you’ve never been a particularly superstitious person. you don’t panic at the sight of a black cat, you don’t worry about broken mirrors, and your only concern when opening an umbrella inside is that you might knock something off of its shelf. whatever rumors you’ve heard about these woods and what supposedly inhabits them were scoffed at, the warnings your grandmother gave paid no mind. there is no such thing as ghosts, after all, only tall-tales conjured to scare children, and keep drunken teenagers from trespassing.
still, you can admit that there’s something uncomfortably eerie about the absolute silence that overcomes the forest now. one moment, it’s filled with the cicadas’ cries and the birds’ croons, and then—nothing at all. everything stops, sans the rustling of the trees in the icy breeze and the crunch of rotting leaves under your boots. like the forest itself is holding its breath.
your first thought is coyotes, maybe some other predator, something you can’t see but the creatures that call this place home can. would a pack dare wonder so close to a human campsite? is it not known that they’re more afraid of you than you are of them? what does one do if they’re being stalked by a coyote, anyways? you cannot, for the life of you, remember.
the back of your neck prickles, your stomach churning, like someone, something, might be watching you. you’re being dramatic, you think. you’re tired, and hungry, and you spent the last three hours stuck in a car with a very chatty, excitable posse. you’ll feel better once the fire’s going and you’ve got a few drinks in you. you need to let loose, relax a little. that’s the whole point of this trip.
there’s no better way to take a load off than to separate yourself from the chaos of everyday life and enjoy the luxuries of nature — at least, that’s what sam, your friend and colleague, said when you tried to get out of it. you reckon he just wanted an excuse to get plastered and go skinny dipping, but didn’t want to do so alone. thus, your entire friend group was roped into it, you included.
somebody calls your name, and some of the tension bleeds from your shoulders. vanessa, likely wondering why you’re taking so long to find firewood. she must’ve followed you, as the shouting is closer than it’d be if she were still at camp. she’s always been the worrier of the crew.
“coming!” you don’t think twice about answering, not wanting to give the poor girl a heart-attack so early on in the vacation, turning around with your arms full of fallen branches, trying to ignore the silence that has yet to let up. vanessa doesn’t respond, but you swear that, for the briefest of moments, you can hear someone laughing in the distance. sam must’ve broken into the cooler in your absence, too impatient to wait.
you go back the way you came, cursing about the setting sun making it near impossible to see where you’re going. oddly enough, you don’t run into vanessa on the way—you thought she would have waited for you. maybe she got cold, or was simply intimidated by the forest. you can’t blame her.
the closer you get to your campsite, the more uneasy you grow. even now, it’s silent. the laughter’s ceased, there’s no chatter, no music on the radio, nothing.
and then a piercing scream, from your own throat, as you breach the tree line and find your friends dead in the dirt, eyes open and throats torn out. sam, vanessa, tatum, and ryan — all of whom were alive and well when you left them not ten minutes ago.
your findings tumble from your arms, knees buckling as you gawk at the horrific scene before you. not just dead, but mauled. how did you not hear them screaming? how did it happen so fast? you can’t make sense of it, any of it. your vision tunnels, and it’s all you can do not to hit the ground.
a twig snaps behind you, and you whirl around so quickly you almost give yourself whiplash.
a man, well over six foot and twice your size bodily, blond hair matted with blood, his chin slick with it, standing mere feet away from you in the same direction you just came from. his face is still as stone, sharp brown eyes boring into yours, bright with something like amusement.
you’ve never understood why deer freeze when caught in headlights until this moment. his presence renders you immobile, senseless, his gaze weighing you down like a tangible thing. it’s not until he moves, tilts his head ever-so-slightly, as if mocking you, that you find the will to run.
you bolt in the opposite direction, into the trees, not daring to glance back. the car’s no use to you, not with the keys still tucked in tatum’s pocket, and you lost service twenty miles before setting up camp. it’s only you out here. you, and him. you think so, at least.
until you hear it, the laughter, coming from either side of you, getting louder and louder the further you run. you try to escape it, dodge and weave with no real direction in mind, but it’s everywhere. in the awful shadows that blind you, the bushes that slice at your ankles, the trees towering over you. for a moment, it almost sounds like sam’s. then, it shifts, turns into something garbled and inhuman, something wicked.
something grabs at you, snags the back of your jacket and sends you sprawling across the unforgiving ground, forestry biting into the silky flesh of your palms. somebody coos, seemingly sympathetic, maybe even encouraging. you don’t look to see what, or who, it is. you force yourself back to your feet, and you keep running.
your lungs burn and your head spins, legs aching and throat sore with all the cold air you’ve been gulping. you can’t keep this up, and you’re sure that they, whatever they may be, know it. they’re toying with you now, waiting for you to tire.
just when you think you’ve reached your limit, that you can’t possibly play this game any longer, the trees part to reveal a dimly-lit cabin in a small clearing. hope blooms in your chest like the warmth from that fire you never got to light.
you barely make it to the front door, your legs giving out as you climb the front porch steps, pounding on the aging wood so violently that it splits your knuckles. you brave a glance over your shoulder, but find it pointless. there’s nothing there—the woods are quiet once more. that somehow makes it even worse.
a man opens the door, and you all but throw yourself at him. he’s big, burly, but soft around the middle, with dark hair, a thick beard, and a pair of eyes so blue that they’d be startling if it were not for whatever is waiting for you beyond the trees.
“please! please, they killed my friends! they’re chasing me!” you must sound mad. absolutely off your rocker. you’re practically dead weight as this stranger grabs you by the biceps, hauling you to your feet with little effort at all.
“shh-shh-shh, easy, you’re alright,” his voice is gentle, steady despite the way you’re sobbing, gasping, trembling in his arms. if you weren’t so distraught, you might have recognized that as suspicious. alas, the adrenaline drowns out any rationale.
a warm breath fans across the back of your neck, and you’d scream if you weren’t so out of breath. you whip around, and come face to face with the man from the campsite, close enough that you can smell the remnants of your friends on his breath. you choke, trying to scramble away, but those warm hands that helped you mere moments ago grip your shoulders so tightly you know they’ll bruise, his voice still so soft in your ear. “it’s okay, love, simon won’t hurt you,”
“no, no, no, no,” how could you be so stupid? they herded you, like a lamb to the slaughter, and you let them.
you crumple, though he doesn’t let you hit your knees again, as two more bodies emerge from the darkness. the first, with a windblown mohawk, and a smile that splits his face in two, laughs at you, teeth too sharp to be human. the other, a brown-skinned man with a face you might’ve once thought handsome, looks almost sorry when you catch his eye. almost.
“don’t mind them,” the man in the house soothes, petting your hair in a poor imitation of tenderness. “they can get a little overzealous. they mean well, though,”
the handsome one clicks his tongue, eyeing you with pity. “best get it inside before it collapses, cap’n. it looks sick.”
simon scoffs, lip curling in indignation. “if you two hadn’t insisted on chasing it through the fuckin’ woods…”
“god forbid we have some fun too,” mohawk butts in, his scowl doing nothing to dampen his glee.
you think you hear their captain scolding them, but it’s hard to tell, as your vision fades to black, and you go limp in his arms.
