Page 1 of Marked

Chapter 1

The woods had always watched me.

Which, honestly,rude. You’d think after twenty-two years of me actively avoiding them, they’d have taken the hint and moved on to stalking someone more interested. Like a bird enthusiast. Or a squirrel.

I was staring at the peeling paint in my apartment, noting how it resembled tree bark, because apparently, even my cheap-ass living space was conspiring against me. The lawyer’s letter sat on my counter like a ticking time bomb wrapped in legal letterhead, worn soft from my numerous “maybe if I read it again, the words will magically change” attempts.

Mom’s warnings echoed in my head like a broken record:The woods hide monsters, Kai. They’re waiting for you. They never forgot.

“Thanks for the cryptic death flags, Mom,” I muttered, shoving another ratty t-shirt into my duffel bag. “Really helping with my anxiety here.”

The sum total of my worldly possessions was depressingly modest for a fresh business grad—three duffel bags, two cardboard boxes, and enough emotional baggage to fill a cargo ship. At least it made moving easier. Though “moving” impliedhaving an actual destination in mind, not just “flee to nearest concrete jungle post-cottage-sale.”

My phone buzzed for the hundredth time today.Did you pack the pepper spray I got you?And the emergency beacon?ANSWER ME!

I typed back quickly.Yes, Mom, packed both. Also holy water, silver bullets, and that stake you insisted I whittle.

NOT FUNNY KAI

The beacon’s in my bag, the spray’s in the car. Happy?

No. You could still get murdered

Luke Kim, my half-Korean best friend and former college roommate, had spent all of yesterday helping me pack while dramatically listing every horror movie that started with “innocent person inherits creepy property.” Now he was stuck in some corporate marketing meeting, probably googling murder statistics between PowerPoint slides.

My Honda Civic—a vehicle held together by duct tape, prayers, and spite—groaned as I loaded the last box. The city’s symphony of sirens and car horns felt like a goodbye song, and for once, I wasn’t being sarcastic. Ilovedthis chaos. Give me steel and glass over leaves and branches any day. I was the guy who walked an extra ten blocks to avoid the park’s sad excuse for a forest. The urban jungle was my fortress—predictable, safe, and distinctly lacking in whatever creatures Mom swore wanted a piece of me.

“Two weeks,” I told myself, gripping the steering wheel like it might try to escape. “Get in, sort out Mom’s Blair Witch cottage situation, get out. How bad could it be?”

What should have been a three-and-a-half-hour drive had stretched into five thanks to my GPS having an existential crisis every time I hit the mountain roads. “Recalculating” became its favorite word somewhere around hour three, right before it gaveup entirely and started showing me driving through what was apparently a void.

The signal bars on my phone played hide-and-seek as the mountains grew closer. Suddenly, Luke’s texts finally broke through.Hello??? Why aren’t you answering??I swear if you’re already dead in a ditch…Did you take the wrong turn? Google Maps shows like three different routes.DON’T TAKE THE SCENIC ROUTE.

Still alive, I texted back.GPS having existential crisis. Send help. Or pizza. Actually, just pizza.

NOT THE TIME FOR JOKEScame the immediate response.Text me when you get there or I’m calling the FBI.

The roads got increasingly narrow and winding, pavement giving way to gravel more often than I liked. Twice I had to backtrack after dead-ending at “Private Property” signs that hadn’t been on any map.

I’d mastered the art of the ninja pit stop out of necessity. Gas? Paid at the pump. Snacks? Grabbed while power walking through convenience stores. Bathroom breaks? Let’s just say I set new records for speed-peeing. When you’re the only half-Chinese guy in a hundred-mile radius, you learn to move fast.

My phone suddenly erupted with an hour’s worth of missed messages from Luke.Googled Cedar Grove. WHY ARE THERE NO RECENT PHOTOS OF THIS PLACE??That’s serial killer behavior.If you get murdered by small-town cultists, I’m not clearing your browser history.

I managed to fire off a quickStill alive, just bad receptionbefore my signal died again. Trust Luke to cyber-stalk a town from his desk, probably ignoring his afternoon deadlines.

The stares followed me everywhere. Small-town folks weren’t subtle about their rubbernecking, probably trying to figure out which box to check on their mental racial profile form. My hazel eyes with their weird gold flecks didn’t help—they justgave people another reason to stare.Sorry to disappoint, Karen at the gas station, but “ambiguously ethnic with supernatural-looking eyes” isn’t an option on your census form.

My college fund—or what was left of it after Mom passed when I was eighteen—would keep me afloat until I could sell this cottage and make a break for civilization. Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles—anywhere with more streetlights than trees. I had no job lined up, no brilliant plan beyond “don’t get eaten by whatever lives in these woods.” But hey, I had a fresh business degree and a perfectly honed ability to detect when branches were moving in suspicious ways. That was marketable, right?

Another burst of texts broke through.Getting weird vibes, Kai. Like, BAD weird. Eomma (Mom) is doing that thing where she burns sage and won't tell me why.Call me when you get there or I'm sending a search party. Not kidding.PS: Found more weird stuff about Cedar Grove. Call. Me.

Just hit town limits, I texted back.Population seems sus. Will call when I reach the murder cottage, assuming I survive the local welcoming committee.

Passing the Welcome to Cedar Grove—Population 2,187 sign—which might as well have read Welcome to Your Doom—Where Outsiders Check In But Don’t Check Out—my heart skipped several beats. The trees pressed in from both sides like nature’s version of closing walls in a horror movie. Three times I almost turned around. Three times I imagined showing up in Seattle or Bellingham with nothing but my Honda full of regrets and a story about how I chickened out of basic adult responsibilities. But my bank account kept screaming “sell the cottage” louder than my anxiety, so here I was, pushing forward like the world’s okayest adventurer.

The town that materialized through the trees looked like it had been ripped straight from a Hallmark movie set. Red brick buildings lined the main street, their facades decoratedwith hanging flower baskets. A clock tower rose above the town square, because of course it did. People strolled along pristine sidewalks, carrying shopping bags from stores with names like Thyme After Thyme and The Cozy Corner—places that probably sold more charm than actual merchandise.

I cruised past a coffee shop where patrons sat at outdoor tables, their conversations pausing as I drove by. Their heads turned in unison, following my car like those creepy paintings whose eyes track you across the room. I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror—my own eyes doing that annoying thing where the gold flecks seemed to dance in the sunlight. Great. Just what I needed—another reason to stand out.

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