#disembowelment

They were called the Tall Man’s Woods, presumably because they were full of a good mix of taller trees—namely; Hemlock, Aspen, Ceder, as well as others such as Birch and Cottonwood. That, and there’s an urban legend about a tall, faceless man that roams the woods, hunting anyone that trespasses. Of course, that was nonsense. Things like that don’t exist in the real world. Plus, Peter has camped here dozens of times and nothing’s ever happened.

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The woods in Maxport, Wisconsin are always peaceful, in spite of being the center of numerous ghost stories and tall tales, giant creatures and disappearances and whatnot. Peter never bothered to verify any of this, but he didn’t care much. It’s home to his favorite camping spot, and they were just stories, anyway.

Peter is brought back to the present by a sudden pain in his foot. He yelps, jumping back. Cass, one of his friends, cackles. “That’s what happens when you zone out, you dope!” She manages, picking up the cooler she had purposely dropped on his foot.

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for a while!” She continues, nodding for him to follow her to their campsite. He frowns, rubbing over his shoe before standing up from where he’d crouched down. “You didn’t have to be so mean about that.” He grumbles as he follows her.

“Yeah, but if I hadn’t been, you wouldn’t have come back to earth.” She dismisses, setting the cooler down between the tent Brett is setting up and the grill Leah’s lighting. Peter sighs begrudgingly. “Yeah, whatever.”

Peter gets to work helping Brett set up as the sun dips over the horizon.

“Thank goodness we got a spot before night.” Leah notes cheerfully, helping Cass pull the trout out of the cooler and set it on the grill.

“Tell me about it!” Brett laughs lightheartedly. “Who’da thought Cass’ car would just break down like that? We’re lucky Pete was driving separately.”

Cass groans as she sits cross-legged in the grass. “I told you guys that my car probably wouldn’t get us here!” She exclaims exasperatedly.

“Ugh—guys, I’ll be back in a minute, I gotta take a wizz.” Brett announces. Peter laughs and Leah scrunches up her face. “Just go!” She snarks as Brett laughs and turns to head into the trees, leaving Peter to set up the tent.

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The three of them sit just outside their newly constructed tent, chatting away and eating their fish. Outside, the moon is way up, the sky inky and black, but decorated with a beautiful spatter of stars. The June night is warm, with a very slight breeze, the clearing they sat in illuminated by the electric lantern they’d brought.

After a while, a bout of silence falls over the trio. Which is when Peter realizes... where is Brett? It’s been well over an hour by now, and he said he was just going to the bathroom.

Peter locks eyes with Leah, and her expression tells him she’s having much the same thought. Cass looks between the two, one eyebrow lifting with confusion. “What? What is it?”

Glancing over at her, Peter frowns. “It’s... Brett.” He says. Cass doesn’t look any less confused. “...What about him?” She inquires.

Leah sighs at her daftness. “He left an hour ago to pee, and he’s not back yet.” She explains.

Cass looks surprised, and glances around the clearing like she hadn’t noticed. Oblivious, Peter thinks to himself exasperatedly.

The three stand, picking the lantern up and approaching the treeline.

“Brett?!” Leah calls out, cupping her mouth to project her voice into the silent trees.

There’s no response.

“Come on.” Cass says, lifting the lantern and stepping forwards into the trees. The other two follow close behind.

Calling out periodically for their friend, the three walk further and further, until their camp fades from sight.

Realizing that they still haven’t seen or heard anything since they left camp, they pause and listen for any indication of Brett. Cass holds the lantern out in every direction.

As they’re staring through the darkness that surrounds them, everyones worst fear suddenly strikes; the light begins to flicker.. And then goes out leaving them in total darkness.

“No... no, no no no...” Leah gasps while Cass desperately smacks her palm against the battery compartment.

It flickers dimly to life one final time before plunging the trio into darkness once more.

Groaning, Peter looks over to where the two were. “Leah... you had the spares, right?” He asks. Silence meets him, and his heart sinks. “...Leah...?” He prompts again.

He hears the grass shift with weight, and a small voice replies. “...No...” Leah whispers. “What do you mean ‘NO’?!” Cass almost shrieks frantically.

“We left in such a hurry, I didn’t even think… I mean, I didn’t realize… I didn’t know we’d need them!” Leah exclaims defensively.

“This isn’t worth fighting over, you two.” Peter sighs, scanning the darkness. “What’s done is done..”

“Besides, we have bigger problems now.” he continues, turning to glance behind him, “So unless one of you knows how to get back to the campsite from here, we’re kind of stuck where we are until we figure something out or dawn comes.”

Cass gives him a look out of the corner of her eyes. “What do you mean?” She asks, “we can’t have gone more than ten feet away from camp.”

“No we’re way further than that!” Peter insists. As Cass sighs aggravatedly, the trio turns and realizes..

They’re now in the middle of a clearing.

Peter turns his head in every direction in stunned confusion. They had just been surrounded by trees, where the hell are they now?!

Above them the sky has come into view, casting moonlight all around them and illuminating their immediate surroundings.

“..Guys?” Leah pipes up, her voice tiny and scared.

“Yeah?” Peter and Cass respond in unison.

“..What.. what animal makes those tracks..?” Leah asks.

“What tracks?” Peter inquires, turning quickly to Leah and following her gaze.

In the middle of the clearing is a small patch of dirt. Imprinted in the dirt were large tracks, but neither Peter, nor Cass, recognized them.

The tracks were elongated, like that of a plantigrade. Though, they were too thin to be that of a bear, and too large to be a reptile or amphibian, as well as any other mammals.

The main issue is that they were also too big to be human, and they have sharp indents past the toes, indicating claws of some kind.

“What do you think it is?” Cass asks quietly, breaking the silence.

Peter shakes his head. “No idea.”

“I don’t know, either.” Leah squeaks.

Behind the group, the grass rustles and a branch snaps. They turn, but upon seeing nothing in the treeline, they instinctively shift their gazes upwards, and by the illumination of the full moon...

What... what is that?!

Peter could barely even register the sight. Behind him, Cass screams and Leah retches into the grass.

Well... there’s Brett.

He sits motionless above their heads, body limp. His eyes were wide open, but unseeing and glassy, staring down at the ground. One streak of crimson trails down his chin.

He hangs impaled through the chest on a branch. His stomach is torn open, intestines strung up on the leafy canopy like a grotesque mockery of party bunting.

Brett groans. No... no, no...! He’s... still alive?!

Peters head swivels at the sudden sound of pounding footsteps, catching just a glimpse of Cass and Leah’s backs as they scramble to get away from the horrific scene.

Moving before he could think, Peter starts running as well. Whether he’s following the others or not, he couldn’t tell.

Panic clouds his mind, all logic flying right out the window. His feet hit the ground irregularly, the force sending small shocks up his calves.

Peters lungs burn, arms pumping and reaching to push off of the passing branches and tree trunks.

Looking up, time slows for his eyes. He sees Cass and Leah ahead of him. Something dark leaps down from the branches above, knocking down Cass and pinning her to the overgrown grass.

Leah doesn’t stop, or even slow—not as Cass falls, not as the forgotten lantern tumbles to the ground and cracks on a stone, nothing. She barely even looks back.

Cass screams. Peter could only watch as the scream is cut short, a flash of grey clawed hands peek out from black hoodie sleeves as they grab Cass by the jaw and pull.

The sound of the scream dying instantly is minor under the far more prominent and revolting sound of tearing flesh.

Cass’s body immediately goes limp beneath the figure—on which Peter could now see a blue mask—who now holds the head and still-attached spine of Cass.

Peter turns and runs the opposite direction. His stomach churns, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. Or he would be next.

Stumbling suddenly backwards, he’s confused by what he’d just run into. There hadn’t been a tree there... Of that he’s certain.

Looking up to see what he’d just run into, he finds himself face-to-face with... what... What even is that thing?!

Whatever it is, it’s almost as tall as the trees. Its form is humanoid, but stretched high and it’s wearing a dark suit and tie. And, worst of all, looming over his minutely quaking form at probably fourteen feet tall, is...

It’s... certainly a head... but, it’s empty and paper-white, completely devoid of both color and facial features. Black tendrils of writhing shadow extend from the things back.

The monstrous thing extends a pale, bony hand towards him. But, Peter doesn’t stay still long enough to find out what it’s doing.

Peter stumbles backwards, his brain screaming at him to get away from that thing, and yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the faceless entity.

He watches—even as his body tries desperately to get away—as the thing begins to lower its jaw, colorless skin tearing where the mouth should have been, revealing a void within. A symbol—a circle with an X through it—glows white in the darkness.

A scream builds in Peters throat, but refuses to escape his lips as he stares.

Somewhere in the distance, Leah screams, though the sound also cuts off sharply. Still, he stares. Why can’t he move?

As the things hand nears Peters face, his mind races. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the thing vanishes, and he abruptly finds himself in control of his body once again.

Peter, slightly dazed from the intense whirl of emotions of the evening, continues to stare at the now-empty space. Finally, he starts to turn in a slow circle, scanning the trees to make sure the thing is truly gone.

He doesn’t see it anywhere, thank god. However, as he turns to observe the space behind him, Peter finds himself gazing up at an old log cabin. One window is shattered, and everything is worn down and overgrown.

A thin layer of grey dust coats the floor of the porch. It seems that it’s entirely uninhabited, and has been for quite a while.

Behind him, the bushes rustle, reminding Peter of the danger he’s in. Barely even giving it a thought, he tiptoes into the cabin.

Inside is surprisingly well-kept and clearly lived-in, except for the layer of undisturbed dust on the floor without so much as a shoeprint. What’s most baffling, though; the shattered window isn’t broken in the least bit from the inside.

Peter casts his gaze around the cabins sitting room. It’s weirdly pristine, with a kept dark green corduroy couch and a low, black coffee table littered with dirty ashtrays and empty whiskey bottles.

Peters confusion is instantly shot down at the wave of fear that washes over him as he hears three sets of heavy boots step up onto the front porch. “Guys. We have an uninvited guest.” A gruff, low voice observes just outside. Shoot!!

Peter’s gaze snaps frantically around and spots the backdoor just by the small open-concept kitchen. But, unfortunately, he could instantly tell that that option’s a no-go, given the fact that it was completely boarded up.

Upon further observation, he sees that every single window in the place is also being kept shut via crooked nails that have been hammered into the boards.

Seeing that he also couldn’t leave the way he came in on account of whoever was outside, the only other way he can go is further into the house.

As he creeps down the branching hall, he takes stock of how many rooms are in here. Five. Hearing the cabins front door creak open behind him, he ducks inro a random door, crossing his fingers that it isn’t a bathroom.

Closing the door quietly behind himself, Peter’s relieved to find himself in a bedroom. There are two twin-sized beds with simple blankets and wooden frames in the corners diagonal to each other.

Against the far wall, between two windows, sits a bookshelf with an assortment of books and other knicknacks. At the foot of one bed was a table covered in eight-millemeter cassette tapes, more whiskey bottles, another ashtray, and a number of bottles for prescription pills.

At the foot of the other bed sits a wooden desk, riddled with papers, most with crazed scribbles, as well as holding a laptop that was partially closed and a camcorder that sits next to the wall. The spare space in the room is filled with a haphazardly placed wardrobe.

Peter hears the three sets of boots step slowly down the hallway. One was humming. Periodically, another would give a sharp whistle or a loud click. The third was completely silent as they near.

His gaze snaps to the windows. One was lifted a crack, letting in the cool midnight breeze. A surge of hope fills his chest, and he hurries over to it.

Pushing it up the rest of the way, Peter shifts onto his tippie toes and tries to push himself up onto the ledge. Now with his chest pressed to the sill, he realizes that getting out this way would take far too long.

The doorknob starts to turn, and he lurches away from the open window. Without pausing to think—because the door is starting to open—he ducks into the first spot he sees; under the nearest bed.

The door finally opens as he presses himself as close to the walls as he can get. His vision is restricted as he presses a hand tight over his nose and mouth to quiet his ragged breathing.

From the gap beneath the bed frame, Peter sees the boots of the three men walk into the room. They linger in the open door, before sauntering in with casual strides.

One steps over to the wardrobe, and Peter hears it open. That man grunts upon seeing nobody. The other goes to the window, letting out a sharp whistle as he observes the outside, proceeding to give a cheery “N-nope!”

The one still lingering in the door doesn’t move as far as Peter can see. They don’t say anything, either.

Before he could process anything, Peter spots one of the boot pairs standing right next to the bed he was under. Wordlessly, the person drops to their stomach, and Peter finds himself face-to-masked-face with an external mouthguard, orange goggles, and fluffy but wild chestnut brown hair.

The man makes eye contact with him, and giggles as he shoots out a gloved hand, grabbing Peter by the bicep and pulling him out from under the bed, forcing him to his feet.

The other two in the room are also men, one with a yellow hoodie and black mask with a painted red frown. The other, a man wearing a beige jacket with short brown hair, the bangs of which barely fall over the white mask with black detailed lips, eyebrows and eyehole rims that he had adorned over his face.

“Lookie what I found under ol’ Masky’s bed!” Sing-songs the man holding Peter in place. Peter notices the two hatchets hanging from holsters on his belt—one is nearly pristine, the other old and chipped.

The one in the hoodie remains silent, while the white masked one grunts noncommittally. “Whatever,” he says, “just kill him in not our bedroom, Tobe.”

The one holding Peter—presumably “Toby”—gasps eagerly. His head snaps off to the side abruptly, cracking his neck before it returns to face the other men.

“Really?” He eagerly asks. The white masked one just grunts again, and they turn to leave. Toby quickly drags Peter out of the room, down the hall, and out the front door.

He takes him behind the cabin as Peter trembles, Toby ticcing every-so often. Finally, Toby pushes Peter onto the ground and sits casually on his chest, humming.

“Hey,” Toby chirps, “I really like your eyes. Can I keep them after?” He asks it so innocently, but Peter can barely hear him over his own racing heartbeat thundering in his ears.

Above him, Toby just shrugs, puling his sharp hatchet from its holster. Without even a moments hesitation, he lifts it, and swings down.

Peter manages to swing a hand up, just in time, but the blade severs it clean and quick, sending a flash of white-hot pain shooting up his arm. The hand falls to the grass beside his head, and he screams as crimson spurts from the wound.

Toby sighs, as though annoyed by the mishap. He grabs the stump and holds it down off to the side. “No, no, that won’t do.” Toby tuts. “You gotta stay still so I can properly cut off your head!” He continues chidingly, like he were speaking to a misbehaving child and not a grown man that was writhing in pain underneath him.

Helpless, tears fill Peters eyes. He can only watch in detached horror as Toby lines the blade up with his jugular, once again lifting it above his head, and bringing it down.