Whispers of the Turning Seasons (part 12)

The drive toward the abandoned cabin felt like a descent into another world. The Vermont landscape grew wilder with every mile—dense evergreens weighed down with snow, frozen streams glinting under the afternoon light, and a silence that felt too deliberate to be natural.

Evelyn sat in the passenger seat, her fingers gripping the door handle as Rowan maneuvered carefully through the narrowing road. Her heartbeat had settled into a tight, painful rhythm. She tried to breathe, but the air felt sharp.

“She’s there,” Rowan said quietly, eyes fixed ahead.
“Whoever ‘L’ is, the letter… the packages… they all lead to that cabin.”

Evelyn swallowed hard.
“I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“You are,” Rowan replied. “You’ve been ready since the moment you opened that first box.”

The cabin came into view like a ghost emerging from the snow.

Small.
Old.
Squatting between a ring of trees like something the forest tried to swallow but couldn’t.

A police cruiser was already parked outside—deputies securing the perimeter. Deputy Clarke approached them the moment they stepped out.

“No one inside when we arrived,” Clarke reported. “But there are footprints leading away from the cabin.”

Evelyn’s breath caught. Rowan’s jaw tightened.

“Where do they lead?” Rowan asked.

Clarke pointed toward the dense trees.
“Into the woods.”

The same woods where Evelyn had been found as an infant.

Her vision blurred for a moment, but she forced herself to steady.

“We need to look inside,” Rowan said.

Clarke hesitated, then nodded. “Go ahead.”


---

Inside the Cabin

The cabin smelled of old wood, dampness, and something faintly metallic. Dust coated every surface, but the cold air inside felt disturbed, like someone had been there recently.

A single window looked out into the woods—frosted over.
A small bed sat in the corner.
And in the middle of the floor lay… something.

Rowan reached it first.

A scarf.

Red. Wool.
Fresh, not old. As if someone had dropped it minutes ago.

Evelyn knelt beside him.

“Do you think she left this on purpose?” Evelyn whispered.

Rowan nodded.
“She wanted us to know she was here.”

The cold seeped under Evelyn’s skin. She looked around slowly, searching for something—anything—that connected her past with her present.

Then her gaze landed on something carved into the wooden wall beside the bed.

A name.

EVELYN

Her breath stopped.

Rowan moved closer, reading it aloud.
“She carved your name into the wall. Recently.”

Evelyn touched the letters with trembling fingers. The grooves were sharp and clean. No more than days old.

Rowan stood abruptly.
“This is escalating. She’s not hiding anymore. She wants contact.”

Evelyn shivered.
“Why now? After all these years?”

Rowan shook his head.
“I don’t know. But she’s close. Too close.”

Clarke’s voice called from the doorway.
“You two need to see this.”

They stepped outside.

The sun was sinking fast, casting long shadows across the snow. Clarke pointed to the ground.

Two overlapping sets of footprints—one leading toward the cabin, and one leading away.

But the disturbing part wasn’t the direction.

It was that the returning footprints… were smaller.

Rowan crouched.
“Evelyn, these prints… they’re small. Like a woman’s.”

Clarke added, “We followed them a ways, but they disappear at the creek. It looks like she crossed over.”

Evelyn stared at the path leading into the trees, her stomach twisting.
“She was watching us. She waited until we arrived.”

Rowan’s voice was low.
“She wanted you to come.”

Before Evelyn could respond, a sudden crack echoed through the forest—
a branch snapping.

Rowan’s hand flew to his holster.
“Get behind me.”

Evelyn obeyed instinctively.

Another sound—soft, deliberate—like footsteps crunching lightly in the snow.

“Show yourself!” Rowan shouted toward the treeline.

Silence.

Then—

A voice.

A woman’s voice.

Soft.
Calm.
Chillingly close.

“Evelyn…”

Evelyn’s heart slammed against her ribs.

She spun, scanning the trees, but saw nothing.

Rowan barked, “Identify yourself!”

But the voice didn’t respond to him.

Only to Evelyn.

“You’re early.”

Evelyn’s pulse pounded.
Her breath fogged the air in front of her.

“Who are you?” she shouted. “Why are you doing this?”

A whisper drifted between the trees—
not spoken loud enough to localize.

“Winter woke you too soon.”

Rowan moved toward the sound, but Clarke motioned urgently.

“Don’t. It’s a trap.”

The voice came again, closer now, almost warm.

“Evelyn, go back. You’re not ready.”

Evelyn stepped forward despite Rowan’s arm blocking her.

“Ready for what?”

Silence.

Then one final whisper, so close that the hair on the back of Evelyn’s neck rose:

“For the truth your mother died protecting.”

The woods fell silent.

No footsteps.
No crackling branches.
No breath but their own.

Rowan scanned frantically.
“She’s gone.”

Evelyn shook.
Not from cold.
From the certainty that washed over her like ice:

The woman watching her wasn’t running away.

She was circling.

Waiting.

Preparing.

And she had just made one thing clear:

Whatever truth lay buried in Evelyn’s past…
was the same truth that killed her adoptive mother.