The cold hit me the second we stepped outside, sharp and
quiet. Christmas dinner was a memory
already. Too much food, too much heat in
that stuffy little living room. Dan nudged my elbow with a grin,
holding up the flashlight like a trophy.
You sure you're ready for this? Frostbite makes a great
Christmas gift. I rolled my eyes, tightening my
coat. I'll risk it.
Just don't drop that flashlight or we'll end up as frozen
statues. The village felt empty, even for
Christmas. The houses sat still, lit
faintly by warm yellow glows. Dan flicked on the industrial
flashlight and it's beam cut through the dark like a blade
sweeping across the road ahead. Everything outside the circle of
light looked unnervingly black. We walked in step, boots
crunching against ice and gravel, our breaths curling in
the air. I hugged my camera to my chest.
We needed this, I said. It's too quiet in there.
I felt like I was suffocating. Exactly why I suggested it.
Dan swung the beam side to side as we veered onto the narrow
path that led toward the woods. This stretch of Rd. always felt
lonely at night. On one side, open fields
stretched out, flat and dead looking beneath the moon.
On the other, the forest loomed, a wall of twisted branches that
clawed at the sky, waiting to swallow anyone who wandered too
close. I thought about the wild boars
Dan always teased me about. It was mating season, and the
last thing I wanted was to come face to face with one in the
dark. When we reached the forest's
edge, I spotted something ahead, metal glinting faintly in the
light. Dan's beam landed on it, and I
grabbed his arm. What the hell is that?
It was a car, An old, battered sedan, half sunken into the
underbrush like it had been left to die there.
The windows were frosted over, thick and Milky.
The longer I looked, the stranger, it felt like it didn't
belong. Nobody drove out here.
The path was too narrow, and there were no turnarounds for
miles. Abandoned.
Dan muttered, his voice low. He stepped closer, the light
catching more details. Dirt streaked windows, deep
scratches along the driver's side door.
Why would someone leave a car here?
I said. My voice sounded too loud.
Maybe they broke down, I don't know.
Maya, come on, let's keep moving.
But I was already raising my camera.
The scene was too strange to ignore.
I adjusted the settings and motioned for Dan to aim the
flashlight at it. Just hold it still for a second,
this is weird, it'll make a great shot.
The beam wobbled a little, but I focused on the car, framing it
against the twisted forest backdrop.
The flash popped, bright and jarring, and for half a second
the entire scene was lit up in stark white.
When the light faded, I caught a glimpse of something past the
car in the trees. A shape.
Dan. I whispered, lowering the
camera. He didn't hear me.
I turned to find him standing completely still, flashlight
aimed at the ground. Maya.
His voice was barely audible. Don't freak out, OK?
Why would I? Someone standing behind us?
I froze. The air turned to ice in my
lungs. What?
He didn't move, didn't turn, just shifted the flashlight
slightly, enough to widen the beam.
And there, maybe 20 feet away, in the middle of the path we
just walked, stood a man. I couldn't see his face.
He stood just beyond the reach of the light, wrapped in shadow,
but I could make out his shape, tall and thin, head tilted
slightly as if he were studying us.
I tried to speak, but my throat had locked itself shut.
Dan managed first. Hey.
His voice cracked. You OK, man?
You need something. The man didn't move, didn't
respond. He just stood there.
Dan tightened his grip on the flashlight.
Maya, let's go. I was already backing up, my
pulse thundering in my ears. The man shifted, not forward but
backward, sinking step by step into the darkness like a ghost.
The way he moved was wrong, slow but deliberate, as if he wanted
us to know he was leaving or waiting.
Dan grabbed my arm, tugging me along the path.
Come on, don't look back, just walk.
And we did, fast. I clutched my camera to my
chest, every muscle in my body screaming at me to run, but I
couldn't. I felt him behind us, felt his
eyes, the silence where footsteps should have been.
Dan. I whispered, breathless.
What if he's following us? He's not.
But he didn't sound sure. We hit the end of the path where
the first weak glow of a street light appeared.
I turned, just for a second, and my stomach dropped.
The car had moved. The headlights flashed on
briefly. Blindingly, before the engine
coughed to life, the car crept forward, grinding against the
dirt, but then stopped. Just stopped.
The headlights turned off again, and the man's silhouette
appeared behind the wheel, staring down the path toward us.
Is he leaving? I asked, voice trembling.
Dan didn't answer. We didn't wait to find out.
We sprinted the last stretch to the village, not stopping until
we reached the 1st house where the light felt safe and warm.
I turned one last time, panting, and saw the faint outline of the
car still parked at the edge of the forest, its body hidden in
shadow. Dan grabbed my hand and pulled
me away. Neither of us spoke until we
were back inside. The locks turned tight.
I leaned against the door, the weight of what we'd seen sinking
in. Dan.
I finally whispered. Yeah, that car, it didn't belong
there. Dan didn't say anything.
He just stared out the window, past the fields and toward the
black edge of the forest, and I couldn't stop thinking about the
man, how he'd been standing there.
The next morning, everything looked normal, like the woods
hadn't swallowed a car, and a man hadn't stood there in the
dark, watching us like we were lost pets.
I tried to convince myself it had been nothing, a bad dream
stirred up by too much food and too little sleep, but I knew
better. Dan didn't say much over
breakfast. He just sat at the table,
chewing his toast like it was chewing him back, and stared at
the window outside, the forest loomed in the distance, the
trees thick and dark even under the weak winter sunlight.
I finally broke the silence. We need to go back.
Dan looked up, blinking. Go back where?
To the woods? To the car?
We didn't imagine that, Dan. I didn't say we imagined it.
He avoided my gaze, but I caught his hands clenched into fists on
the table. Dan had always been the
practical one, never prone to paranoia or flights of fancy.
That's why seeing him rattled unnerved me more than anything.
You don't want to know who that was?
I pressed. What he was doing there.
I want to forget it happened, Maya.
That's what I want, but I couldn't.
Something about that man, how silently he moved, how he melted
into the shadows, was burned into my mind.
So after lunch, I convinced Dan to go back, just for a minute.
I said, grabbing my camera and pulling on my coat.
We'll check it out in daylight. I just, I need to know.
Dan sighed, but grabbed the flashlight anyway.
It didn't feel like overkill, not after last night.
The walk back felt completely different in the light.
The path was smaller than I remembered.
Frost covered gravel and muddy patches where the sun had
started to thaw the ice. Birds chirped in the distance.
Everything seemed too normal, like the forest was gaslighting
us. When we reached the spot where
the car had been, I stopped short.
It was gone. See.
Dan said, sounding almost relieved.
He left. Told you we shouldn't have come
back. But I stepped closer, staring at
the dirt where the tires had been.
There were faint impressions still there, the ground frozen
and soft at the edges. You could see where the car had
backed up deep ruts in the mud, then just disappeared.
Where did he go? I muttered.
Dan turned away. Maya, let's hold on.
Something else caught my eye. A bit of fabric, small and pink,
caught on a Bramble a few feet from the tire marks.
I bent down and pulled it free. It was a glove.
A child's glove, tiny and muddied. 1 fingertip torn.
Dan. I said, holding it up.
He squinted, his face darkening. Where'd that come from?
I don't know, but I trailed off as something shiny caught the
sunlight a few feet further into the brush.
I moved toward it, ignoring Dan's grumble of protest.
My boots sank into the wet ground, brambles clawing at my
pants as I pushed into the undergrowth.
What I found made my stomach turn.
It was a knife, rusted and buried halfway into a tree
trunk. Someone had jammed it there with
enough force to leave. The bark splintered around the
blade. A hunting knife, but old, like
it had been sitting there for weeks, maybe months.
Jesus. Dan whispered behind me.
What the hell is this? I turned slowly, heart pounding
in my ears. Someone was here.
Someone's been here a while. And then Dan spotted the hole
about 10 feet deeper into the woods.
A shallow depression had been dug into the dirt.
It was ringed with footprints, boot prints, and surrounded by
empty bottles, plastic bags, and scraps of fabric.
A sleeping bag sat bunched in the center, damp and stained
with something dark. Dan didn't say a word.
He just stood there, staring at it.
What is this? I whispered, my voice shaking.
Is someone living here? Dan shook his head.
No, not living, hiding. I stared back at the footprints
circling the sight, the broken sticks, the knife wedged into
the tree. My skin prickled.
Do you think he was watching us last night from here?
Dan grabbed my arm hard enough to make me wince.
We're leaving now. Back home.
I didn't wait this time. I called the police immediately,
explaining everything. The car, the man, the strange
camp in the woods. I told them about the knife, the
glove, the sleeping bag. The officer on the phone sounded
calm, but he asked me to describe the car in detail.
Color make. The little I could remember.
An hour later, an officer called back.
We checked the area, he said there's no car, but we found the
spot you described. We're going to keep looking.
I exhaled shakily. But before I could thank him, he
added. Here's the thing, a car matching
your description was reported stolen from the city a week ago,
six hours away. Stolen.
I repeated. Yes.
He said. His voice dropped lower, like he
didn't want anyone else to hear the owners missing.
They haven't been seen in over two weeks.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
Dan sat across from me, watching as I clutched the phone tighter.
We'll keep you updated. The officer finished.
But listen, stay out of those woods for now.
People hide in places like that for a reason.
He hung up, leaving me in a silence that suddenly felt
alive. Dan shifted in his chair.
What did they say? I swallowed hard.
The car was stolen. And the owner?
They're missing. Dan's face paled.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
I looked out the window where the edge of the forest stared
back, dark and still. That night, I swore I heard
footsteps outside the house. They started soft, almost
imagined, but then came closer, boots pressing slowly against
the frost covered grass. I sat up in bed, heart pounding.
Dan was already awake beside me, clutching the flashlight from
the night before. Did you hear that?
I whispered. He nodded, eyes locked on the
window. We didn't move, didn't breathe,
and then the footsteps stopped right beneath the window.
The flashlight flickered in Dan's shaking hand, its beam
aimed at the curtain. Neither of us dared to pull it
back. And then, finally, the sound
came again, a slow, deliberate retreat back into the woods.
I didn't sleep at all that night.
It was two nights later when the real terror set in.
Dan and I hadn't spoken much since the police called.
There wasn't anything left to say.
We kept busy, watch TV we didn't really follow, pretended we
weren't both jumping at every sound outside.
But that feeling, the one that lingered from the forest, hadn't
left. I couldn't shake it every time I
looked at the window. Or heard a creak on the
floorboards. My stomach clenched.
We'd checked the locks twice, sometimes three times before
bed. Dan had even gone outside to
make sure the shed and garage were bolted shut.
And every night, we slept with the flashlight on the bedside
table, its beam ready to Pierce the dark at a moment's notice.
It made us feel safer. That night, though, something
changed. I woke up suddenly, gasping like
I'd been dragged out of a nightmare.
Except there'd been no dream, just a feeling, heavy and
suffocating that something was wrong.
The room was pitch black. I reached for the flashlight,
but my hand hit empty wood. The flashlight wasn't there.
I froze, every inch of me on high alert.
Dan. I whispered, my voice hoarse.
He shifted beside me. The flashlight.
But where is it? He sat up, groggy.
It's his hand fumble for the table and froze, just like mine
had. Where the hell?
We stared at each other, eyes wide.
We hadn't moved it. It had been there when we went
to sleep. The sound came then, a soft tap,
tap, tap against the window. Deliberate, slow.
I couldn't move. My body refused to obey me.
Dan turned first, his breath shallow, his face pale in the
faint moonlight filtering through the curtains.
The tapping stopped, and then, impossibly, a beam of light
swept across the window. It was a flashlight, our
flashlight. I gasped, choking on the air.
Dan shot out of bed and grabbed my arm.
Stay here, he whispered. No, I said, panic rising.
Dan, don't. But he was already moving,
stalking toward the window. His hands hovered over the
curtains, hesitating. Then, without warning, he yanked
them open. The flashlight beam shone
directly into our bedroom. It hovered there, motionless,
blinding us for a moment, and then tilted downward toward the
figure holding it. There he was standing at the
edge of our yard, just past the garden.
It was the man from the woods, the same tall, thin silhouette,
his face hidden beneath the shadow of a hood.
His body was unnaturally still, like he'd been planted there,
rooted to the spot. He held the flashlight pointed
upward now, as though showing it to us, as though taunting us.
Dan dropped the curtain like it burned him.
Call the cops, he whispered, his voice shaking.
I scrambled for my phone, my fingers trembling so badly I
could barely type in the passcode.
It rang once, twice. Dan moved to the front door,
grabbing the bat we kept behind the coat rack.
Stay upstairs. I mean it, Maya.
No, Dan, stop. I hissed, but he was already
descending the stairs, flashlight gone, bat in hand,
the operator finally answered. 911, what's your emergency?
There's someone outside my house.
I blurted. He's standing in my yard
watching us. He, he has our flashlight.
He. Stay calm.
Ma'am, is your door locked? Yes.
Is the person still outside? I peeked out the curtain again.
The man was gone. The yard stood empty, still
blanketed in frost and silence. I pressed a hand to my mouth, a
wave of nausea washing over me. He's not there anymore, I
whispered. The operator asked me to hold,
but I didn't listen. I stumbled downstairs, heart
pounding in my ears. Dan was in the living room, the
bat clutched in his hands, staring at the front door.
He's gone, I choked out. Dan, he's gone.
Dan didn't turn to look at me. He just nodded, still staring at
the door. I stepped closer and saw it.
The flashlight, our flashlight was lying on the welcome mat.
I couldn't breathe. Dan didn't move.
The beam was off now, but the handle sat there, clean and
cold, placed perfectly in the center of the mat like an
offering. Did you see him leave?
I whispered. Dan shook his head, his knuckles
white around the bat. No, I didn't hear anything.
The police arrived 20 minutes later.
They searched the yard, the shed, the perimeter of the
house, but there were no footprints, just faint
disturbances in the frost that led back toward the trees,
toward the forest. One officer handed me the
flashlight. You're sure it's yours?
I nodded weakly. We brought it to the woods two
nights ago. It it disappeared.
The officer glanced toward the tree line, his expression hard
to read. We'll patrol the area tonight,
he said. But you 2 need to stay inside.
Lock your doors. If you see anything else, don't
go outside. Call us immediately.
The rest of the night passed in a sickening blur.
Dan didn't sleep, neither did I. The flashlight sat on the table
like a cursed object. I couldn't look at it without
imagining him standing there, holding it, pointing it at the
window. Just before dawn, I heard it
again. The soft, deliberate.
Tap, tap, tap. Only this time it came from the
back door and I swear to God whoever it was whistled before
disappearing into the dark. Christmas Eve was supposed to
feel magical. It always had for me.
Warm houses full of people you only see once a year, tables
sagging under plates of food, the kind of laughter that could
shake the walls, that's what. The night had been perfect.
Emily and I spent hours at my uncle's farmhouse, tucked deep
in the country, where snow dusted the trees and the
fireplace roared loud enough to drown out the Christmas music.
I watched Emily, her first time meeting the extended family, fit
in like she'd been there for years.
She even won two rounds of poker, probably thanks to my
cousin's inability to bluff when flirting.
She'd had her fair share of spiked eggnog, too much, really.
By the time we were ready to leave, she was warm and
giggling, half asleep on her feet.
That's when I took the keys. I didn't mind.
I knew the roads home like the back of my hand.
Emily slumped into the passenger seat as I eased her car down the
driveway, headlights slicing through the dark.
It's hard to explain how empty those roads felt, just long
stretches of pavement surrounded by black woods and the
occasional clearing where a farmhouse would sit like a
lonely ship on a sea of snow. No St. lights, no traffic,
nothing but me and the hum of the engine.
Emily dozed beside me, breathing slow and steady, her head
lolling against the window. The deeper we drove, the quieter
the world seemed to get. Highway 117 was my old friend,
miles of nothing connecting forgotten towns.
I could have driven it blindfolded, but that night felt
different. Maybe it was the cold creeping
into the car despite the heater blasting.
Maybe it was the way the trees seemed thicker than I
remembered, their branches hanging low like they were
trying to block out the sky. We reached Cedar Creek just
after midnight. The road dips there, a steep
plunge into a gully where an old bridge crosses the Creek at the
bottom. The bridge was nothing special,
rusted guard rails, wooden planks reinforced with asphalt.
But something about that spot always felt wrong, like the air
changed when you crossed it. I didn't mention it to Emily, of
course. She was awake now, blinking
groggily and rubbing her eyes. Almost home?
I said, trying to sound cheerful.
She gave me a sleepy smile and nodded.
That's when it happened. Out of nowhere, something shot
across the road, a flash of red and white at the edge of the
headlights. I slammed the brakes.
The tire shrieked on the frozen pavement, and Emily yelped,
grabbing the dashboard. The car skidded, jerking to a
stop just shy of the shoulder. My heart hammered against my
ribs, the echo of the brakes ringing in my ears.
What the hell was that? I blurted, my voice too loud in
the sudden silence. Emily was wide eyed, clutching
her seat belt. Did you see that?
I nodded, throat dry. Yeah, yeah, I saw it.
What was it? I didn't know.
It had been too fast a shape, something human sized, But the
way it moved, it wasn't right. There was no stumble, no
hesitation. It shot across the road like it
knew exactly where it was going. A deer?
Emily offered weekly. But we both knew better.
I stared out at the dark forest beyond the road.
The high beams barely touched the tree line, just enough to
reveal twisted trunks and branches like reaching hands.
My stomach churned. I'm going to check it out, I
said before I could stop myself. What?
Emily grabbed my arm. No, no, we're not doing that.
Just drive, let's go. Someone could be hurt, I said,
though I wasn't sure I believed it.
Maybe I was trying to convince myself that's why I was getting
out. My gut told me to leave, to
forget it, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something or
someone was still out there. I turned the car around,
pointing the headlights back at the stretch of Rd. where I'd
seen it. Emily stayed silent, arms
crossed tightly over her chest, eyes darting nervously to the
trees. I flicked on the high beams and
the world seemed to shrink to the bubble of light in front of
me. Beyond, it was endless dark.
I stepped out of the car, the cold slamming into me like a
wall. My breath fogged in the air,
hanging there like a ghost as I shut the door behind me.
The silence was unbearable. There were no insects, no wind,
no distant cars, Just the faint hum of the engine and the snow
crunching under my boots as I walked toward the woods.
Daniel. Emily called softly from the
car. Please don't.
I ignored her. I don't know why I stood at the
edge of the road, staring into the forest.
My pulse pounded in my ears. I felt like I was being watched,
though I couldn't see anything, just shadows and branches that
twisted into shapes. My brain kept trying to turn
into people. Then the horn blared.
It was deafening, a single endless blast that made me jump
out of my skin. I spun toward the car, blinking
against the glare of the headlights.
Emily had her hand pressed hard on the horn, her eyes locked on
something past me. My blood turned to ice.
I turned slowly, following her gaze.
There, standing 10 feet into the trees, was a man.
At first, he didn't seem real. He was so still, like part of
the forest had grown into the shape of a person.
His skin was pale, almost grey, smeared with dirt and streaks of
something darker. His chest was bare, naked, and
he stood barefoot on the snow, but the thing that stuck out the
most was the Santa hat perched on his head, bright red, tilting
slightly like some twisted joke. He held something in his right
hand. It took my brain a moment to
register what it was. A machete.
The blade caught the light from the car, glinting just enough to
make my stomach drop. He smiled.
Not a friendly smile. A wide, slow, knowing smile that
didn't reach his eyes. He raised his left hand and
waved at me slowly, deliberately, like he'd been
expecting me. I don't remember running back to
the car. I don't remember starting the
engine or slamming the door. All I know is Emily screamed
drive, and I did. The Santa hat was the last thing
I saw, a splash of red disappearing into the trees as
we speed away. Emily's screaming filled the car
as we tore down the highway. My hands were white knuckled on
the wheel, every muscle in my body locked and shaking.
I didn't dare look in the rear view mirror.
I didn't want to see him it standing on the side of the
road, waiting, watching. What the hell was that?
Emily's voice cracked. She was curled up in the
passenger seat, her knees pulled to her chest, her hands
trembling so badly she had to clench them into fists.
Daniel, what the hell was that? I couldn't answer.
My chest felt tight, like I couldn't get enough air.
The Santa hat, That God damn hat.
I had seen the machete, I had seen his face, and somehow the
smile, that slow, deliberate grin was the worst of it.
Like he knew me. Like he'd been expecting me.
He waved. I said, my voice hoarse.
My words didn't even sound like my own.
He waved at me. Shut up.
Emily snapped, her voice sharp with fear.
Just shut up and drive. So I did.
I drove. The dark pressed in from all
sides, and the headlights felt pitiful against the black of the
forest. I swear the woods looked thicker
now, the branches huddled close like they were whispering to
each other. I kept expecting to see him
again, stepping out from the trees, grinning.
Machete. Glinting in the light, my pulse
didn't slow until I finally saw the glow of Emily's house in the
distance. St. lights, porch lights, the
faint orange tint of a living room window.
Civilization. My foot was shaking so hard on
the gas pedal that I almost missed her driveway.
I swerved. In throwing the car into park
and killing the engine, neither of us moved.
The only sound was our breathing, ragged and shallow.
I glanced at Emily. Her eyes were wide and wet with
tears, her face pale. She wasn't looking at me.
She was staring out the windshield, back toward the
road. Inside, I said.
Let's get inside. She nodded wordlessly, and we
bolted from the car like it might explode.
My boots hit the gravel and the night air felt sharper here,
cleaner but colder. My hand shook as I jammed her
keys into the lock. Once we were in, I slammed the
door shut behind us, turned the dead bolt and pressed my back
against the wood like it might somehow keep the man.
That thing outside the house was silent except for the ticking of
a clock somewhere deeper inside. Emily sank on to the couch,
dropping her face into her hands.
What did we just see? She whispered through her
fingers. I didn't answer, I couldn't.
My legs were trembling and I had to sit.
I dropped into the chair opposite her and just stared at
nothing. My brain refused to catch up to
what had happened. The dark shape sprinting across
the road, the man, the hatchet, smiling at me like we were old
friends. And the wave.
That slow, deliberate wave. Emily looked up.
Daniel. She said, her voice trembling.
When you got out of the car. I met her eyes.
Yeah. She swallowed hard, her throat
working like she didn't want to say the words.
He wasn't in front of us. He wasn't where you were
looking. My mouth went dry.
I saw him, she continued, her voice barely above a whisper.
While you were staring into the trees, he was behind you.
He came out of the woods further down the road.
I saw him step out and he started walking toward you.
So quiet. The machete was raised, Daniel.
Like he was going to. She broke.
Off her voice, catching her hands curled into her sweatshirt
sleeves, gripping the fabric like it might keep her steady.
I felt like I was going to be sick.
She nodded, fresh tears sliding down her cheeks.
You didn't see him. He was so close.
I hit the horn because I, I didn't know what else to do.
I stared at her, my heart hammering in my chest.
My brain played the scene back, over and over.
Me at the edge of the woods, staring into nothing, while
behind me, right behind me, that man was closing in, and I hadn't
heard him. Not a twig snapping, not a
footfall, nothing. Jesus.
I whispered, slumping back in the chair.
We sat in silence for a long time.
The clock ticked endlessly, counting down to something I
didn't want to think about. Finally, Emily stood up.
We have to call the cops. I didn't argue.
I grabbed the phone, hands still shaking, and dialed.
The cops arrived about an hour later, two of them, Officer
Daniels and Officer Ruiz. They were polite, but they
didn't hide their skepticism well.
We told them everything. The man in the Santa hat, the
machete, the way he had waved and vanished back into the
trees. Ruiz took notes, barely looking
up from his notepad. Daniels kept shifting his
weight, like he couldn't wait to get back in the squad car.
It was probably a drifter, Daniels said finally.
Meth head. Maybe you get him sometimes in
the woods, out here. I stared at him.
A drifter. Did you hear what I said?
He waved at me. He smiled.
Drifters smiled too. Daniels replied with a shrug.
Emily's face was pale again. And the machete?
The officers exchanged a glance. Ruiz sighed.
Look, we'll drive out there, check the bridge.
If he's out there, he won't last long, not in this cold.
The words made my skin crawl. If he's out there.
And just like that, they were gone.
A promise to call if they found anything, and two retreating
tail lights disappearing down the road.
Emily locked every window in the house after they left, even
though I was sure we were safe now.
I told her it was over. Just a random psycho, a freak
incident. But as I lay awake that night,
staring at the ceiling, my mind kept drifting back to the man's
face. That horrible grin, the way he
tilted his head, the Santa hat perched on his filthy hair.
I couldn't stop thinking about how he had waved.
Not like a stranger, not like a man caught in headlights.
No, he had waved at me like he knew me, like he'd been waiting
for me. I thought time would bury that
night on Cedar Creek Bridge. I thought after a while it would
feel like some hazy nightmare, a bad story I'd tell once or twice
at parties, embellished until it became something harmless.
That's what I told myself. That's what I wanted.
But some things don't stay buried.
It's been years since Emily and I drove down Hwy. 117, since I
stared into the trees and saw him smiling back at me.
Life moved on. The relationship ended, as young
relationships do. I moved away, started fresh
somewhere far from the empty roads of Oregon's backwoods.
And then, like some cruel trick, life brought me back.
Two months ago, I took a job in my old hometown.
It was good money, close to family.
I told myself I'd outgrown the fear that had gripped me all
those years ago. That man, the Santa hat, the
machete, it had all been some deranged drifter playing games.
He was probably dead in a ditch somewhere.
That's what I wanted to believe. But here I was, driving home on
Christmas Eve, alone. The road looked the same as it
always had, black as tar, no traffic, no light except the
faint glow of my high beams. The snow was falling now, fat
flakes swirling in the beams of my headlights, coating the road
in a thin, treacherous layer. I turned off the radio.
I didn't know why, maybe because it felt wrong to hear someone
crooning about peace on earth while I drove this stretch of
Rd. The closer I got to Cedar Creek,
the quieter the world seemed to grow.
It was like stepping into a bubble of silence.
My tires rolled over the snow, making soft, muffled sounds.
I came to the hill. The steep descent into the gully
looked the same. I felt it in my chest, the
memory of that drop, the place where it happened.
The bridge waited at the bottom, a flat black smear across the
snow. My hands tightened on the wheel.
I told myself to breathe. I'd driven this road before,
dozens of times. Since I came back, nothing had
happened. Nothing would happen, but still
my eyes flicked toward the woods, and there it was.
It was just a glimpse, a flash of red deep in the trees off to
the right. I nearly drove off the road,
trying to convince myself I hadn't seen it.
It was probably a piece of trash, a bit of cloth snagged on
a branch. My imagination.
I didn't stop, but as I rolled onto the bridge, I realized how
much I was holding my breath. The car's headlights cut through
the darkness. The bridge itself was narrow,
the guard rails rusted and brittle with age.
Beyond them, the Creek was a sliver of frozen blackness.
I could feel it under me, waiting.
Something. Moved.
It was quick, barely there, just past the reach of the
headlights. I slammed on the brakes.
The car skidded to a stop in the middle of the bridge.
My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
The headlights carved pale slashes into the trees on the
other side of the bridge, their beams breaking against the
trunks. Everything was still, too still.
I leaned forward, squinting into the dark.
My breaths fogged the windshield, and I wiped at it
with my sleeve. I wasn't sure what I was looking
for. Maybe nothing.
Maybe something I didn't want to see.
And then I saw him. The man.
He was standing just beyond the guardrail, barely 20 feet away.
My headlights caught him full on, washing out his face until
it looked like a blank mask. But I knew it was him.
I knew it from the way he stood still as a statue, shoulders
slumped slightly forward like he was waiting for me to see him.
And on his head, oh God, on his head, was the same filthy Santa
hat. It was tilted to one side, and
the white trim was dark and wet with grime.
His bare skin was a sickly Gray, streaked with dirt that looked
black in the light. His feet were bare, planted
firmly in the snow. But he didn't move, didn't
flinch. He just smiled, the same smile
as before, like I was an old friend who'd just stumbled back
into town. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't
think. I gripped the wheel so hard my
knuckles burned. My eyes darted to his right
hand, and there it was. The machete.
Its blade hung low, almost brushing the snow.
And then he waved, a slow, lazy wave like he was taunting me,
like he'd been waiting for me all this time.
I slammed my foot on the gas, tires screaming as they fought
for traction. The car shot forward, and I
didn't look back. I couldn't.
My whole body was shaking, and I could barely keep the wheel
steady as I tore up the hill. I didn't stop, not until I was
miles away, the bridge a distant nightmare swallowed by darkness.
That night I sat in my living room, with every light in the
house on the front door locked and double checked.
My heart hadn't stopped racing. I couldn't get his face out of
my head, that smile. I thought about what Emily had
said all those years ago. He was already there.
He was behind you. Had he been waiting for me
tonight, all these years later? Had he just known?
I didn't sleep. But as I sat there in the silent
house, staring at the curtains that didn't quite cover the
window. I swore I saw it again.
Just a flicker, like a shadow moving where it shouldn't, a
splash of red. I didn't check.
I didn't dare. Some nights, when I'm on that
road again, I don't even let myself blink.
I keep my eyes straight ahead and my foot heavy on the gas.
I don't care what I see out of the corner of my eye, deep in
the trees, but I know he's there.
And sometimes, when the night is quiet enough, I swear I can hear
it. A slow, deliberate knock on the
glass and a soft voice whispering Merry Christmas.
It was Christmas Eve when I made the mistake of going into the
woods. The snow had fallen in sheets
all day, piling up in perfect, undisturbed mounds outside my
parents house. The kind of snow that blankets
everything and makes the world unnervingly quiet.
Growing up here, just outside a tiny mountain town, I was used
to winters like this. Back then, the silence felt
magical. Now it just felt heavy, like
something was holding its breath.
We just finished dinner, the house warm with the smell of
roasted ham and pine from the old wood stove.
My parents sat on the couch, mumbling about the weather and
the storm expected later tonight.
I don't know what got into me, Restlessness maybe, but the idea
hit me like an itch I couldn't scratch.
The old trail, the one I used to walk as a kid.
I stood up, pulled on my boots and coat, and told them I was
going for a quick walk. You're kidding, right?
My dad asked, his brow furrowed as he sipped his whiskey.
It's Christmas Eve, Eli, don't be stupid.
My mom added. She wasn't smiling.
I'll be back in an hour, just the trail to the Creek.
I said. It's not like I don't know the
way. My dad shrugged, mumbling
something under his breath, but my mom shot me a look that made
me hesitate at the door. It was weird, almost like she
knew something I didn't, but I brushed it off.
The cold hit me like a slap as I stepped outside, the air sharp
and thick with the smell of snow.
For a second I stood there in the dark, my breath turning to
clouds in the beam of my flashlight.
The woods stretched ahead of me, tall black shadows standing
perfectly still under their snow heavy branches.
I could hear the creak of ice in the wind, the distant sound of
something dripping, and then silence.
The trail was barely visible beneath the snow, but my boots
found it instinctively. I used to know every step of
this place. It wound steeply down through
the forest, narrow enough that I had to duck under the occasional
low hanging branch. The air was colder here, sharper
like the trees held the wind hostage.
About halfway down, I stopped to listen.
Nothing. Not a bird, not a branch, not a
damn thing. It was so quiet my ears buzzed
with it. The woods had always been quiet
in winter, but this was different, Unnatural, almost
like the forest was waiting. I shook it off and kept moving,
pushing deeper into the trees. Eventually, the Creek came into
view, a thin sliver of ice covered water cutting through
the landscape like a scar. The old logging cabin sat just
beyond it, an abandoned, rotting relic my friends and I used to
dare each other to explore. It looked smaller than I
remembered. That's when I saw it.
At first it looked like a lump of snow hanging from a branch
across the Creek. I shone my flashlight at it, and
my heart dropped. A rabbit strung upside down, its
body stiff and frozen, a noose of twine digging into its
ankles. I swallowed hard.
It was fresh. Its throat had been slit clean,
the blood frozen into thin black lines that traced down its fur.
I turned quickly, scanning the woods with my flashlight.
Someone had to have done this recently.
Today, maybe even tonight. The thought made my chest
tighten. I'd grown up here, spent years
in these trees. I'd never seen another.
Soul, this deep in the woods, Who would even come out here in
the middle of winter? A sound broke the silence.
Clang. I froze.
Clang, clang, clang. It was a bell, low and heavy,
ringing from somewhere in the distance to the north.
My flashlight trembled in my hand as I scanned the trees.
But there was nothing there, just the shadows shifting under
the snow. I tried to tell myself it was
nothing, A cowbell, maybe, or someone's dog, But deep down I
knew better. There were no farms out this
far, no houses, and the bell wasn't ringing randomly.
There was a rhythm to it, Slow, deliberate, wrong.
I stepped back, my boot crunching hard in the snow.
The sound stopped. The silence rushed back in,
thicker now, pressing against my ears like cotton.
I turned around and headed back up the trail, faster this time.
I told myself I was just being paranoid, that it was probably
some hunter messing around. But then I saw it.
Not the rabbit. Another one.
This one was sprawled across a stump, its fur stripped clean,
its limbs splayed out unnaturally, almost as though it
had been arranged. My flashlight shook as I stepped
closer and realized something else.
Boot prints, fresh ones, deep and large, circling the stump.
I felt like the air had been sucked from my lungs.
I spun around, scanning the darkness.
My flashlight flickered, and for one terrifying second, I thought
I saw a shadow move between the trees.
I stopped breathing. The bell started again.
Clang, clang, clang, closer. My heart hammered in my chest
and I bolted. I didn't care if I tripped or if
I broke my ankle, I just needed to get out.
The snow seemed deeper now, grabbing at my boots, slowing me
down. I could hear the bell following
me, the sound growing louder, faster.
When I reached the top of the trail, I didn't stop.
I burst into the yard, my chest heaving, and ran straight into
the house. My mom looked up from the couch,
startled, while my dad stood up, alarmed.
What the hell happened to you? He barked.
I couldn't answer, I just turned and locked the door from the
kitchen window. I stared into the woods, half
expecting to see someone step out of the trees, but there was
nothing. Just snow falling in thick,
heavy flakes, coating the world in white.
Somewhere in the distance, I swore I still heard it.
Clang, clang, clang. I barely slept that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I heard it.
The ringing, slow and deliberate, like a clock
counting down. Clang, clang, clang, I kept
telling myself it was in my head.
It had to be. The woods were empty, nothing
but snow and shadows. My parents didn't hear anything
after I came back last night, So what the hell was I hearing now?
By morning, it didn't matter. The sound was gone, and I
decided to chalk it up to stress.
Too much Christmas ham, too much nostalgia messing with my head.
I wouldn't be going back to the trail, that was for damn sure.
Or at least that's what I told myself.
By the time the afternoon rolled around, I started pacing.
I don't know why. The house felt too small, too
warm. The idea of that trail wouldn't
leave me alone, though I tried. I stared out the window, my eyes
drawn to the tree line. It was like the forest was
watching me, calling me back. That's how I ended up in the
woods again, walking that same snow covered trail.
It was stupid. I knew it was stupid, even as I
shoved my boots on and told my dad I just needed some air.
He grunted something in response, but didn't argue.
The snow had stopped falling, and the sky was the kind of
pale, flat Gray that makes everything feel unreal, like the
world had been drained of color. The first few minutes weren't so
bad. I could hear the crunch of my
boots on the snow, steady and loud, grounding me.
The trail looked the same, though the trees seemed taller
today, the shadows between their trunks darker.
I kept my flashlight with me, just in case.
The sunset early in winter, and I wasn't planning on staying
long. It wasn't until I reached the
Creek that things started to go wrong.
The rabbit was gone. The first one I'd found, the one
hanging from the branch. It wasn't there anymore.
For a second I thought maybe I'd gotten turned around, but the
broken snow below the tree told me otherwise.
Something had taken it. My throat went dry.
I looked around, every muscle in my body tensing like a coiled
spring. The silence was overwhelming
again, so deep it made my ears hum, and I heard it clang.
It was faint at first, somewhere to my right, a single note that
broke through the quiet like glass shattering.
Clang, clang, clang. It was unmistakable now, the
bell, and it was closer. I turned toward the sound,
holding my breath, and scanned the woods with my flashlight.
Nothing but snow and trees. I took a step back, suddenly
hyper aware of my own breathing. Then I saw the boot prints.
They weren't mine. They were huge, pressed deep
into the snow, fresh enough that the edges were still sharp.
They led toward the Creek, then off to the right, into the trees
where the light didn't reach. My heart began to hammer against
my ribs. Clang, clang, clang.
The bell was louder now, closer, so close I thought I should be
able to see it. I spun around, light trembling
in my hand as I swept it across the forest.
Movement. I stopped cold, my breath
catching in my throat. Between 2 trees, far ahead, I
saw it. A figure.
At first, I couldn't make sense of what I was seeing.
It was tall, unnaturally tall, its shoulders hunched slightly
forward as it stood there, still as the trees.
It was wearing a long coat, heavy and dark, with a hood
pulled low over its face. Its hands hung at its sides, one
gloved hand holding something. The bell.
It swung gently, softly, as if the figure had only just stopped
moving. The light from my flashlight
caught the Bell's surface. It was old, rusted, maybe brass,
with strange grooves carved into it.
It wasn't like any bell I'd ever seen.
The figure didn't move. It just stood there, staring at
me. And then it took a step.
The bell rang with the motion. Clang.
I stumbled backwards, slipping on the snow, but I didn't take
my eyes off it. Hey.
I shouted, though my voice came out thin and ragged.
What the hell do you want? No answer.
It took another step. The bell swung.
Clang. My instincts screamed at me to
run, but my legs wouldn't move. I felt frozen, like I was
sinking into the snow, becoming part of the forest.
The figure tilted its head slightly, just enough to make my
skin crawl. Clang, clang, clang.
It was coming toward me, slow and deliberate, the bell ringing
in time with its footsteps. My body finally woke up.
I turned and bolted, tearing back toward the trail, slipping
and stumbling through the snow. The sound of the bell followed
me, steady, constant. I fumble for my phone as I ran,
my frozen fingers barely managing to press the call
button. My mom picked up on the 1st
ring. Mom.
I gasped, nearly choking on my own breath.
Come now, please. I need dad.
Tell him to meet me at the trailhead.
Eli, what's happening? Where are you?
Her voice cracked. Someone's out here, someone's
following me. I screamed, the words spilling
out as I sprinted. My flashlight bobbed wildly in
my hand, illuminating nothing but white snow and black trees.
I could hear the bell clang, clang, clang.
Always the same pace, like the thing didn't even need to run to
keep up with me. Dad's coming.
Run, Eli, run. My mom's voice broke into sobs
as I kept moving, my legs screaming in protest.
Branches snapped to my left. Footsteps crunched behind me.
Closer now. I wanted to look back, but I
couldn't. The bell was deafening.
Clang, clang, clang. I burst onto the trail, half
sliding as I tried to climb the slope back toward the trailhead.
My legs felt like lead, but I didn't stop.
I couldn't stop. Somewhere up ahead, I heard my
dad's voice, faint but real. I screamed back, my voice
hoarse. I'm here, I'm here.
I didn't dare look behind me, I just kept running faster than I
ever thought I could. Finally, the beam of my dad's
flashlight cut through the trees, and I almost sobbed with
relief. I barreled toward him, feeling
the ground give way beneath me as I threw myself into his arms.
Who's out there? He demanded, spinning around to
look back at the woods from the trees behind us.
The sound came one last time. Clang.
It was slow and deliberate, echoing through the forest like
a warning. My dad froze, holding me tightly
as we both turned to stare into the darkness.
The woods were still empty, but I knew it was there.
My dad didn't say a word as he pulled me up the final stretch
of the trail. His grip on my arm was iron, but
I couldn't stop shaking. My lungs burned, my legs felt
like wet cement, and I kept glancing over my shoulder,
convinced that if I looked back long enough.
I'd see that thing stepping out of the trees.
The car sat waiting at the edge of the trailhead, its headlights
punching through the dark like desperate hands clawing for
something solid. My mom was inside, hunched over
the wheel, her knuckles white. When she saw us, she threw the
door open. Get in, she shouted.
Her voice was shrill, higher pitched than I'd ever heard it
before. I stumbled toward the car,
collapsing into the back seat while my dad climbed into the
passenger side. The door slammed shut and the
car lurched forward, fishtailing briefly on the icy Rd. as my mom
stomped the gas. I huddled against the cold seat,
every muscle in my body locked still half expecting to hear it
again. Clang, clang, clang.
But there was only the sound of the tires grinding against the
snow and my own shivering breaths.
No one spoke as we drove. My dad stared out the passenger
window, one hand resting tensely on his knee.
My mom's eyes flicked to the rear view mirror every few
seconds, her face pinched tight, as if she expected something to
lunge out of the woods. Behind us, I finally found my
voice. Did you hear it?
The bell. Neither of them answered.
For a long moment, my mom's gaze stayed locked on the road, but I
saw her nod, almost imperceptible.
My dad turned slightly, his face pale in the glow of the
dashboard lights. I heard it once, right before I
found you. He didn't look at me when he
said it, and that scared me more than anything.
When we got home, my dad locked the doors behind us, double
checking each one like he was sealing us into a bunker.
My mom started pacing the living room, wringing her hands.
The Christmas tree sat in the corner, its lights blinking
silently, the ornaments reflecting warped little flashes
of color across the room. It felt wrong, cheerful and out
of place against the suffocating fear pressing down on us.
What the hell happened out there?
My dad finally asked. I told them everything.
The rabbits, the boot prints, the bell and the figure in the
woods. The coat, the hood, the way it
moved. My dad's face darkened and he
glanced at my mom, who was still pacing.
Her eyes were glassy, far away. When I finished, he didn't
speak. He just stood up, grabbed his
coat and disappeared into the garage.
What is he doing? I asked.
Your father doesn't like not having answers.
My mom muttered. She sank on to the couch,
pressing her fingers into her temples like she was trying to
push the fear out of her skull. I didn't say anything else.
My head was pounding and I felt sick to my stomach, like I'd
swallowed ice water that refused to warm.
I wanted to believe this was over, that we were safe here,
behind locked doors and solid walls.
But the longer I sat in the living room, the more I felt it.
A wait, like something was pressing on the House from the
outside. I pulled back the curtain and
looked out the window, even though I didn't want to.
The yard was empty, just a sea of untouched white.
Beyond that, the forest waited, black and endless, stretching
into the night. I told myself I didn't see
anything, but the longer I stared, the harder it was to
shake the feeling that someone was out there, standing just
beyond the tree line, watching. My dad didn't come back inside
for nearly an hour. When he did, he was carrying his
old hunting rifle. He sat at the table, checked the
chamber, and set it down in front of him.
The look on his face was hard, more serious than I'd ever seen
him before. Tomorrow I'm going out there.
He said no. My mom snapped, standing up.
No, you're not. We need to know what's out
there. You heard it, Bill.
She shot back, her voice rising. It's not some animal.
It's not some drunk hunter. There's something wrong with
those woods. I didn't know what scared me
more, hearing the fear in my mother's voice, or the fact that
my dad didn't argue. He just stared at the table, his
jaw working silently like he was trying to grind the fear down
into dust. Eventually, I couldn't take it
anymore. What do you think it is?
I asked quietly. Neither of them answered me.
That night, I sat in my room with the door locked, my back
pressed against the wall. I kept my phone in my hand, the
screen lighting up every so often to tell me there was
nothing new. No messages, no notifications.
The hours dragged on, midnight came and went, and the house
fell into a deep, unnatural silence.
I swore I could hear every creak, every faint hum of the
furnace, every crack of ice shifting outside.
At some point, I dozed off, slumped against the wall.
I didn't dream. When I woke up, it was because
of a sound. Clang.
I froze. It was faint, muffled by the
walls in the snow, but it was there.
Clang, clang, clang. My pulse thundered in my ears as
I crept to the window, my legs trembling.
I pulled the curtain back an inch and looked out.
The yard was empty. Snowflakes floated lazily to the
ground, covering everything in a fresh layer of white.
But something caught my eye. 2 faint impressions in the snow
leading from the tree line toward the house.
Boot prints. They stopped halfway across the
yard. I felt a cold sweat crawl down
my back as I followed the trail with my eyes.
At the very edge of the forest, just before the darkness
swallowed everything whole, I saw it.
A figure tall, still half obscured by the trees.
Its head was slightly tilted, just enough to let me know it
was staring back at me. A gloved hand dangled at its
side, holding the bell, which swayed gently, almost as if in.
Greeting. It raised the bell slowly and
rang it once more. I dropped the curtain and
stumbled back, my chest heaving. My phone slipped from my hand
and clattered to the floor. In the silence that followed, I
swore I could hear it moving closer.
Clang, clang, clang. I didn't hate Christmas, not
exactly. I just didn't see the point of
it anymore. All the forced smiles, the
garish lights, the empty cheer that buzzed under the surface
like a blown out light bulb. This year, I did what I always
do when the holidays get too loud.
I grabbed my coat, laced up my boots, and took off for the
woods. The air bit hard, sharp and cold
enough to stab through my lairs. The moon was full, big and pale,
spilling silver light over everything like a thin sheet of
frost. I didn't need a flashlight.
The snow did all the work, glowing in the dark like it
wanted to show off. Out there.
Everything felt distant. The carolers, the bells, the
endless hum of humanity. The forest stretched on forever,
each tree skeletonized by winter, their spindly branches
reaching out like they wanted to snag me and pull me closer.
But I didn't mind. The quiet was nice, at least at
first. I was a mile in when I noticed
the silence had changed. It wasn't the usual quiet of
winter, the kind where the snow swallows sound and leaves you
walking through your own private void.
This was different, heavy, the kind of quiet that makes you
realize something's missing. No wind, no crunch of a squirrel
darting across a branch, no owl hooting somewhere deep in the
dark. It was as if the whole forest
was waiting for something. I kept walking, kicking up
little flurries of snow with each step.
It was fine, I told myself, it was fine.
But my hands were buried in my coat pockets and they wouldn't
stop flexing. That's when I saw them.
Tracks. At first I thought they were
deer prints, the kind that scatter across the snow like a
child's game of hopscotch. But the more I looked, the less
sense they made. Each print was long, like a
stretched out foot, but with sharp, clawed edges digging deep
into the snow. Worse, something had been
dragging alongside them, a long furrow that cut through the
snow, unbroken, like whatever left the tracks had been pulling
something heavy behind it. I stopped walking.
The wind held its breath. Just a bear, I whispered to
myself. My voice sounded too loud in the
empty air, and I hated how it wavered.
But bears didn't leave tracks like these.
Bears didn't pull things, and these tracks were fresh, too
fresh, sharp edged and clear, not softened or filled in by
wind or more snow. Whoever or whatever left them
wasn't far ahead. I should have turned back.
My gut told me to turn back, but I didn't.
I kept walking. The farther I went, the stranger
the woods felt. The trees seemed taller now,
their limbs twisted as though they'd grown in pain.
My boots crunched louder against the snow, like the sound was
bouncing back at me, mocking me for being here.
I couldn't stop looking at the tracks.
They veered off the path and into the trees, where the
darkness thickened. Something in me wanted to follow
them. I didn't know why, and then I
saw it. Up ahead, maybe 20 yards off the
path, something stood among the trees.
At first it was just a shape, a tall shadow, too still to be
natural. I squinted, hoping my eyes were
playing tricks, that it was just an old tree or a fallen branch
perched at a weird angle. But then it moved.
It stepped forward just enough for the moonlight to catch it.
I felt something cold curl around my chest and squeeze.
It wasn't a person, though it had the shape of one.
It was tall, too tall, its head brushing against the lower
branches, and it was wearing something red.
A coat, I thought at first, but as it moved again, I saw the
coat wasn't fabric. It was skin, tattered, hanging
loose, stitched together. Like an old, rotting quilt,
blackened fur clung to the edges and clumps matted with something
I didn't want to name. It dragged something behind it.
A bag. The thing's arm stretched
impossibly long. Bony fingers curled around the
neck of the bag as it pulled it through the snow.
Whatever was inside writhed and shifted like it was still alive.
I heard it then. A faint, muffled thud, like
fists punching against fabric. The shape stopped, and then it
tilted its head. It didn't tilt like a person.
It was too sharp, too fast, like something had yanked it
sideways. The motion sent a ripple through
its body, the loose skin shuddering in the moonlight.
My legs locked. I couldn't move, couldn't
breathe. I was sure that if I so much as
blinked, it would lunge at me. I could feel its gaze.
Even though I couldn't see its eyes, I knew it was looking at
me. Hello.
I choked out. My voice cracked and the word
tumbled out like a mistake. Why the hell had I said that?
Why the hell was I still standing there?
The thing didn't speak, but it made a sound.
A low, wheezing laugh bubbled out of it, rattling like air
escaping a broken pipe. My body screamed at me to run,
but I couldn't. I was rooted there, watching as
it took a step toward me. Its limbs moved wrong, jagged,
snapping motions like a marionette with tangled strings.
The bag scraped behind it, leaving a dark streak in the
snow. The laugh came again, louder
this time. Wet, guttural, hungry.
Finally, my legs listened. I turned and ran.
The forest exploded around me, the sound of my boots pounding
against the snow, my breath ragged and ripping from my
chest. Behind me, I could hear it
coming. I didn't dare look back.
I could feel it gaining on me though, closing the space
between us with each uneven step.
My lungs burned, my legs screamed, but I ran.
The path was gone now. I didn't know where I was
running, just that I had to get away.
Branches clawed at my face and arms whipping against me as I
barreled through the dark. Snow filled my boots, freezing
my ankles, but I didn't stop. Somewhere behind me, the
laughter broke into a screech, high and shrill, like metal
grinding against metal. I ran harder, and then I
tripped. My boot caught on something
buried in the snow, and I went down hard, ice tearing at my
palms as I hit the ground. For a second, the world went
silent except for my own gasping breath.
Then I heard it. The scrape right behind me.
I turned my head and saw the shadow looming closer, its
ragged coat flapping like wet leather.
The bag writhed beside it, twisting violently against the
snow. I scrambled to my feet and
bolted again, the trees blurring around me.
The path, the forest, the moonlight, everything dissolved
into a single thought, pounding through my head.
Run. I don't know how long I ran.
Time didn't exist anymore, just the tearing in my lungs and the
sound of that thing behind me. Scrape, drag, scrape, drag.
Every breath burned like fire. My legs felt like dead weight,
stiff with cold, my boots slipping with every step as the
snow got deeper. My brain screamed at me to stop,
to hide, to collapse, to do something, but I knew if I
stopped, it would reach me. I chanced a glance over my
shoulder, and regret punched me square in the gut.
It was closer. The figure.
That thing loomed larger than before, its skin coat flapping
like it was alive, clinging to the wind in unnatural ways.
The bag scraped alongside it, jerking and writhing, and I
swore I heard it scream from inside.
A voice, a child's voice. Help me.
The words shattered me. My feet faltered, just for a
second, but that second was enough to seal the image in my
mind, the bag shifting violently as if someone, something, was
fighting to get out. I didn't stop.
I couldn't stop. I tore my gaze forward again,
squinting into the darkness. The tree line had to be close.
I could see something ahead, a faint glow.
My brain latched onto it like a lifeline.
The road. It has to be the road.
The glow got brighter as I plowed through the underbrush.
My boots caught on roots and snowdrifts, but I forced myself
to push forward. The scrape and drag behind me
didn't stop. If anything, it was faster now,
pounding in rhythm with my panicked heartbeat.
And then I broke free. The trees spit me out onto an
open field, and I stumbled, almost falling flat on my face.
The moon was glaring down at me, making the snow blindingly
bright, but I didn't care. I was out.
I turned, breath clawing at my throat, expecting to see it
burst out of the woods after me. But it didn't.
It stood at the edge of the forest, just beyond the tree
line, its long, spindly body still and silent.
The bag twitched one last time before falling limp.
The thing tilted its head again, watching me.
Then, slowly, it stepped back into the shadows, disappearing
like it was part of the forest itself.
The silence returned, but it didn't feel empty.
It felt like it was listening. I turned and bolted for the
glow. A porch light, thank God.
A house on the other side of the field.
My legs screamed as I ran, but I didn't stop until I was pounding
on the door, shouting for help. When the door finally opened, I
nearly collapsed inside, gasping, shaking, and wild eyed.
I didn't sleep that night. I locked every door, pulled the
curtains tight, and sat in the dark with every light in the
house on. I didn't look outside, not once.
But as the hours dragged on, I swore I heard it again.
That low wheezing laugh somewhere in the distance and a
single knock at the back door.