunks into ghostly sentinels.

Our property backed up to a stretch of forest that continued for miles, transitioning eventually into protected state land. I followed a faint trail that curved away from the house, moving deeper into the trees. The woods grew denser, the canopy above filtering the sunlight into dappled patterns on the ground. The sounds of birds and the occasional rustle of small animals created a peaceful backdrop.

After about twenty minutes of walking, I emerged into a small clearing dominated by the charred remains of what must have once been a massive cedar. The upper portion was gone entirely, leaving only a blackened trunk about twelve feet high. Lightning strike, perhaps, or a targeted fire. Nature had begun to reclaim it, with moss and fungi growing up the sides, and small saplings sprouting around its base.

It was perfect—haunting and beautiful, a testament to destruction and renewal. I settled on a fallen log nearby and opened my sketchbook.

Drawing had always calmed me, ordered my thoughts as I ordered lines on paper. Today was no different. As my charcoal moved across the page, capturing the stark silhouette of the burned cedar against the surrounding greenery, the lingering unease from the night before gradually dissipated. I lost track of time, completely absorbed in my work.

A sudden silence pulled me from my concentration. The birds had stopped singing, and the forest had gone still around me. I looked up, charcoal poised mid-stroke, and felt a chill sweep through me.

On the far side of the clearing, partially hidden by the shadow of a large pine, stood a figure.

My breath caught. It was too distant, too obscured to make out details, but something about its stillness, its vertical presence among the chaotic natural patterns of the forest, marked it as human. Or at least, humanoid.

“Hello?” I called, my voice sounding thin in the quiet clearing. “Can I help you?”

The figure didn’t respond, didn’t move.

I set my sketchbook aside slowly and stood. “This is private property,” I said, trying to sound authoritative despite the tremor in my voice.

Still no response. But as I took a step forward, the figure retreated deeper into the shadows of the trees. Not turning to walk away, but sliding backward, still facing me.

“Hey!” I called, suddenly angry. The fear of the night before resurged, crystallizing into indignation. “Stop! Who are you?”

I started forward, but the figure had vanished among the trees. I reached the spot where it had stood and found… nothing. No footprints in the soft earth, no disturbed foliage, no sign anyone had been there at all.

Shaken, I returned to the fallen log and hastily packed up my supplies. The peaceful mood was shattered, the woods now seeming ominous rather than inspiring. I hurried back toward the house, constantly glancing over my shoulder, unable to shake the feeling of being watched.

Back home, I found David in his office, headphones on as he conducted a video call with colleagues from the architectural firm where he worked remotely. I hovered in the doorway until he noticed me, giving a small wave as he wrapped up his meeting.

“Hey, how was your adventure?” he asked, removing his headphones and stretching. “Get any good sketches done?”

I hesitated. If I told him about the figure in the woods, would he believe me? Or would it just reinforce his concern that I was slipping back into the paranoia that had marked my breakdown four years ago?

“It was nice,” I said finally. Started a decent study of a lightning-struck cedar. But I think there might be hikers using our property as a shortcut or something. I thought I saw someone in the trees.”

David frowned. “Did they bother you?”

“No, they ran off when I called out. Probably just surprised to find someone out there.”

“Well, I can put up some No Trespassing signs this weekend if you want. The property line should be marked, but maybe the signs have fallen down over the years.”

“That might be good,” I agreed, relieved he’d accepted my sanitized version of events. “Meanwhile, I think I’ll stay closer to the house for my next outdoor session.”

That night, I double-checked every window and door before bed, drawing all the curtains tightly closed. I placed a chair against our bedroom door—not blocking it exactly, just positioned so it would make noise if the door opened. David raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.

As we lay in bed, the room darker than usual with the curtains fully drawn, David’s arm draped comfortingly over my waist, I found myself listening intently to the sounds of the house and the woods beyond. The settling of old timbers. The whisper of wind through trees. The distant hooting of an owl.

“What did you really see in the woods today?” David asked quietly, his breath warm against my neck.

I tensed. “What do you mean?”

“Come on, El. I know when you’re editing the truth. You’ve been jumpy ever since you got back, checking the locks, drawing all the curtains. What happened out there?”

I rolled over to face him, barely able to make out his features in the darkness. “I did see someone. Standing in the trees, watching me. When I called out, they didn’t respond, just… backed away. Disappeared.”

David was silent for a moment. “Did you feel threatened?”

“Not exactly threatened. More… observed. Like I was being studied.” I hesitated. “Like last night, at the window.”

He sighed, and I could sense him choosing his words carefully. “Eliza, I know the move has been an adjustment. And I know that your… your experience before makes you more sensitive to feeling watched or followed. But we’re miles from the nearest town. The chance of someone randomly being in our woods, much less the same person being on our roof and then in the woods, is pretty slim.”

“So you think I’m imagining it,” I said flatly. “Having some kind of relapse.”

“I didn’t say that,” David protested. “I just think there might be more prosaic explanations. A deer in the woods that your mind interpreted as a person. Branches on the roof last night.”

“I know what I saw, David. Both times.”

“Okay.” His tone was conciliatory. “Then tomorrow we’ll walk the property together, check for any signs someone’s been trespassing. Maybe put up those signs I mentioned, or even think about a security system if it would make you feel safer. But for tonight, try to rest, alright? I’m right here.”

I appreciated his willingness to act on my concerns, even if he didn’t fully believe them. It was one of the things I loved about David—his pragmatic approach to problem-solving, his willingness to take concrete steps even when faced with abstract fears. It had been a balm during my recovery years ago, and it comforted me now.

“Thank you,” I murmured, nestling closer to his warmth. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” he whispered back, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Always.”

Despite my anxiety, the combination of fresh air from my morning excursion and the security of David’s presence eventually lulled me to sleep. No scratching woke me that night. No shadow figures passed by our tightly drawn curtains. For those peaceful hours, I could almost believe that my mind had indeed been playing tricks on me.

But when I rose the next morning and went downstairs to make coffee, I froze in the kitchen doorway.

On our wooden table lay my sketchbook—the one I was certain I’d placed in my satchel after returning from the woods. It was open to the drawing of the charred cedar tree.

And beside it, arranged in a perfect circle, were nine small stones, smooth and black as obsidian.

---

“David!” I called, my voice high and tight with fear. “David, come down here!”

I heard him stirring upstairs, then his footsteps hurrying down. He appeared in the doorway, hair disheveled from sleep, concern etched on his face.

“What’s wrong?”

I pointed wordlessly at the table. David moved past me, frowning at the open sketchbook and the circle of stones.

“Is this some kind of joke?” he asked, turning to look at me.

“You didn’t do this?”

“Of course not,” he said, sounding genuinely puzzled. “Why would I take your sketchbook out and arrange weird rocks around it?”

I approached the table cautiously, as if the stones might somehow be dangerous. They were unlike any I’d seen on our property—perfectly smooth, gleaming black, each about the size of a quarter. I reached out to touch one, then pulled my hand back.

“Someone was in our house last night,” I whispered, wrapping my arms around myself. “While we were sleeping. They went through my things and left… this.”

David picked up one of the stones, examining it. “These look almost polished,” he murmured. “Like river rocks, but I haven’t seen any black ones around here.” He set it down, his expression troubled. “Are you absolutely sure you didn’t leave your sketchbook out last night? Maybe you were tired when you came back from the woods, set it down and forgot.”

“I put it in my satchel,” I insisted. “And I definitely didn’t arrange creepy rocks around it. David, someone was in our house.”

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I recognized as a sign of increasing stress. “Okay, let’s think about this logically. If someone broke in, how did they get in? We checked all the doors and windows last night, right? And you put that chair against our bedroom door, which was still in place this morning, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but—”

“And we didn’t hear anything in the night. No alarms, no breaking glass, no footsteps.”

“They could have had a key,” I suggested. “The previous owners might have given copies to friends, neighbors.”

“We changed the locks when we moved in, remember? The realtor suggested it.”

He was right. We had been cautious about security, mindful of the house’s remote location. But there was no denying the evidence before us—my sketchbook, removed from my satchel, and the circle of strange stones that neither of us had placed there.

“Then how do you explain this?” I demanded, gesturing at the table.

David hesitated, and I saw something flicker across his face—doubt, concern, a hint of worry that went beyond the immediate situation.

“I don’t know,” he admitted finally. “But let’s check the house first, make sure nothing else has been disturbed.”

We went through every room together, looking for signs of intrusion or anything else out of place. Everything seemed normal. My satchel sat by the front door where I’d left it, now missing the sketchbook but otherwise untouched. None of our electronics were missing, nor any jewelry or cash. If someone had broken in, they’d taken nothing of obvious value.

“I’m calling the sheriff,” I decided, reaching for my phone.

David didn’t object, which told me he was taking the situation more seriously than he’d initially let on. The county sheriff’s department promised to send someone out, but warned it might take a while given our remote location and the non-emergency nature of the call.

While we waited, I carefully placed the stones in a plastic bag, handling them with a paper towel to preserve any potential fingerprints. The whole thing felt surreal—like we were playing at being detectives in our own home. But the fear was real, curling in my stomach like a cold, heavy stone.

Deputy Ellis arrived two hours later—a tall woman with short gray hair and the weathered complexion of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. She listened patiently as I explained about the sketchbook and the stones, my sighting in the woods the day before, and the figure I believed I’d seen on our roof.

“And there’s no sign of forced entry?” she asked, making notes in a small pad.

“None that we can find,” David confirmed. “All doors and windows were locked this morning, just as we left them last night.”

Deputy Ellis walked through the house, examining doors and windows with professional thoroughness. She paid particular attention to the locks, testing each one.

“These are good deadbolts,” she commented. “Not easy to pick. And no scratches or marks that would indicate someone tried to force them.” She paused, looking around the kitchen. “No alarm system though?”

“We’re planning to install one,” David said quickly. “We’ve only been here a few weeks.”

She nodded, making another note. “And you’re sure about this figure you saw in the woods, Mrs. Chen? Could it have been a deer standing on its hind legs, maybe? They sometimes do that to reach higher branches.”

“It was human-shaped,” I insisted. “Standing upright, watching me. When I called out, it backed away deliberately. A deer would have bolted.”

“Mmm,” was all she said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “And nothing was taken, just your sketchbook moved and these stones placed around it.”

“That’s right.”

Deputy Ellis examined the bag containing the stones. “These don’t look like local rock. Almost like polished obsidian, but not quite.” She looked up at me. “Mind if I take one to show our local expert? We have a geologist who helps out sometimes with identifying unusual finds.”

“Please, take them all,” I said. “I don’t want them in the house.”

She selected one stone, returning the rest. “I’ll just take the one for now. These might be significant to whoever left them. If they come back, it could be helpful to know why these particular stones matter.”

The idea that our mysterious intruder might return sent a fresh wave of anxiety through me.

“What should we do now?” David asked, his hand finding mine and squeezing gently. “Should we stay somewhere else for a few days?”

Deputy Ellis considered this. “I don’t see immediate signs of danger here. No threats, nothing taken, no damage done. Seems more like someone trying to send a message.” She tapped her notebook thoughtfully. “What kind of work do you folks do?”

“I’m an architect,” David replied. “Working remotely for a firm in San Francisco. And Eliza is an artist.”

“Any disputes with neighbors since you moved in? Arguments about property lines, complaints about noise, anything like that?”

We shook our heads. “We’ve barely met our nearest neighbors,” I said. “They’re half a mile down the road, and we’ve only waved in passing.”

“Any enemies from back in California who might have followed you here? Business rivals, disgruntled clients, ex-partners?”

Again, we had nothing to offer. Our move had been motivated by a desire for peace and space, not an escape from specific threats or conflicts.

“Well,” Deputy Ellis concluded, tucking away her notebook, “I’ll file a report and increase patrols in the area for the next few weeks. Meanwhile, I’d recommend getting that security system installed sooner rather than later. Cameras at entry points would be good. And maybe motion-activated lights around the perimeter of the house.”

She handed me her card with her direct number written on the back. “Call me immediately if anything else happens, day or night. Otherwise, I’ll be in touch once I’ve checked with our geologist about this stone.”

After she left, David and I sat at the kitchen table, the remaining black stones now returned to their plastic bag and set aside.

“What do you think?” I asked, watching his face carefully. “Do you believe me now that something strange is happening?”

David took his time answering, weighing his words. “I believe that something unusual occurred,” he said finally. “I can’t explain the sketchbook or the stones. But I’m not ready to jump to conclusions about midnight roof-climbers or forest stalkers. Let’s get the security measures in place, see if anything else happens.”

It was a reasonable position, characteristically David in its measured approach. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were missing something important, that the arrangement of stones and the placement of my sketchbook were pieces of a message I couldn’t yet decode.

That afternoon, David drove to the nearest hardware store, returning with motion-activated floodlights which he installed at each corner of the house. He also ordered a comprehensive security system online, paying extra for expedited delivery.

“It’ll be here in two days,” he assured me. “Top of the line, with cameras, door and window sensors, the works. In the meantime, we’ve got the lights, and I picked up this too.” He held up a small device. “It’s a door alarm. Simple but effective. If anyone tries to open a door while it’s armed, it emits a 120-decibel alarm. I got one for each exterior door.”

His practical approach soothed my frayed nerves somewhat. That night, after installing the door alarms and double-checking every lock, we retreated to our bedroom. I’d returned the mysterious stones to Deputy Ellis when she called to ask for them, the geologist apparently wanting to examine the complete set.

Sleep came fitfully, interrupted by the motion-activated lights triggering when deer wandered too close to the house. Each time the yard flooded with sudden brightness, I’d jolt awake, heart pounding, only to see nothing more threatening than a startled doe bounding back into the darkness.

David, having skipped his sleeping pill in case we needed to respond to an actual intrusion, was equally wakeful beside me.

“Maybe the sensitivity is set too high,” he murmured after the third false alarm. “I’ll adjust it tomorrow.”

Just as we were both finally drifting off near dawn, my phone rang. I fumbled for it, squinting at the screen.

“It’s Deputy Ellis,” I said, suddenly wide awake. I answered, putting it on speaker so David could hear. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Chen, I apologize for calling so early.” Her voice was tense, professional. “But I thought you should know immediately. Our geologist examined those stones you found, and they’re… unusual.”

“Unusual how?” David asked, sitting up beside me.

“For one thing, they’re not natural formations. They’re manufactured—perfectly identical in composition, density, and dimensions. Lab-created, essentially.”

“What are they made of?” I asked.

There was a brief pause. “That’s the truly strange part. Dr. Reeves—that’s our geologist—says the material doesn’t match any known mineral composition in his extensive database. The closest match is an experimental composite developed for aerospace applications, but even that isn’t quite right.”

David and I exchanged bewildered glances.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” Deputy Ellis admitted. “But Dr. Reeves is fascinated. He’s asked permission to send one of the stones to a colleague at a university laboratory for more advanced testing. I told him I’d check with you first, since they were found on your property.”

“Of course,” I said automatically, though I found myself increasingly uneasy about the stones. “Whatever helps figure out what they are and why they were left in our house.”

“Thank you. I’ll let him know.” There was another pause. “Mrs. Chen, Mr. Hayes, I want to be clear that we’re taking this situation very seriously now. These aren’t ordinary rocks someone picked up from a riverbed. Someone deliberately placed manufactured objects of unknown composition in your home. We’re increasing patrols in your area, and I’d suggest you remain vigilant.”

After we hung up, David and I sat in stunned silence, watching the first pale light of dawn seep through the curtains.

“Lab-created stones of unknown composition,” David finally said, running a hand through his hair. “That’s… not what I was expecting.”

“What does it mean?” I whispered. “Who would leave something like that? And why?”

“I don’t know.” He looked as bewildered as I felt. “But we’ll figure it out. The security system will be here tomorrow. We’ll have cameras, alarms, everything we need to catch whoever is doing this.”

I nodded, trying to draw comfort from his confidence. But a new fear had taken root—what if our unwelcome visitor wasn’t an ordinary trespasser or prankster? What if it was something else entirely?

The question lingered, unspoken between us, as we rose to face another day in our increasingly unsettling new home.

---

The security system arrived as promised and David spent most of the day installing it—cameras covering every approach to the house, sensors on all doors and windows, a control panel by the front door that connected to an app on our phones. By evening, our home was a technological fortress, capable of alerting us to any intrusion and recording evidence of whoever might attempt to enter.

With the system armed and the door alarms activated, I slept better that night than I had since moving in. No scratching sounds woke me. No motion lights were triggered. The digital readout on the security panel remained reassuringly green throughout the night.

But when I went to make coffee the next morning, I discovered that our mysterious visitor had returned despite all our precautions. Three perfect circles had been drawn on our kitchen table in what looked like charcoal—each containing a symbol I didn’t recognize, intricate patterns of lines and curves that seemed almost like writing in an unknown language.

Most disturbing of all, the cameras had recorded nothing. The security system hadn’t been triggered. The door alarms remained armed. According to our extensive electronic safeguards, no one had entered our home during the night.

“This is impossible,” David muttered, reviewing the security footage for the third time. “The cameras cover every entrance. The motion detectors are calibrated to catch anything larger than a house cat. There’s no way someone got in without triggering at least one sensor.”

“Unless they were already inside when we armed the system,” I suggested, wrapping my arms around myself. The idea made my skin crawl. “Hidden somewhere in the house.”

David shook his head. “We did a thorough check before setting the alarm. Closets, under beds, the attic, the basement. There’s nowhere someone could have hidden that we didn’t look.”

I stared at the charcoal circles on our table. They seemed to mock our efforts at security, our belief that technology could protect us from… whatever this was.

“We need to call Deputy Ellis again,” I said.

She arrived within the hour, bringing with her a crime scene technician who photographed the circles and carefully collected samples of the charcoal. Deputy Ellis examined our security setup with a professional eye, testing each component.

“Everything seems to be working properly,” she confirmed. “And yet someone managed to get in and out without triggering any alarms or appearing on camera.” She frowned thoughtfully. “Unless…”

“Unless what?” David prompted when she didn’t continue.

“Unless these were already here, and you just didn’t notice them until this morning.”

“That’s not possible,” I said immediately. “We ate dinner at this table last night. There were no circles, no symbols. We would have seen them.”

The technician, who had been examining the charcoal under a portable magnifier, spoke up. “This appears to be standard artist’s charcoal. Similar to what you might use for sketching, Mrs. Chen.”

I felt David’s gaze shift to me, a new consideration in his eyes. “Eliza does use charcoal for some of her work,” he said carefully.

“Are you suggesting I drew these myself?” I demanded, heat rising in my face.

“No one’s suggesting anything,” Deputy Ellis said soothingly. “We’re just trying to understand what’s happening here. Could anyone else have accessed your art supplies? Where do you keep them?”

“In my studio upstairs,” I replied stiffly. “And yes, theoretically someone could have taken my charcoal if they were in the house. But that doesn’t explain how they got in without triggering the alarm.”

“What about windows?” the technician asked. “Your system has sensors on them, but if someone managed to remove a pane of glass without disturbing the frame, they might avoid triggering the sensor.”

It seemed far-fetched—the kind of elaborate entry method you might see in a heist movie, not something attempted on a random farmhouse in rural Oregon. But we dutifully checked each window, finding no evidence of tampering.

Before leaving, Deputy Ellis pulled me aside while David spoke with the technician about potential weaknesses in our security system.

“Mrs. Chen,” she began, her tone gentler than before, “I need to ask you something, and I hope you’ll understand it’s coming from a place of concern, not accusation.”

I braced myself, already sensing where this was headed.

“Have you ever experienced episodes of doing things you later don’t remember? Sleepwalking, perhaps, or periods of dissociation?”

The question stung, but I kept my expression neutral. “You think I’m doing this myself.”

“I think we need to consider all possibilities,” she replied diplomatically. “Especially when we have a situation where an intruder manages to enter a secured home without leaving any evidence, multiple times, only to leave odd symbols rather than stealing valuables or causing harm.”

“I had a breakdown four years ago,” I said, the admission bitter on my tongue. “After a traumatic experience. Yes, I had dissociative episodes then. But I received treatment, recovered, and have been stable ever since. I am not doing this to myself, Deputy.”

She nodded, accepting my statement without further comment. “We’ll continue investigating all angles. In the meantime, if anything else occurs, please call me immediately.”

After they left, David and I stared at the table where the crime scene technician had carefully lifted the charcoal symbols, leaving only faint smudges behind.

“You don’t think I’m doing this, do you?” I asked, hating the vulnerability in my voice.

David was quiet for too long before answering. “No,” he said finally. “I don’t think you’re doing it consciously. But El… you have to admit, this is all very strange. The security system is not picking up anything. The symbols appearing on the table. The charcoal matches yours.”

“So what are you saying? That I’m having some kind of… episode? Drawing weird symbols in my sleep and then forgetting about it?”

He sighed, rubbing his face tiredly. “I don’t know what I’m saying. This whole situation is bizarre. I just… I worry about you. About the stress this is causing. Maybe we should consider—”

“If you suggest Dr. Winters again, I swear to God, David.”

“Not necessarily, Dr. Winters,” he backpedaled quickly. “But someone. A professional who might help us understand what’s happening.”

I turned away, anger and hurt swirling together in my chest. “I know what I saw in the woods. I know what I saw on the roof. I did not put those stones on the table, and I did not draw those symbols. Something is happening here, David, something real, and I need you to believe me.”

He approached cautiously, placing his hands on my shoulders.

“I want to believe you, Eliza. But I also need to consider every possibility, for both our sakes. Let’s give it a few more days. If nothing else happens, maybe it was just some elaborate prank. If something does happen, we’ll have the security footage to prove it’s not you.”

His logic was sound, as always. But that didn’t ease the sting of knowing my husband harbored doubts about my sanity. I agreed to his proposal with a tight nod, then retreated to my studio, needing space to process everything.

My studio was the converted attic, with skylights that flooded the space with natural light during the day. It had been one of the main selling points of the house for me—a dedicated creative space where I could spread out my materials, work on larger canvases than I had in years, and perhaps rediscover the artistic voice I’d lost after the incident.

I surveyed my supplies, checking my charcoals. Nothing seemed to be missing, though I couldn’t be certain—I hadn’t counted the sticks in each box, after all. I sat at my easel, staring at a blank canvas, feeling the familiar surge of anxiety that had plagued me since my breakdown. The emptiness of the canvas seemed to mock me, challenging me to fill it with something meaningful.

Almost unconsciously, my hand reached for a piece of charcoal. I began to sketch without a clear intention, letting my hand move intuitively across the canvas. The lines emerged organically—curves and angles that seemed familiar somehow.

When I stepped back to look at what I’d drawn, a chill ran through me. It was one of the symbols from the table. I hadn’t consciously copied it—hadn’t even been thinking about the strange circles—yet here it was, rendered in perfect detail by my own hand.

I dropped the charcoal stick as if it had burned me. How was this possible? I hadn’t studied the symbols closely, had only glanced at them before Deputy Ellis arrived. I shouldn’t have been able to reproduce one with such precision.

Unless…

Unless David and Deputy Ellis were right. Unless I had drawn the symbols on the table myself, in some state of dissociation, and simply didn’t remember doing it.

The thought made me dizzy with fear and doubt. I’d been so certain, so convinced that some external force was infiltrating our home. But what if the call was coming from inside the house, so to speak? What if I were the intruder I feared?

I carefully removed the drawing from the easel and tucked it into a portfolio where David wouldn’t see it. I needed time to think, to consider what this meant.

That night, I took one of David’s sleeping pills without telling him. If I were somehow sleepwalking or entering a dissociative state during the night, the medication would keep me solidly unconscious. Nothing would happen, and we could begin to consider psychological explanations for the strange occurrences.

David noticed my unusual drowsiness as we prepared for bed.

“You seem tired,” he remarked, watching me struggle to keep my eyes open as I brushed my teeth.

“Just emotionally drained,” I murmured. “It’s been a stressful few days.”

He kissed my forehead gently. “Get some sleep. I’ll check the security system one more time before I come to bed.”

I was asleep before he returned, pulled under by the powerful sedative.

The dream came immediately—vivid, disorienting, unlike my usual dreams. I was in the woods, moving among the trees with a strange, fluid grace that didn’t feel like my own. The forest was different, suffused with a silvery light that seemed to emanate from the vegetation itself. Everything was sharper, more defined than it should have been in the darkness.

I approached the charred cedar tree in the clearing, but it wasn’t charred anymore. It stood tall and whole, its branches reaching toward a sky filled with stars I didn’t recognize. At its base sat a figure—human in shape but wrong somehow, too thin, too angular.

It looked up as I approached, and though I couldn’t make out its features clearly, I sensed it was waiting for me. Expecting me.

It raised a hand, long-fingered, pale, and beckoned.

I moved forward, drawn by a compulsion I couldn’t resist. As I drew closer, the figure stood, unfolding to a height that couldn’t be human. It towered over me, easily seven feet tall, its proportions subtly wrong—arms too long, torso too narrow.

It reached for me, and I knew with dream-certainty that if it touched me, something irrevocable would happen. I would change. Or it would change me.

I tried to back away, to run, but my body wouldn’t respond. I was frozen in place as those too-long fingers stretched toward my face—

I woke with a violent start, gasping for breath. The bedroom was dark, the house quiet. David slept peacefully beside me, undisturbed by my sudden awakening.

The bedside clock read 3:17 AM. I lay back, heart racing, trying to convince myself it had just been a nightmare brought on by stress and sleeping medication. Not a vision, not a message. Just a bad dream.

But as my breathing slowed and my pulse settled, I became aware of something clutched in my right hand. Something I hadn’t been holding when I fell asleep.

Slowly, afraid of what I might find, I lifted my hand into a shaft of moonlight streaming through a gap in the curtains.

A piece of charcoal. Not from my art supplies—this was rougher, more primitive. Like a piece of burned wood from a fire. Or from a lightning-struck cedar.

Impossible. I had taken a sleeping pill. I couldn’t have left the bed, gone to my studio for charcoal, and returned without waking. And this wasn’t my professional charcoal anyway—it was something else entirely.

With trembling hands, I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake David. I needed to see if anything else had happened, if there were more symbols, more evidence of nocturnal activity I couldn’t explain.

The security panel by the bedroom door showed green—still armed, no alerts. I made my way downstairs, checking each room methodically. Nothing seemed disturbed. The kitchen table was clean, no new symbols. The doors remained locked, windows secure.

Relief washed over me, short-lived and fragile. At least I hadn’t been sleepwalking, hadn’t been drawing mysterious symbols in a dissociative state. But that left the question of the charcoal in my hand, and the dream that had felt so viscerally real.

I returned to bed, hiding the strange charcoal in my nightstand drawer. I would examine it more closely in the daylight, try to determine its source.

But when morning came, the charcoal was gone from the drawer. I searched frantically, certain I had placed it there, but found nothing. Had I dreamed that too? Was I losing touch with reality entirely?

David noticed my distress as I rummaged through the nightstand. “Looking for something?”

“I… I thought I put something in here last night,” I said, reluctant to mention the charcoal and the dream. “Must have been mistaken.”

He studied me with concern. “You were pretty out of it last night. Practically unconscious as soon as your head hit the pillow.”

I managed a weak smile. “Just tired, I guess.”

The day passed uneventfully. No new symbols appeared. The security system recorded nothing unusual. By evening, I had almost convinced myself that the dream and the charcoal had been hallucinations, products of an overtaxed mind and strong medication.

But as the sun set and shadows lengthened across our property, a new restlessness took hold of me. I found myself drawn to the window, staring out at the darkening woods, feeling a pull I couldn’t explain.

“I’m going for a walk,” I announced suddenly.

David looked up from his laptop, surprised. “Now? It’s getting dark.”

“Just around the yard,” I assured him. “I need some fresh air.”

He hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with the idea. “At least take your phone. And don’t go into the woods.”

I agreed, slipping my phone into my pocket and heading outside. The evening air was cool, carrying the scent of pine and something else—something sweet and foreign that I couldn’t identify. I walked the perimeter of our yard, staying within sight of the house as promised.

But as I reached the edge where our maintained lawn gave way to the wilder growth of the forest, I stopped. Something was different. The trees seemed to shimmer slightly, as if viewed through heat waves rising from hot asphalt. And that sweet scent was stronger here, almost intoxicating.

Without conscious decision, I took a step forward, then another, moving beyond the yard and into the trees. It was as if an invisible thread was pulling me forward, guiding my steps deeper into the woods.

The rational part of my mind screamed warnings—it was getting dark, I had promised David, something strange was happening—but that voice grew fainter with each step I took.

Twilight deepened around me, but rather than making the forest darker, it seemed to awaken a subtle luminescence in the vegetation. Moss glowed with a faint greenish light. Fungi clustered on rotting logs emitted a soft blue radiance. Even the leaves overhead seemed to trap and magnify what little daylight remained.

I should have been terrified. Instead, I felt a strange calm settle over me, a certainty that I was exactly where I needed to be.

I found myself approaching the clearing with the charred cedar, my feet following a path that seemed to have been prepared for me. But when I reached the clearing, I stopped short in confusion.

The tree was whole. Untouched by lightning or fire, it stood tall and majestic in the center of the clearing. Just like in my dream.

“This isn’t possible,” I whispered to myself. “I saw it burned. I sketched it.”

“Reality is more fluid than you’ve been led to believe,” a voice responded from behind me.

I whirled around to find the tall figure from my dream standing at the edge of the clearing. In the strange twilight glow, I could see it more clearly now—humanoid but definitely not human. Its limbs were too long, its fingers tapering to points that weren’t quite claws. Its face was a suggestion rather than a reality, features shifting subtly when I tried to focus on them.

Terror should have frozen me in place or sent me running back toward the house. Instead, I found myself asking, “Who are you?”

“Names hold power,” it replied, its voice resonating in my mind rather than my ears. “You may call me Observer, for that is my function.”

“You’ve been watching us. Entering our house.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“Why? What do you want?”

The Observer moved closer, its movements fluid and graceful despite its awkward proportions. “You saw me. Most humans do not. Their minds filter out what doesn’t fit their understanding of reality. But you saw me, on your roof, in these woods. You have the sight.”

“The sight?” I repeated, feeling as if I had stumbled into some fairy tale.

“The ability to perceive beyond the veil that separates your reality from others. It is rare among your kind. Valuable. Worth studying.”

Understanding dawned with a chill that pierced the strange calm that had enveloped me. “The stones. The symbols. You were testing me.”

“Yes. And you responded most interestingly.” The Observer tilted its head, an unnervingly bird-like movement. “The symbols awakened something in you. You reproduced one perfectly, though you had seen it only briefly.”

I thought of the drawing I’d created unconsciously in my studio. “How is that possible?”

“Because they are part of you. Part of your ancestral memory. Humans once knew our language, before they forgot how to look beyond the veil.” It gestured toward the whole, undamaged cedar. “Just as they forgot how to see the true nature of things.”

“The tree…” I murmured, trying to comprehend. “It was never burned?”

“It exists in both states. Burned in the reality you perceive day to day. Whole in the reality beneath. You have begun to see both, which is why your mind struggles. Why do you doubt yourself?”

A strange explanation, yet it resonated with some deep part of me that recognized its truth. The feeling of being watched. The impossible intrusions that left no trace. The dreams that felt more real than waking life. All pieces of a reality I was only beginning to perceive.

“What do you want from me?” I asked again.

“To observe. To understand how a human with sight experiences the convergence of realities. To learn if you can maintain your sanity while perceiving both.”

A chill ran through me at its clinical tone. “I’m an experiment to you.”

“All life is an experiment,” it replied simply. “Evolution. Adaptation. The testing of boundaries and capabilities. You are no different.”

“And if I don’t want to be your test subject? If I want you to leave us alone?”

The Observer was silent for a moment, its shifting features impossible to read. “The process has already begun. Your perception has awakened. You cannot return to blind ignorance, only forward into greater understanding—or into madness.”

“That’s not much of a choice,” I said bitterly.

“It is the only choice available. But I can guide you, if you wish. Help you navigate the convergence with your mind intact.”

Before I could respond, a sound cut through the strange stillness of the clearing—my name, called with desperate urgency. David’s voice.

“Eliza! Where are you?”

The Observer receded into the shadows of the trees. “He cannot see me,” it said. “He does not have the sight. But you could teach him, with time. Consider my offer. I will return when you have decided.”

It vanished—not dramatically, but simply by stepping behind a tree and not reappearing on the other side. As if it had passed through a door invisible to my eyes.

“Eliza!” David burst into the clearing, flashlight beam cutting through the gathering darkness. The luminescence I had perceived earlier was gone, the forest once again ordinary. The cedar tree stood charred and broken in the center of the clearing. “What are you doing out here? I’ve been calling you for twenty minutes!”

I stared at the burned tree, struggling to reconcile what I was seeing now with what I had seen moments before. “I’m sorry,” I managed. “I lost track of time.”

David reached me, gripping my shoulders, his face tight with fear and relief. “You promised to stay in the yard. You didn’t answer your phone. I thought—” He broke off, pulling me into a fierce embrace. “Don’t do that again. Please.”

I held him tightly, feeling the solid reality of him, the warmth of his body against mine. “I won’t,” I promised. “Let’s go home.”

As we walked back, David’s arm protectively around my shoulders, I wondered if I should tell him about the Observer, about the impossible tree that existed in two states simultaneously, about the “sight” I apparently possessed. But I knew how it would sound—like the delusional ramblings of someone in the midst of a psychological break.

That night, as David slept beside me, I lay awake considering the Observer’s words. I couldn’t unsee what I had seen. Couldn’t unknow what I now knew. There were multiple realities, layered one upon another, and somehow I had gained the ability to perceive them.

The strange occurrences in our house—the stones, the symbols—hadn’t been pranks or hallucinations. They had been tests, messages from a being that existed in a reality parallel to our own. And I had passed those tests, demonstrating an ability the Observer found valuable enough to study.

I had a choice to make. I could fight this emerging perception, cling desperately to the singular reality I had always known—possibly driving myself into the madness the Observer had warned of. Or I could accept this new understanding, allow the Observer to guide me through what it had called “the convergence.”

But there was a third option, one the Observer hadn’t mentioned. I could seek my own path, neither denying my expanded perception nor surrendering to the Observer’s guidance. I could explore this new reality on my own terms, learning its rules and boundaries through direct experience rather than through the potentially biased teachings of a being whose motives remained unclear.

In the morning, I rose early and went to my studio. With newfound purpose, I set up a large canvas and began to paint—not the hesitant watercolors I’d been producing since my breakdown, but bold oils applied with confident strokes. I painted the clearing as I had seen it in that twilight moment—the whole cedar tree, the luminescent moss and fungi, and at the edge, just visible among the trees, the tall, elongated figure of the Observer.

When David found me there hours later, he stared at the painting in silent amazement.

“El,” he said finally, “this is… incredible. I haven’t seen you paint like this in years.”

I stepped back, examining the canvas with critical eyes. It wasn’t just technically proficient—it vibrated with an energy I’d never achieved before, as if the paint itself were alive with the strange power I’d experienced in the woods.

“I’ve found my inspiration again,” I said simply.

“The figure in the trees,” David said, pointing to the barely visible silhouette of the Observer. “Is that what you saw? In the woods, on the roof?”

I nodded, watching his face carefully. “You believe me now?”

He was quiet for a long moment, studying the painting. “I believe that you’ve experienced something profound,” he said carefully. “Whether it’s exactly as you’ve described, I don’t know. But this—” he gestured to the canvas, “—this comes from somewhere real. I can feel it.”

It wasn’t full belief, but it was an opening, an acknowledgment that something significant was happening. It would have to be enough for now.

Over the following weeks, I painted obsessively, producing canvas after canvas depicting the convergence of realities as I experienced it. The house with its structure visible in our dimension, but its foundations extending into another. The woods with their daylight appearance superimposed over their twilight luminescence. And the Observer, always present at the edges, watching, waiting.

The strange occurrences in our house ceased. No more symbols appeared, no more stones arranged in mysterious patterns. But I would occasionally glimpse the Observer at the edge of the woods, or feel its presence just beyond the range of ordinary perception.

David watched my artistic renaissance with a mixture of joy and concern. The quality of my work was undeniable—I was painting better than I ever had, with a distinctive style that captured something both beautiful and unsettling. But he worried about my increasing preoccupation with the woods, with the Observer, with the alternate reality I claimed to perceive.

“I think we should consider showing these to a gallery,” he suggested one evening, gesturing to the canvases that now filled my studio. “They’re remarkable, El. People should see them.”

I hesitated. The paintings were intensely personal, records of my expanding perception. But they were also undeniably powerful as art, conveying something that might resonate even with viewers who didn’t share my “sight.”

“Maybe,” I conceded. “Let me complete the series first.”

The final painting came to me in a dream—a full convergence, the complete merging of realities depicted as a forest clearing where the burned cedar and the whole cedar occupied the same space simultaneously, where human figures walked alongside beings like the Observer, where the boundaries between worlds had dissolved entirely.

I woke with the image clear in my mind and went immediately to my studio, working through the day and into the night to capture it before it faded. When it was finished, I stepped back, exhausted but deeply satisfied. The canvas seemed to pulse with energy, as if at any moment the scene might come to life and pull the viewer into its convergent reality.

David found me there at dawn, having fallen asleep in my chair, brush still in hand.

“It’s done,” I told him groggily as he helped me to my feet. “The series is complete.”

He studied the final painting, his expression a complex mix of awe and unease. “What happens now?” he asked, and I knew he wasn’t just talking about the paintings.

I looked out the studio window toward the woods, where the early morning mist created its own convergence of realities. “Now we live with the knowledge that the world is larger, stranger, and more wonderful than we ever imagined,” I said. “And we decide, day by day, how deeply we want to explore it.”

“We?” David asked, a hint of vulnerability in his voice. “You still see us doing this together?”

I turned to him, seeing the man who had stood by me through breakdown and recovery, who had doubted but never abandoned me, who was still trying to understand an experience he couldn’t directly share.

“Always,” I assured him, taking his hand. “Some journeys are meant to be taken alone. But this one—navigating between worlds, between realities—I think it’s better with a companion.” I smiled. “Even if one of us has better eyesight than the other.”

He chuckled, pulling me into an embrace. “As long as you don’t mind describing what you see,” he said, resting his chin on top of my head. “I’ll do my best to believe without seeing.”

In the woods beyond our yard, a tall figure separated from the shadows of the trees, visible for just a moment before stepping behind a trunk and vanishing. The Observer would continue watching, studying, and wondering at the curious resilience of human minds confronted with impossible realities.

But that was fine. I would continue watching too—the Observer, the convergence, the expanding boundaries of what I could perceive. And I would paint what I saw, creating bridges between worlds through art, inviting others to glimpse what lay beyond the veil, even if only for the moment it took to stand before a canvas and wonder.