Somethings not right with heathsteady

Heathsteady always seemed to hold its breath. It sat deep in a valley the maps never quite captured, ringed by forest so dense the trees knitted together like a warning. Outsiders rarely came, and when they did, they rarely stayed. The villagers had a saying: The world forgets Heathsteady long before Heathsteady forgets you. Jack had grown up hearing that, though he’d never understood it. Not until recently. The weeks leading up to his twenty‑first birthday had been... odd. At first it was small things — a low hum in the woods at night, lights flickering even when the generator was steady, a feeling that the ground itself shifted underfoot. But now it was more than that. Now, it was the way the village felt like it was watching him. On this particular morning, mist clung to the rooftops and curled around his boots as he crossed the square. Only one other person was out this early — Eliza, perched on the old stone wall opposite the bakery, sketchbook in hand. Jack’s stomach tightened in that stupid, familiar way it always did. He wasn’t even sure when it had started — the way he looked at Eliza and forgot how to speak. They had grown up side by side, two halves of the same childhood, yet somehow he’d ended up unable to tell her the one thing that mattered. She looked up as he approached, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. “You’re awake early,” she said. Her voice was soft, but something about it carried easily through the thinning mist. “So are you,” he replied, trying not to sound as flustered as he felt. “Couldn’t sleep?” Eliza closed her sketchbook. “Strange night.” “Again?” “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” Jack nodded before he could stop himself. Because yes — it was getting worse. The ground under the old path near the lake had cracked open yesterday, as if something beneath had been clawing its way up. The sky over the woods had glowed faintly green two nights in a row. And last week, the ravens — every single one — had vanished overnight. But saying any of that aloud felt dangerous, as if it might solidify into something real. Instead, Jack cleared his throat. “Your birthday’s in three days.” “So is yours.” “And… you feel it too, right? Like something’s—” “Coming?” Eliza finished for him. “Yes.” A wind whipped suddenly through the square, sharp enough to sting. The loose sign above the old shopfront creaked violently, slamming against its frame. Jack flinched; Eliza didn’t. “That started at midnight,” she said quietly. “Every hour on the hour. Like clockwork.” Jack frowned. “Does your mum know?” “She pretends she doesn’t. They all do.” Eliza hopped down from the wall. “Our parents grew up here too. They must have gone through the same thing.” “Then why didn’t they warn us?” A fleeting expression crossed her face — something between fear and anger. “Because they’re afraid,” she whispered. “Everyone is. And no one says a word.” Before Jack could reply, a deep shudder rolled beneath their feet. The stones of the square trembled. A crack splintered across the ground near the well, as though something had gripped the earth and twisted. Eliza reached out instinctively, catching Jack’s arm to steady herself. The contact sent heat rushing to his cheeks — ridiculous, considering the ground had just moved — but it always happened like that around her. When the shaking stopped, the square fell eerily silent. Jack swallowed. “What was that?” Eliza didn’t let go of his arm. “A warning.” “From what?” She looked towards the forest, its shadows still thick as tar. “I think,” she said, voice barely more than a breath, “it’s from whatever Heathsteady’s been hiding all these years.” They stood together, silent, while the village around them seemed to exhale a long, ancient sigh. And neither of them noticed — not yet — the faint symbol now glowing along the new crack in the stones. A symbol shaped like an eye. Watching. Waiting.