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S leep eluded me that first night at Blackwood Farm.

Every time I closed my eyes, I found myself thinking about that shadow and the strange feeling that something had been watching me.

In the darkness of the bunkroom, it seemed foolish.

It could have been anything. A deer or simply my imagination running wild after all the warnings about the forest.

I rose before dawn, dressing quietly so as not to wake the other girls. The small window showed nothing but darkness beyond the glass, but I knew the Forest of Dean was out there, ancient and impenetrable.

I should have felt apprehensive about returning to work so close to those woods. Instead, I found myself curious about what I might have glimpsed yesterday—if I had glimpsed anything at all.

After a hurried breakfast, I gathered my tools and set off for the field just as the other girls were waking. The morning was damp and cool, heavy with the promise of rain. Birds sang in the shadows of the trees, and the sheep in Shepherd's Field looked up placidly as I passed.

I glanced over the rail as I crossed the footbridge. The water ran higher today, swollen with runoff from somewhere upstream. The current that had been a gentle babble yesterday rushed under the bridge, carrying leaves and small branches toward the valley below.

In the far pasture, I continued my work clearing stones but found myself glancing frequently toward the forest edge. For the first hour, I saw nothing unusual—just the play of light and shadow between the massive oaks. But as the hours passed, that familiar sensation returned.

I was being watched.

This time, I did not try to catch sight of my observer directly.

Instead, I continued working while staying alert to my peripheral vision.

There—a shift in the shadows that had nothing to do with wind-blown branches.

The suggestion of something large and still, positioned where it could observe the entire pasture.

The morning passed peacefully, my pile of stones growing steadily. I fell into a rhythm with my work, the repetitive motions leaving my mind free to wander. Who was my silent observer? A deer? Something else entirely?

Around midday, I paused to eat my lunch of bread, cheese, and dried meat, sitting on the stone wall with my back to the forest. The sensation of being watched intensified, and I found myself speaking softly to the empty air.

"I know you're there," I said, not turning around. "I don't know what you are, but I'm not afraid."

Silence answered me, but somehow it felt like a listening silence.

I had just returned to my work when a shadow passed over the field.

I glanced up to see dark clouds roiling across the sky, swallowing the afternoon sun.

The air grew heavy and still for a moment, and then a gust of wind swept across the pasture, bending the grass flat and setting the oak leaves dancing.

My hair whipped across my face as another gust hit, stronger this time. The trees at the forest edge began to sway, their branches creaking in protest. I could smell rain on the wind—that earthy, damp scent that meant a serious storm.

The farm buildings looked impossibly distant across the fields. Past the bridge, across Shepherd's Field, past Millfield—twenty minutes of walking on a good day. A low rumble rolled across the sky, and the first cold drops strike my face.

I hastily gathered my pickaxe, crowbar, and canvas sack, but the wind was already pulling at my trouser legs. The sky was churning an ominous dark gray, and the air itself seemed to press down on me.

Lightning split the sky, turning everything white for an instant. The thunder came immediately after—a sharp crack that shook the ground beneath my feet. I could smell the electricity in the air now, sharp and dangerous.

I looked again toward the distant farm buildings, then at Blackwater Stream running between me and safety. The bridge lay to my left, but to my right, the stream appeared narrower. If I could cross there, I could save time.

Another lightning flash decided for me. I dropped my tools and ran toward the stream. The rain was falling harder now, sheets of water that made the world a blur of green and brown. My boots slipped in the mud as I ran and I nearly fell twice.

I reached the bank of the stream and looked down at the rushing water. What had seemed like a reasonable crossing from a distance looked far more treacherous up close. The current ran swift and dark, the stream swollen nearly out of its banks.

Thunder crashed directly overhead. I eyed the distance between the two banks. The stream had widened with the runoff, but it still looked manageable—maybe six feet across at the narrowest point. If I could get a running start...

I backed up several steps, then sprinted toward the bank. At the last moment, I launched myself across the rushing water, arms windmilling for balance.

I almost made it.

My boots hit the far bank, but the muddy ground was slick with rain.

My feet shot out from under me, and I tumbled backward into the stream with a splash.

Dark water closed over my head, as I fought to regain my footing, but the current was relentless.

The water was deeper than it had looked from above, the cold shocking the breath from me.

My boots slid over the smooth stones lining the streambed as I clawed for anything to stay above water. My hands grasped at nothing but rushing water. The last thing I saw before the stream swallowed me was the black, rolling clouds.

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