~ Stag In the Woods: Prologue ~
Story by Cederwyn Whitefurr on SoFurry
Thomas and Eleanor Hart wanted nothing more than a quiet life in the Scottish Highlands.
Autumn had other plans.
A slow-burn rural fantasy about grief, motherhood, choice, and the question of whether kindness can overcome the darkest inheritance.
~ Stag In the Woods ~
© Cederwyn Whitefurr
June 2026
All Rights Reserved.
Prologue — The Autumn That Broke Everything
Their move from London had felt like drawing the first full breath in years.
Eleanor and Thomas Hart arrived in the Scottish Highlands in late summer. The city’s ceaseless noise and grey pressure faded behind them like a bad dream. They had bought the old farmhouse sight unseen — ten acres of rolling pasture and ancient woodland on the edge of a quiet village of barely two thousand souls. Weathered stone and slate, creaking floors, a chimney that smoked when the wind turned wrong. But the views… those made up for every crack in the plaster.
Misty glens stretched beneath vast skies. Rowan trees heavy with scarlet berries lined the track. In the distance the hills wore their purple heather like old cloaks. For the first time in their marriage the future felt wide open and gentle.
Thomas would stand at the back door each morning with his tea, breathing in the clean cold air, and say the same thing every time: “We did it, love. We actually made it.”
Eleanor would lean into his side and believe him.
They spent the warm weeks repairing fences, clearing bracken, painting the kitchen a soft hopeful cream. They talked about children. About growing old here. About the peace they had earned. Thomas teased her about learning to bake proper scones. She teased him about becoming a gentleman farmer with muddy boots and a bad back. Their laughter filled the empty rooms like something sacred.
Autumn came softly at first, painting the woods in brass and copper and gold. The air carried woodsmoke and damp earth. Then the days shortened, and something in the land shifted.
It was a Tuesday when the stag first appeared.
They were walking the tree line at the far end of their property, Thomas’s hand warm around hers, when the massive red deer stepped from the pines. A prime bachelor in the full fever of the rut, already powerful, restless, antlers sharp against the dying light. No hinds. No rivals. Only them.
Thomas saw it first. His grip tightened.
“Ellie,” he said quietly. “Get behind me.”
The stag lowered its head, breath steaming. Then it charged.
Thomas met it with nothing but courage and a fallen branch. The impact was swift and merciless. He fell still among the bracken, blood bright on the golden leaves.
Eleanor’s scream tore out of her.
The stag stood over her husband’s body, sides heaving. Its dark eyes lifted to her. Something cruel and calculating looked back.
It began to play.
It stalked her as she ran — through the woods, across the open pasture — always close enough that she heard its heavy breath and the thunder of its hooves. Every time she thought she had slipped away, it would burst from cover again, cutting off her path, driving her terror higher. It circled. It waited. It savoured her panic like a cat toying with a broken mouse. This was no blind beast lost to rut. There was intelligence in it. Malice.
She ran until her lungs burned raw and her legs collapsed beneath her near the old stone wall behind the farmhouse. Sobbing, gasping, she curled against the cold stones.
The stag loomed over her. The cruel playfulness faded as raw, primal rut claimed it completely.
What happened next was brutal and inevitable.
She survived.
*
A month later
Winter had begun to bite at the edges of the Highlands. Eleanor had barely left the ten acres since that day. The village felt impossibly distant; its people were strangers she no longer had the strength to face. She moved through the old farmhouse like a ghost — silent, hollow, surviving on autopilot.
It was the persistent nausea and crushing fatigue that finally drove her into the village. The local doctor, an older man with kind eyes, ran test after test. When he sat her down and told her the result, his voice was soft with sympathy.
“You’re with child, Mrs Hart.”
Eleanor stared at him, numb. Thomas’s child. A tiny piece of the life they had dreamed about. For one fragile moment the news felt like a lifeline — something good that had survived the nightmare.
She thanked the doctor in a whisper. On the long walk back through the cold mist she kept one trembling hand pressed to her still-flat stomach.
A child.
She had no idea what was truly growing inside her...
To Be Continued...