16. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Mac

T he residual pleasure from my dream hums in my body, but that isn't what wakes me. At first I think it's my own heartbeat, the pulse of my blood beating in my ears. But then I hear the faint sound of drums.

For a brief moment, I'm curious, but fatigue still has a firm hold on me. Despite the rest I've had these past few days, an inexplicable exhaustion tugs at my bones. I roll over, letting the gentle beat lull me back into sleep, the drums fading into the background of my mind.

When I wake again sometime around mid morning, the drums seem a little louder. I push aside the lingering curiosity, shaking off the strange pull they seem to have on me. The rhythmic beat, as soft as it is, carries a strange energy, but I'm determined to focus on finishing my forest painting today. I already slept in longer than I planned today.

Stretching, I get up, letting the cool air of the cottage wash away the remnants of sleep. I move through my morning routine —a quick shower to wake up fully and clear the haze from my mind. I put on a long light green dress then I have my breakfast as I stand by the window, watching the waves crash against the cliffs. The storm clouds from last night have moved closer, now dominating the view outside my window. Their heavy gray blankets the sky, swirling ominously, but in places, the sun still manages to peek through, casting beams of light that dance across the landscape. The rain hasn't yet made its appearance, but I can feel the tension in the air, a charged anticipation that hints at what's to come.

I grab my art supplies and step outside, the cool breeze a refreshing contrast against my skin. The path to the forest is inviting, and I can already hear the faint rustle of leaves as the wind picks up. I set up at the edge of the forest, my easel firmly in place, and let the atmosphere of the impending storm fuel my work.

The light changes constantly, the interplay between sun and cloud creating a unique palette. It flickers between shadow and brilliance, with the storm clouds casting a gray shroud over the landscape, only for the sun to break through in radiant bursts, illuminating patches of green in the forest. I lose myself in the contrast, the colors swirling on my palette as I paint.

The faint sound of drums lingers on the edge of my awareness, a distant heartbeat that grows steadily louder. At first, it's nothing more than a subtle rhythm, easily ignored as I focus on the delicate details of the forest before me. Each stroke of my brush brings the trees to life, their twisting branches swaying in harmony with the wind. But as the drums swell, they become something more—a rolling beat, like the thunderheads gathering overhead. It's almost as though they're moving closer, creeping toward me with the same gradual persistence as the approaching storm.

Still, I don't let it distract me. The beat slips into the background of my mind, its presence folding into the atmosphere around me, adding an almost primal cadence to my work. I hum softly along with the rhythm, letting it merge with the wind and the sway of the trees. It feels natural, like a soundtrack to the moment, a pulse guiding my hand as I paint the intricate details of the forest path—the dark bark of the trees, the vibrant greens of the leaves, the shadows stretching in anticipation of the coming storm.

Time slips away. I don't know how long I've been painting when I finally step back to assess my work. Taking a breath, I wipe my hands on a cloth as I glance up at the sky. The storm clouds have moved even closer now, heavy and ominous, yet the rain still holds off, as if waiting for some unknown signal to release.

The drums continue, their steady rhythm thrumming in my ears, and for a moment, I pause, letting the sound fully register. There's something unsettling about them now, an insistent pull I can't quite shake.

I can feel the day slipping into evening, but I'm proud of the finished piece. The forest on my canvas is wild and alive, brimming with the same restless energy that hums through the air around me. I pack up my supplies and make my way back to the cottage.

Once inside, I clean my brushes methodically, happily humming as I rinse and dry them. My thoughts drift to dinner, and I smile, looking forward to seeing what the pub has on the menu tonight. The roast I had last night was amazing, and I still feel a little bad for leaving so early. I'm curious now—there's been no mention of a festival, but that's exactly what it sounds like. A steady beat, as if some celebration is just out of reach, waiting to be discovered.

By the time I grab my jacket and head out, the sun is already low, casting a soft orange glow over the village path. I take the familiar trail through the trees toward the village, my thoughts on dinner and the possibility of festival food. There's always something special about the traditional dishes served at these kinds of events—rich, comforting, and full of flavor.

But when I step off the forest path and onto the cobblestone streets of the village, something feels off. The usual signs of evening life are nowhere to be seen. No children running around, no parents calling them in for dinner. The streets are eerily quiet—there's no one out finishing their chores or heading toward the pub for a meal or a drink. The lively, festive energy I half-expected is missing, replaced by a stillness that settles uneasily in my chest.

I glance around, and the shutters on the stores are all closed, with signs reading "closed" hanging in every window. Even the cottages have their doors shut and windows tightly covered, as if the whole village has retreated indoors. It feels like I've stepped into a ghost town. The only sound is the steady beat of the drums, growing louder but still elusive, their source hidden somewhere beyond my sight.

I stand in the middle of the deserted street, my skin prickling with unease. There's no laughter, no music, no chatter of people enjoying an evening out. Just the rhythmic thrum of the drums, now louder than ever, filling the silence around me like a heartbeat pulsing through the empty village.

Something is very wrong.