The Sorrows of Raven Creek

Raven Creek was one of those towns two hours north of Seattle, tucked into a strange bend in the Olympic Mountains—a wrong turn that threw you from the comforts of the city into a different time, where there were no cell towers, no cafes, and the pine-covered streets seemed to have been quietly lost in history.

The place was so quiet that you wouldn’t have known it existed if you wanted to. But the day after Halloween, when Mrs. Grimley and Father Roberts were found dismembered in front of the altar of the local church—along with a gruesome scene adorned with some primitive and terrifying symbols—the terror that had been building up behind the town’s calm facade suddenly reared its head.

This incident wasn’t just an isolated one. Strange things had happened before—houses burning down, pets being killed as if someone were running a “test,” people disappearing overnight, as if they were melting into the air. A kind of silent sin hung over Raven Creek, and the small, closed nature of the town and its distance from the outside world made it even more closed and creepy.

The only main road in Raven Creek was Highway 112 — a narrow and deadly road that climbed the mountains, with steep ravines on one side and pine-covered mountain walls on the other. The turns of the road were so twisted that you could see your death, but you couldn’t stop. Countless cars lay in the canyon, each one a steel skeleton hidden behind the bushes, never to return.

But if you passed those turns and descended carefully, you would reach a valley of dense shade — where an old hamlet covered in pine, spruce, and dogwood trees would greet you. The sound of the waterfall could be heard clearly here, and the sunlight on the lake water seemed like a mirror made of silver.

In the middle of this lonely valley was an old settlement — a place that time had forgotten, but which did not let people forget. The houses here were made of wood from the Gold Rush era, with rusty roofs, wooden windows, and on every porch sat a raven as if they were guarding.

The old residents used to say, “Raven Creek never leaves anyone.”

But those old people are silent these days. Because the old families of the town—the Mables, the Harrigans, and the Kilpatricks—are suddenly disappearing. None of them come down to town. Their houses float in the fog. Their dogs only howl all night.

On November 2, after the murder of the clergyman, the weather in the town also changed.

The sky seemed to explode with anger. The sun was disappearing day by day. It was raining, but thick as fog, and the cold wind seemed to be crying in one's ears. The trees weren't nodding in the wind—they were shivering.

The wind had become angry and vengeful. Doors would open suddenly, window panes would shatter, and instead of leaves lying on the street, there were some voiceless sounds that swayed like torn paper. No one in town wanted to go out, and those who did wanted to, they quickly returned.

One such morning, Jackson Reed, one of the few "new residents" in town, drove his truck down the main street. He noticed that the town was strangely busy. Everyone seemed to be running. Lines had formed in front of True North Grocery, Abbey's Pharmacy, and Oak & Stone Hardware. Everyone seemed to be trying to escape together—but there was nowhere to go.

Jackson rolled down the window pane and turned on the radio.

"...The Washington State Patrol says the investigation into the discovery of two bodies at a church in Raven Creek has been suspended for now, as Storm Andromeda continues to intensify. The area is facing potential landslides, power outages, and road closures—"

A storm is coming. And it's not just nature. Something older, something deeper is awakening.

The trees of Raven Creek know it.