SCREAM

permeated the stale air of the hallways. But this Monday, the usual grumble felt different. To Anya, every locker door slamming seemed to e

ting backdrop, now felt charged with an unsettling undercurren

ket hidden within her pocket. Its cold, metallic presence against her leg was a constant reminder of the Woodsman legend, of Lyra Thorne, and o

htly muted this morning, replaced by a subtle vigilance. Her eyes, typically bold and direct, flickered around the crowded hall, scanning faces, searching

reeted, trying for a casual

new anomalous data from the walk to school?" Her voice wa

gly cheerful disposition, Mr. Henderson's perpetually stained t

"Good. Let's keep it that way for at least fi

messy hair. "Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle

d under my bed, which is ridiculous

books precariously balanced in his arms. He looked even more disheveled than usual, his glasses askew, and a triumphant glint in his eyes. "Psyc

p of freshmen giggling by a display case barely registe

et... it appears in several local folktales, not just tied to the Woodsman. It's also associated with a lost Native American tribe, the 'Elias' or 'Elysian' p

possibly ritualistic, historical murderer?"

, the weeping eye, the effigy, and the specific phrase, 'They hear you.' This perpetrator is meticulously crafting a narrative, drawing

teacher, Mr. Thorne? No, not Principal Thorne, but his elder brother, Mr. Lyraeus Thorne, who taught AP US History and local Blackwood studies. He was a distant, scholarly man, rumored

e," Anya murmured,

t on Blackwood history. He even leads the school's historical preservation club. He would

imself. My grandmother says his family has always been a little, w

ough their conversation like a

em. "And we keep our ears open. Anything. A strange comment, a suspici

eading towards the history wing. He was a tall, gaunt man with thin, receding hair and eyes t

," Anya said, surprising

e. "Ah, Anya. Good morning. Are you enjoyin

ormal. "Actually, I was wondering... you kn

hing else? "Indeed. It is a fascinating, if occasionally somber

appearing around town?" Anya pressed, trying to

Many old tales, many superstitions. The human mind is very adept at finding patterns where none exist. The Woodsman legend, for instance, is a

uick, too smooth. Or wa

kle of unease. "Just curious. My f

es. A boy with a remarkable memory, but perhaps a touch too prone to speculation. One must be careful not to c

ide. Anya stood there for a moment, a new piece added to her mental puzzle. Mr. Thorne's reaction to Kaelen, his slight discom

if anyone else seemed a little too distracted, a little too pale, or a little too interested in old legends. She saw the usual

secluded spot near a window that overlooked the football field. The noise was deafening

Kaelen asked, already halfwa

with Lyraelle Finch, again. Zelia Blackwood getting caught trying to copy someone's

sses. "Or its impact was limited to the individual who discovered it. Which, i

has definitely crossed my mind. But why me? I'm not

To inject chaos into the mundane. Or perhaps... there is something about you, Anya, that connects you t

y moved here five years ago. My parents are

. "Perhaps the connection is not ancestral, but circu

d on something behind Anya. "Speaking

ure and intense interest in old, abandoned places. He was often seen sketching crumbling buildings or old gravestones in his notebook. His clothing was perpetually

unch alone in the library or an empty classroom. But today, he w

a profound knowledge of Blackwood's forgotten corners. He often photographs the old

lood," Solara muttered. "And he certainly has t

s something in them Anya couldn't quite decipher – a flicker of recognition? Of fear? Or just general awkwardness? He quickly

.. telling," Sol

ong candidate for 'suspect of interest.' His reclusive nature and dark inclinations a

ut a murderer? He seemed more like a timid, artistic reclus

Anya suggested. "Like, a

the singular nature of the message, 'They hear you,' suggests a lone, obsessive individual. Or perhaps a leader o

, every moment was tainted by the unfolding mystery. She felt a growing sense of unea

ng towards the art wing. She had an idea. The art room was usua

stling, now felt vast and echoing. As she approached the art room, she heard

s who seemed to exist purely on the fringes. She dressed in mismatched vintage clothes, her bright pink hair a defiant splash against her pale skin. She was

across the canvas, creating a swirling vortex of deep reds and blacks. It looked va

leared her throat. "He

k of red across her cheek. She turned, her dark eyes wide. "An

ou working on?" She walked closer, her gaze fixed on the canvas

t... messing around. Trying to capture a feeling. Thi

a asked, trying

.. it's holding its breath. Like something's coming. Or watchin

And her painting... it was unsettlingly close

gend?" Anya prompted, her

was built on old secrets. And that sometimes, the secrets come back for what's owed. He used to say the trees had eyes, and the w

wed hard. "

crimson paint. "It's been an inspiration lately. All the old stori

nts to tell us?" Anya as

at the past isn't really past. That some things... never die."

ark, morbid sensibility. And she was clearly obsessed with the local legends. Could she b

a managed to say. "Well, I'm go

. First Mr. Thorne, then Caelum Vance, now Roxy Atheria. All of them connected by their in

hone, immediately te

In the art room. Painting something... ver

Seriously? She's we

tic. And her reclusive nature suggests a potential for obsessive fixat

us Thorne got really weird

. Are we sure we're not just profiling e

y in the initial stages. We must cast a wide net. The per

omed in the distance, a dark, silent presence against the bruised purple sky. She pulled out the locket from he

ar. It still wouldn't budge. Frustrated, she tried to force it open with her fingernail, pressing hard. The lo

cately folded piece of aged parchment, so small it barely filled the space. On the other side, g

rchment. It was brittle, almost crumbling with age. Scrawled acr

IS R

e'd felt before. The words from the mirror had been a warning. The effigy and

ntity. Or someone who desperately wanted them to believe he was. A

et clutched tight in her trembling hand. The school, once a place of safety, now felt like a deathtrap. The Hallowe

me. It was real. And whoever was be

just been raised. The Woodsman wasn't just listening. He w

ir grew colder, the shadows lengthened, and the distant hum of the Blackwood Woods seemed to grow louder, as if the trees t