Whispers of the Turning Seasons (part 22)

Night swallowed the forest long before the team reached the cabin.

The cold had sharpened; the sky was steel-black; and every step Evelyn took felt heavier than the last. Rowan walked beside her, one hand near his holster, eyes scanning every shadow.

No one spoke.

Not since the woman from the cabin had been airlifted away in critical condition.
Not since Evelyn’s mother had been taken into custody, screaming her daughter’s name like a warning.
Not since the boy—silent, pale—had told them about the basement beneath the fire.

Now…
only the crunch of snow under boots broke the silence.

Ellis halted the group at the edge of the clearing.

“Team A sweeps the perimeter,” she ordered quietly. “Team B stays with me. No one enters that basement until I say so.”

The deputies nodded, spreading into formation.

Rowan turned to Evelyn.

“This is your last chance to step back.”

But Evelyn shook her head.

“I’m seeing this through.”

He exhaled slowly—part frustration, part something softer.

“All right. Stay behind me.”

The boy followed close behind her, clutching the music box as though it were armor.

The cabin loomed before them—scarred by the flames from fourteen years ago, roof sagging, windows blackened. It looked older now. Angrier. As if waiting.

Evelyn tightened her grip on the rusted key.

This was the moment she feared.
And somehow… the moment she needed.


---

The Entrance

The cabin’s interior smelled of smoke and cold rot. Ash coated the floor. Charred beams sagged overhead like broken ribs.

“Where’s the basement door?” Rowan asked.

The boy walked ahead, small footsteps leaving shallow impressions in the soot.

“Here,” he whispered, pointing to a warped floorboard near the far wall.

Ellis knelt beside it.
“No hinges. No handle.”

The boy shook his head.

“It’s underneath.”

Rowan retrieved a crowbar and wedged it into the crack. The wood groaned loudly, splintering as he hauled it upward.

Beneath the board:
a square of black iron.
A lock.
Burned but intact.

Evelyn stepped forward.

Her fingers trembled as she slid the old key into the lock.

It fit perfectly.

She hesitated.

“You don’t have to do it,” Rowan said gently.

Evelyn shook her head.

“I do.”

The key turned with a slow, agonizing click.

A gust of air rushed up from below—cold, damp, and carrying the faint scent of old smoke.

The iron hatch creaked open.

A staircase spiraled downward into darkness.

The boy clutched Evelyn’s jacket.

“I don’t want to go down there alone.”

Evelyn squeezed his hand.

“You’re not alone anymore.”


---

Descent Into the Past

One by one, they descended.

Rowan first, flashlight raised like a weapon.
Then Ellis.
Then Evelyn and the boy.

The wooden steps groaned under them, each one coated with soot and time.

The air grew colder.
Heavier.
Thicker.

At the bottom, the beam of Rowan’s flashlight swept across the room—

And Evelyn’s breath caught.

It wasn’t a basement.

It was a nursery.

Blackened toys melted into the walls.
A crib half-burned.
Tiny shoes charred together.
Children’s drawings pinned to a board, edges curled by the flames.

Evelyn’s hand flew to her mouth as tears burned her eyes.

She recognized one of the drawings.

A stick figure girl in a red coat.
A small boy beside her.
A woman with long dark hair.

And above them, written in clumsy preschool letters:

“FAMILY.”

Her knees almost buckled.

Rowan steadied her.

“It’s okay,” he whispered.

But it wasn’t okay.
Nothing about this was okay.

The boy wandered toward the crib, brushing ash from its edge.

“This was your bed,” he said quietly. “I slept right there.”

He pointed to a smaller bed-shaped imprint on the floor.

Evelyn’s chest tightened with a memory so faint it barely felt real:

Warm blankets.
Lullabies.
The woman humming softly.
The boy snoring beside her.

Her first home.

Not the one she remembered…
but the one she had forgotten.


---

Evidence the Fire Department Never Reported

Ellis crouched beside the charred dresser and pried open a half-melted drawer.

Inside were papers fused together with heat.

She lifted a piece carefully.

“Medical forms,” she murmured. “Signed with the woman’s name.”

Rowan took another paper from a blackened envelope.

“Adoption documents… same signatures as the ones Evelyn saw.”

He froze.

“And—Christ—look at this.”

He held up a small booklet.

Evelyn recognized it instantly.

Her old child record booklet.

Crayon scribbles.
Height notes.
Preschool drawings.

Except—

The first four years had been torn out.

Cleanly.
Deliberately.

Evelyn swallowed hard.

“My mother said the early pages burned in an accident.”

Rowan met her eyes.

“They weren’t burned. They were removed.”

Her stomach twisted.

Ellis opened another drawer.

There, charred but readable, sat the original fire investigation report.

Marked with a bold red stamp:

“ARSON SUSPECTED.”

Evelyn’s pulse surged.
Rowan’s jaw locked.
Ellis exhaled a curse under her breath.

Someone had tried to destroy this place—
not accidentally.
With purpose.


---

The Recording

Suddenly, the boy gasped.

“What’s that?”

He pointed to a small metal box on the floor, half-melted but intact enough for Rowan to pry open.

Inside:

A tiny recorder.
Old. Covered in ash.

Rowan hit the play button.

Static.

Then—

A woman’s voice.
Breaking.
Crying.

“If you’re hearing this, they came back.”

Evelyn’s pulse spiked.

Rowan froze.

The woman’s voice continued, trembling:

“They want to take her again. They say she belongs to them. They say I stole her. They say the papers aren’t real…”

Evelyn covered her mouth.

The voice kept going:

“I don’t know what they’ll do. I don’t know who to trust. But if something happens to me, please—please protect my children.”

Evelyn collapsed to her knees.

Rowan whispered, “Jesus…”

The boy’s lip trembled.

“That’s her,” he said. “That’s Mom. Before the fire.”

Evelyn felt her entire world crack open.

Her mother—
the one in custody—
had always told her the fire was accidental.
That the woman was unstable.
That Evelyn had been saved.

But the recording…

The nursery…

The torn records…

They all told a very different story.

A story closer to the truth.


---

The Final Revelation of the Night

Rowan lifted his flashlight, shining it across the back wall.

And he froze.

“Ellis,” he said quietly, “over here.”

Evelyn turned.

A phrase was carved into the charred wall, clawed into the wood as if written in desperation:

“SHE WILL COME BACK FOR HER.”

Evelyn stared, breath trembling.

Rowan swallowed.

“That wasn’t written by the woman in the hospital,” he said.
“Look at the handwriting.”

Ellis leaned closer.

Then straightened.

“That’s the handwriting,” she said slowly, “of a grown adult.”

Rowan’s face went pale.

“So the question is…”

He turned to Evelyn, voice barely above a whisper.

“…who was coming back?”

Before Evelyn could answer—

A creak echoed above them.

A footstep.

Then another.

Someone was upstairs.

Inside the cabin.

Watching.

Waiting.