#tickytody

As the weather grew colder, nearing the birth of winter, the earth itself seemed to fall into a hush. The once vibrant forests stood stripped and skeletal, their branches stretched outward like dark veins against the darkening sky. The trees were bare, leaving behind only heaps of brittle, lifeless leaves that gathered at the roots, curling in on themselves like forgotten pages. Even the roots, usually dark and strong, had taken on a dull grey, drained of warmth and color by the creeping shift of the season.

The birds had already fled, traveling south to escape the frigid air that was beginning to claim the land piece by piece. Their songs, once scattered freely through the mornings, had vanished, leaving behind an aching stillness. Each breath drawn into my lungs lingered in the air as a thin mist, a ghost of warmth in a world now ruled by frost. The ground crackled underfoot, a thin sheen of ice clinging to the grass and dirt, and though the season spoke of snow, it had not yet arrived. There was only the cold—a waiting, heavy kind of cold, like the world was holding its breath.

That evening, the sun bled itself across the horizon, retreating slowly but inevitably. The sky, always a canvas, shifted through its familiar spectrum of colors: soft blue giving way to tender pinks, then to the blaze of orange, before dissolving into rich purples. Finally, darkness swallowed it all, painting the heavens black, and in that darkness the world felt lonelier—quieter than it had during the day, as though the night consumed not just light, but sound, leaving only a whisper of wind to fill the emptiness.

The silence pressed in even harder as I drove. My headlights carved a narrow path through the gloom, illuminating the road ahead in stark slices of white. Fallen leaves stirred in my wake, dancing erratically in the drafts of my car as they were pulled and pushed along the cracked pavement. Their faint rustle was swallowed almost instantly by the hum of my engine. The radio murmured in the background, a song I wasn’t listening to, the kind you leave on not because you care for it, but because it’s better than sitting alone with silence.

My mind drifted, as it always did on drives home. Little fragments of the day replayed themselves without invitation—snippets of conversations, awkward exchanges, moments that could have gone differently. My thoughts spun out into what-ifs and possibilities, the endless rewinding and rewriting of choices I could never change. The world outside my windshield blurred as I got lost in my own head.

Then came the turn. A sharp bend in the road pulled me back into the present, and for a fleeting second I realized how far my thoughts had carried me. It was then that I saw it.

A figure.

At first it was only a shape against the dark, a tall shadow breaking the line of the trees. Instinct seized me, and I slammed the brakes, tires screeching as my heart kicked against my ribs. My headlights flared wide, and that was when I saw the eyes.

They glowed.

A strange, muted orange, not like the natural shine of an animal caught in artificial light, but deeper, as though lit from within. They stared directly into mine, fixed and unblinking, piercing the distance between us. its form human like, its movements unnerving in their strangeness.

As the beams of my headlights bathed it fully, the shadows peeled back, and I realized with a slow, rising unease that I wasn’t looking at anything I recognized. The way it moved—it wasn’t right. Its limbs shifted with an unnatural grace, too fluid, too deliberate, as though its joints bent in ways they shouldn’t. It was like watching something that wore the shape of a man but didn’t quite belong to that shape, like an imitation that failed just enough to be horrifying.

And still, it stood there. Watching.

“What the hell…” I muttered under my breath, the words barely louder than the hum of my engine. My grip tightened on the steering wheel as I leaned forward, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. The figure hadn’t moved. It just stood there, those strange orange-tinged eyes locked onto me like it had been waiting.

With a flick of hesitation, I rolled down my window just enough to poke my head out into the sharp night air. The cold stung my cheeks instantly, but I didn’t care—I was too focused, too unnerved. My face twisted into a scowl, more out of irritation than fear, though my chest was tight with unease.

“Hey!” I called out, my voice louder than I expected in the silence. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get the fuck off the road!”

The sound of my voice seemed to ripple through the still night, bouncing off the trees and disappearing into the darkness. For a long, breathless moment, the figure didn’t answer. It didn’t even flinch.

And then—it moved.

Slowly, deliberately, one step forward. Its foot crunched against the frost-hardened leaves on the pavement. Another step followed. The way it moved made my skin crawl: too steady, too controlled, like each motion was chosen with unsettling precision rather than the natural flow of someone simply walking.

As it came closer, the glare of my headlights began to reveal more. It was a man—or at least, it looked like one. His frame was tall, his shoulders broad beneath a ragged, hooded coat that looked worn and heavy with age. The stripes on the sleeves caught my eye, strange and unnatural in the pale light, and a mask—something striped and wrapped around his mouth and nose—concealed the lower half of his face. The orange hue I’d mistaken for glowing eyes was clearer now: a set of goggles, reflective, catching my headlights in a way that made them burn like embers in the dark.

He kept walking, unhurried, as if the road belonged to him.

My pulse quickened. Instinct told me to throw the car into reverse, to leave him behind on that desolate stretch of road. But something about him rooted me in place—something that felt more dangerous in the not knowing than in confronting him head-on.

He didn’t say a word. Just kept stepping closer.

When he drew close enough, the movements of his body became clearer under the sweep of my headlights. His head jerked sharply to the side in a sudden twitch, followed by another that rippled down through his shoulders. One of his hands dangled loose at his side, fingers twitching as though they weren’t entirely under his control. That was when I noticed what hung from his thigh.

Strapped against him, catching the glare of my headlights, was something sharp. The light glinted across the metal in a quick flash that made my stomach drop.

An axe.

No—smaller. A hatchet.

Its blade was dark, edges worn from use, and as I stared I realized it was stained. Red. I couldn’t tell if it was rust eating away at the steel or something else—something fresher. My throat tightened at the thought, and I knew I didn’t want to wait long enough to find out.

He twitched again, head snapping faintly as though he were fighting against himself. Then, at last, he spoke.

“What are you doing out at a time like this?” His voice was low, uneven—deep but gravelly, carrying a strange roughness that made every word scrape like stone. There was something wrong in the rhythm of it, too, almost stuttering, as though his words were broken up by the same violent jerks that ran through his body.

“It’s not safe to be out at night.”

The way he said it didn’t sound like a warning. It sounded like a promise.

I drew in a steadying breath, trying to push down the shakiness in my throat before I spoke. “I could say the same thing about you.” My words came sharp, deliberate, like a blade meant to cut short any further conversation. I wanted him to hear it in my tone—I didn’t want to stay, didn’t want to talk.

I reached for the window switch, ready to seal myself back inside the fragile safety of my car. But before the glass could rise, his hand shot out. Fingers curled tightly around the edge, halting it mid-motion. The suddenness of it made my chest clench, my breath catch.

He bent down slowly, his tall frame folding just enough to bring his gaze level with mine. Those burning, orange-tinted lenses hovered inches away, reflecting my headlights back at me like fire trapped behind glass.

“Watch yourself.”

The words rasped out unevenly, the same gravel-rough tone, breaking around the twitches that wracked him. It wasn’t loud, but it carried weight, heavy and deliberate, sinking into the silence of the night.

As his fingers slipped from the glass, I dared a closer look. For the briefest moment, I could have sworn I saw it—the same dark red that stained the blade of his hatchet smeared faintly across the mask covering his face.

It wasn’t rust.

I didn’t think twice — I slammed the car into drive and punched the gas. The tires spun for a heartbeat before the car caught, screaming against the pavement as I tore away from him.

I kept one eye on the rearview, staring until the figure was a blur. He stayed where he stood, watching as my taillights threw a sickly red wash over him, turning his silhouette into something almost theatrical. For a long stretch of road he remained rooted, and then, as if swallowed by the night itself, he vanished into the dark horizon.

Home was only a few minutes away, but the drive felt endless. When I pulled into the driveway I moved on autopilot — door, lock, double-check the deadbolt, slide the chain across. I walked the perimeter of the house like I’d forgotten how to be inside it: windows latched, back door bolted, porch light the only small island of safety. I checked everything once, twice, three times before I finally let myself collapse on the couch and fumble for my phone.

I called the first person who would pick up. “Girl, you won’t believe the interaction I just had — I think I spoke with a murderer.” I didn’t even let her say hello.

There was a beat of silence on the line, then a sharp snort of laughter. “A murderer? Babe, slow down. Did he have a cape or something?” Her voice tried to make light of it; she knew how quickly I could spiral.

“No, not funny. He had —” I told her about the hatchet, the mask, the goggles that glowed like embers. I could feel my hands tremble as I talked.

“Huh.” She hummed thoughtfully, a little too casual. “Okay, that is creepy. But you said he was just standing there? Like… not coming after you?”

“He didn’t follow. He watched me drive off. And I swear, his hatchet was stained.”

“Mmm.” She made that distracted noise people make when they’re imagining something gross but don’t want to fully picture it. “Look, that’s weird as hell, but people are… weird. Maybe he’s drunk, or a weirdo looking for attention. Or he’s some guy who’s lost and thinks hatchets are aesthetic. You always end up in the strangest situations.”

I felt my shoulders loosen a fraction. Her tone was meant to calm. “You’re not helping,” I muttered, but it was true — her downplaying pulled me out of the worst of my panic.

“Okay, okay,” she said. “Promise me you locked everything?”

“Three times.”

“Good. Don’t sit there and stew. Come over to my place in twenty? I’ve got wine, and I’m not letting you watch true crime alone after that story.” Her voice was firm now, the friend-me-upholstering kind of firm I’d needed.

“I—” I pictured my couch, the safety of my own living room, and then her living room with its ridiculous throw pillows and the stupid show we both binged when we wanted to forget the world. “Fine. I’ll come. But you’re buying the wine.”

“Of course. Text me when you head out. And no dramatic drives — take a different route, slow and steady.”

“Okay,” I said, louder than necessary. “Texting now.”

I hung up with a small, shaky laugh. The rational part of my brain kept insisting he was probably nothing more than a lonely, messed-up stranger. But the image of those orange lenses and the red-stained blade stuck behind my eyes. I grabbed my keys, double-checked the locks once more, and forced myself out into the cold night toward my car — toward something that would feel normal again: a friend’s couch, cheap wine, and the hum of a television I didn’t have to watch closely.

I changed out of my work clothes and threw together a small night bag for the crash pad: a soft sweater, a pair of shorts, toothpaste and a toothbrush, deodorant, perfume, a hairbrush — nothing fancy, just the bare essentials for the next morning.

I swung the strap over my shoulder, took a long, steadying breath, and stepped back out the door, closing it and sliding the deadbolt into place behind me. The house felt too quiet, like a held note.

My car was still warm from the earlier drive when I crossed the porch. Before I climbed in I paused and looked toward the woods, as if whatever had been out there might still be watching from the shadowed trees. I listened — really listened — to the hush that had settled over everything. The wind moved through the branches, a thin, low song that threaded through the night. Now and then a brittle stick snapped somewhere in the dark; I told myself it was an animal, just a deer or a raccoon, anything but a person.

Finally I slid into the driver’s seat, doors locking with a small, reassuring click. I chose a different route this time, deliberately turning away from the road I'd come down, heading instead toward my friend's house. If nothing else, being somewhere with other people felt like a small safeguard against the image of those orange lenses and the hatchet that wouldn't leave my mind.

I finally pulled into her driveway, relief washing over me at the sight of a warm porch light. She was already at the door when I walked up, greeting me with a glass of wine in hand like she’d known exactly what I needed.

“Perfect timing,” she grinned.

I took the glass with a grateful nod and set my overnight bag on a chair in the living room as she locked the door behind me. The first sip loosened some of the tension in my chest.

“Hungry?” she asked, swirling her own glass before taking a sip.

“Very,” I admitted with a tired smile that said everything.

“You really need to stop attracting weird men,” she teased, her laugh light as she padded toward the kitchen.

“Yeah? How about you tell them to leave me alone?” I shot back, smirking.

That earned me a giggle, and she peeked around the kitchen wall, spatula in hand, to give me a look. “Why didn’t you just drive off sooner?”

“I didn’t wanna hit the guy!” I said defensively, throwing up a hand.

“Pfft. I would’ve.” She disappeared back into the kitchen, sarcasm thick in her voice.

“No, you wouldn’t have,” I replied with a laugh, rolling my eyes. But as the words left me, the image of him flashed again in my mind—the twitching, the mask, the stains on the hatchet. Against my better judgment, guilt crept in. “You think maybe he… needed help?”

“What??” Her head popped back around the corner, brow arched. “You literally said the man had blood on him.”

“Maybe it was his own.” I shrugged, curling my knees up against my chest on the couch. “Maybe he was drunk, just trying to get home? Could’ve been a bar fight or something.” I was half-defending him without even realizing it.

She gave me a sharp look, wagging her spatula at me. “Don’t go getting sentimental over a creep like that. Drunk or not, bloodstained hatchets aren’t exactly a cry for help.”

I huffed a small, defeated laugh. “Yeah, you’re right.” I leaned back, letting the couch swallow me, and took another sip of wine.

The room filled with the soft clatter of her cooking and the low hum of a tune she didn’t know she was singing. I let the warmth of the drink blur the edges of the night.

Then, out of nowhere, her voice floated from the kitchen: “Was he at least hot?”

I choked, nearly spitting out my wine. “Pft—what??” My laughter spilled out, surprised and uncontrollable. I turned more toward the kitchen, glass still in hand.

She poked her head out again, spatula waving as her other hand rested sassily on her hip. “Like, was he at least hot? Because it would really suck if he was ugly and creepy.”

“If he was hot, would you just flirt your way out of getting murdered?” I teased, raising a brow over my glass.

She lifted the spatula to her chin thoughtfully, her other hand tucking under her chest like she was genuinely weighing the option. “Hmm…” she hummed dramatically.

“You’re so full of bullshit!” I laughed, grabbing a pillow from the couch and tossing it at her. She yelped, swatting it away with the spatula, and we both broke out in laughter.

But when the laughter settled, I actually thought about it. “Hot?” I repeated, half to myself. “I mean… his face was covered, so I wouldn’t really know. But—” I smirked, shaking my head at how ridiculous it sounded even as I said it—“I do think he was hiding some decent muscle under that baggy hoodie.”

The admission made me laugh at my own stupidity, and she joined me, shaking her head.

By the time dinner was ready, the air between us felt lighter, normal again. She set a plate in front of me, and we curled up on the couch with our food, the show we always watched flickering on the screen. Wine in hand, the earlier tension melted into background noise, replaced by easy conversation, cheap jokes, and the comfort of simply not being alone.

As the night stretched on, the warmth of the wine and the steady hum of the television pulled us both down. Somewhere between the middle of the episode and the movie that followed, our laughter faded into soft silence. The couch, too comfortable to leave, held us until our eyelids drooped. By the time the credits rolled, we were both asleep, the glasses half-empty on the table, the glow of the TV washing over us in the quiet safety of her living room.