The trail felt different that night.
I couldn't put my finger on it, but something about the way the
air clung to my skin, thick and damp, made me pause as I stepped
onto the dirt path. I had been down to the Creek
dozens of times before. It was my spot, you know, a
little escape from everything, tucked just far enough into the
woods that no one bothered you. But tonight it felt like the
trees were leaning in a little too close, like they were trying
to listen. I shook it off.
It was just another late night. I'd told everyone to meet me at
the Creek for a fire, and I figured I'd get there early, set
things up, and surprise them. With everything ready to go, I
had my bag slung over one shoulder, stuffed with firewood,
a lighter, my Lantern, and a blanket to sit on.
It wasn't much, but I didn't need much.
The place had its own kind of magic.
Quiet, peaceful, just the sound of the water rushing over the
rocks. The path down was dimly lit, as
usual. 2 old lampposts lined the trail, one halfway down and one
at the base of the Creek where the dirt turned to sand.
Their light was faint, barely cutting through the trees, but I
like that it made everything feel more secluded.
The first lamppost flickered as I walked past it, the bulb
buzzing faintly. I laughed to myself.
Classic horror movie vibes. I muttered, my voice sounding
too loud in the silence. When I reached the clearing by
the Creek, I dropped my bag and took a deep breath.
The smell of the water and pine was sharp, earthy.
It was nice. I set up my Lantern on a rock
and flicked it on, its warm light spilling over the sand.
Then I started digging the fire pit, using a small camping
shovel to scrape out a shallow circle.
The sound of the shovel cutting through the sand was rhythmic,
almost calming, until I heard the splash.
It wasn't close, not at first. It sounded like it came from
farther downstream, a loud, deliberate plunk that cut
through the quiet like a gunshot.
I froze, the shovel gripped tight in my hands, and turned my
head toward the sound. My Lantern didn't reach that
far, and all I could see was the glint of the Creek under the
sliver of moonlight. Just the water.
I said under my breath, trying to convince myself maybe a fish
or a branch fell in. I went back to digging, but I
couldn't shake the unease creeping up my spine.
A few minutes later, another splash.
This one was closer, louder, like something heavy being
thrown into the water. My hands started to sweat.
I stood up, holding the shovel like some kind of makeshift
weapon, and scanned the Creek again.
The Lantern flickered for just a second, and my heart skipped.
I swung the beam toward the trees lining the water, but
there was nothing, just shadows shifting in the breeze.
Hello. My voice cracked, and I hated
how scared I sounded. Silence answered me, thick and
heavy. I laughed nervously, more to
myself than anyone else. OK, calm down, Alex.
It's just water. I went back to the pit, but my
hands were shaking now. Every scrape of the shovel felt
louder, like it was bouncing off the trees and echoing back at
me. And then I heard it.
The rustling. It wasn't loud, just a soft
crunch of leaves, but it was unmistakable.
It came from across the Creek, just past where the bridge
arched over the water. I snatched the Lantern and swung
it toward the sound, my pulse pounding in my ears.
The light swept over the trees, catching on the glint of water,
but there was nothing. Maybe it's a deer?
I whispered, but the words didn't even convince me.
It didn't sound like an animal. It sounded deliberate, like
someone was stepping carefully, trying not to make too much
noise. The rustling stopped, but my
heart didn't. I stayed frozen, holding the
Lantern up like a shield, scanning the shadows.
Just when I started to think I was imagining things, I saw it.
A flash of pale skin. It was quick, just for a second,
but it was there. Something or someone moved in
the trees, hunched low and still.
My stomach dropped, My throat felt dry.
I stayed perfectly still, the Lantern trembling in my hand.
Hey. I called out, my voice shaking.
Who's there? No response.
The figure didn't move, but I knew it was watching me.
I could feel it, the weight of its gaze pressing down on me.
My skin crawled. I didn't wait for a second
sighting. I turned back to my bag,
stuffing the shovel and blanket in with fumbling hands.
Whatever was out there, I wasn't about to stick around and find
out. As I grabbed my things and
started toward the trail, I heard it again, the rustling
closer this time. My breath hitched, and I made
the mistake of looking back. Something was standing just
beyond the Creek, barely visible in the lantern's glow.
It was a man, crouched low, his pale, naked skin shining
faintly. He didn't move, didn't make a
sound, but his head tilted like he was curious.
I ran. I didn't think, I didn't
breathe. I just ran up the narrow trail
past the first lamppost, the light flickering wildly as I
passed. My bag thudded against my back,
and every step felt too loud, too slow.
I could hear the crunch of leaves behind me, faster now,
closer. And then came the laugh.
Low, guttural, like something scraping against stone.
It wasn't a sound a person should make.
It was wrong. I didn't look back.
I couldn't. My legs burned as I ran harder,
the second lamppost finally coming into view.
My car was just beyond it, parked at the trailhead.
I could make it. I had to, but the laugh followed
me, growing louder, echoing in my ears like it was everywhere
at once. I don't think I've ever run that
hard in my life. My lungs were burning, my legs
felt like they'd been replaced with lead, and my grip on the
Lantern was slipping with every pounding step.
The trail felt endless, the trees pressing in on both sides
like they wanted to swallow me whole.
And behind me, I could hear it. Him.
I didn't dare look back, but I could hear the crunch of leaves
and twigs, the steady rhythm of footsteps that weren't my own.
He wasn't sprinting, not yet. He didn't have to.
He was just behind me, close enough that I could hear the way
his breathing dragged, like it took effort to keep up with me.
My foot slipped on a patch of loose dirt and I stumbled,
nearly falling. I caught myself on a low hanging
branch, the rough bark scraping my palm.
My Lantern swung wildly in my hand, its beam cutting through
the dark and jagged arcs. For a second I thought about
turning it off, thought maybe, just maybe, the dark would
swallow me up, hide me from him. But then I remembered his eyes,
the way they gleamed in the dim light, how they locked on to me
like a predator sizing up its prey.
No, I needed the light. I needed to see.
The first lamp post was up ahead, its faint yellow glow
barely visible through the thick trees.
It felt like a beacon, like safety was just a few yards
away. I forced my legs to move faster,
pushing through the pain in my thighs.
I reached the lamppost and collapsed against it, panting,
the metal cold against my back. The trail ahead stretched Into
Darkness, but at least the dim light gave me a moment to catch
my breath. I turned the Lantern toward the
trail behind me, the beam bouncing as my hands shook.
And that's when I saw him. He was crouched at the edge of
the light, his body low to the ground, pale and glistening.
His limbs moved wrong, like he didn't know how to use them
properly. His head tilted to one side, and
his mouth, God, his mouth stretched into a grin so wide it
looked like his face would split in half.
He didn't blink for a second. We just stared at each other, me
gasping for air, clutching my Lantern like it could save me,
him motionless except for the subtle rise and fall of his
chest. Why are you doing this?
I yelled, my voice breaking. It came out too loud, too
desperate. He didn't answer.
Instead, he leaned forward, his hands pressing into the dirt,
and then he crawled into the light.
The way he moved, it wasn't human.
His knees and elbows bent at odd angles, his limbs jerking like a
marionette on invisible strings. Every movement made this faint
clicking sound, like his joints were grinding against each
other. I didn't wait for him to get
closer. I bolted again, sprinting toward
the second lamppost. My legs screamed in protest and
my vision blurred, but the thought of him catching me was
enough to drown out the pain. Behind me, his movements grew
louder, faster. It wasn't just footsteps
anymore. It was the wet slap of bare feet
on the dirt, the sound of something too large moving too
quickly. The second lamppost came into
view, its glow steady and unbroken.
My heart leapt at the sight of it, but then I felt it, the
sharp, icy prickle of being watched.
I chanced a glance over my shoulder.
He wasn't crawling anymore. He was standing now, running on
two legs. His movements were jerky,
unnatural, but he was fast, too fast, and his grin hadn't
faltered. If anything, it had grown wider.
Stop, I screamed, my voice hoarse.
What do you want? He didn't stop.
He didn't answer, he just kept running, his eyes locked on mine
like I was the only thing that mattered in the world.
I made it to the second lamppost and skidded to a stop, nearly
dropping the Lantern. My chest heaved as I tried to
catch my breath, my head spinning.
The light above me buzzed faintly, casting a sickly yellow
glow over the trail. For a moment, I thought he'd
stop at the edge of the light again, like he had before, but
this time, he didn't hesitate. He stepped into the glow, his
skin almost luminescent under the lamp light.
He wasn't smiling anymore. His face had gone slack, his
eyes dark and empty. But the way he stared at me, it
was like he was peeling me apart, layer by layer, and I
couldn't move. He took a step forward, and I
stumbled back, tripping over my own feet.
My Lantern fell to the ground, its beams slicing across the
trail. I scrambled to pick it up, my
fingers fumbling in the dirt. When I looked up again, he was
crouched over me, just out of reach, his breath hot and
rancid. Why?
I whispered, tears streaming down my face.
He leaned closer, his head tilting again like he was trying
to understand me. And then, for the first time, he
spoke. It wasn't a word.
It was a sound, low, guttural, and inhuman.
A sound that crawled into my ears and lodged itself in my
brain, making my skull feel like it was going to split open.
I screamed. I don't even remember standing
up, but I must have, because the next thing I knew, I was running
again, Running toward the parking lot, the dim glow of the
final lamppost guiding me like a lifeline.
I didn't look back. I couldn't.
All I could hear was the pounding of his feet, the low
growl that seemed to echo all around me, and the buzzing of
the lampposts fading into the distance.
The parking lot was just ahead, my car a dark silhouette against
the trees. If I could just get there, if I
could just make it inside, I'd be safe.
But the growl behind me was growing louder, and I wasn't
sure I'd make it. The parking lot was just ahead,
but it felt like miles away. My legs burned, every step of
battle between my will to survive and the growing
exhaustion that dragged at my body.
The lamppost above the trailhead flickered faintly, and my car
sat just beyond it, its silhouette bathed in weak
moonlight. My keys were in my pocket.
I just had to get there. Behind me, the sound of bare
feet pounding against the dirt grew louder, faster.
He was closing in. I risked one glance over my
shoulder and instantly regretted it.
He was sprinting now, his body jerking with every step, like a
puppet yanked along by invisible strings.
His mouth was open, wide and unnatural, and his eyes, they
weren't just watching me, they were hungry.
A branch caught at my arm as I turned back to the trail,
tearing into my skin, but I didn't feel it.
My focus was on the car, on safety, on not dying here.
The parking lot came into view, gravel crunching under my feet
as I stumbled onto the lot. My car was right there, just a
few steps away. I reached into my pocket for my
keys, but my fingers were shaking too much to grab hold of
them. Come on, come on.
I muttered, panic rising as I fumble.
My foot slipped on loose gravel and I nearly fell, the keys
sliding out of my pocket and onto the ground with a metallic
clink. No, I gasped, dropping to my
knees and frantically sweeping my hand across the gravel.
I could hear him now, the wet slap of his feet on the trail,
the guttural growl that had haunted me since the Creek I
found the keys snatched them up. My heart raced as I scrambled to
my feet, lunging for the driver's side door.
The key fob shook in my hand and it took me three tries to hit
the unlock button. Behind me, I heard the sound of
his feet hitting the gravel. I threw the door open and
climbed in, slamming it shut just as he reached the edge of
the parking lot. The car's interior light flicked
on, and I locked the doors with a trembling hand.
For a second, everything was silent except for my ragged
breathing. He stopped at the edge of the
parking lot, just beyond the glow of the lamppost.
He stood there, his chest heaving, his face slack but his
eyes focused. He was watching me, his head
tilting slightly, as though trying to decide what to do
next. I fumble with the key, shoving
it into the ignition. The engine sputtered to life and
my hands gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned
white. I shifted into reverse, my foot
slamming on the pedal as I backed away from him.
That's when he moved. He sprinted toward the car, his
arms flailing unnaturally at his sides, his face twisting into
something that looked like rage or hunger.
I shifted into drive and floored it, gravel spraying under my
tires as I tore out of the lot. I didn't look back at first.
I couldn't. My eyes were locked on the road
ahead, the shadows of the trees rushing past in the weak glow of
my headlights. But something told me to check
the rear view mirror. He was there, standing in the
middle of the parking lot, framed in the fading light of
the lamppost. His head tilted again, that same
unnatural angle, and he raised one hand like he was waving.
I didn't stop. My heart pounded as I speed down
the dark, winding Rd. the silence of the night broken only
by the hum of the engine and the sound of my own gasping breaths.
I drove for what felt like hours, though it was probably
only a few minutes until I reached the edge of town.
Only then did I finally pull over, my hands shaking so badly
I could barely turn the key to kill the engine.
I sat there, gripping the steering wheel, staring at the
empty Rd. in front of me. My mind raced, replaying
everything. The splashes, the footsteps, the
way his eyes had locked onto mine like I was prey.
I told myself it was over, I was safe, but I couldn't stop
looking at the trees lining the road, their shadows shifting in
the breeze. When I got home, my friends were
already there, sitting on the porch with a six pack waiting
for me. They laughed when I pulled into
the driveway, probably ready to tease me for being late, but
when they saw my face, their smiles dropped.
I told them everything, every detail, from the first splash at
the Creek to the moment I speed out of the parking lot.
They tried to laugh it off at first, but I could see the
unease in their eyes when I told them about the man, the way he
moved, the way he watched me. One of them muttered something
about meth heads or a prank gone wrong, but I knew better.
The next morning I called the police.
I expected them to brush it off, and for the most part, they did.
An officer came out to meet me, and I took him to the trail.
I pointed out where I'd seen the man, where I dropped my keys,
but there was nothing. No footprints, no disturbed
gravel. It was like he'd never been
there. The officer gave me 1/2 hearted
promise to keep an eye on the area and left.
But as I turned to leave, I noticed something.
At the edge of the trail, where the dirt met the gravel, there
was a single pale handprint pressed into the ground.
It wasn't mine. I didn't go back to the Creek
after that, and every time I drive past those woods, I keep
my eyes straight ahead, pretending I don't see the
shadow standing just inside the trees, watching, waiting.
I didn't want to stay at Clara's place.
Let me just get that out there right away.
It wasn't Clara, I liked her enough, but her house?
No, it was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees so
thick you could barely see the sky.
And that was just during the day.
At night. Forget it.
It wasn't just the woods, either.
The whole place gave off this vibe, like it wanted you to
leave. But Clara begged.
Come on, Naomi, she'd said, practically dragging me into her
mom's car after school. You always make me sleep at your
place just one night, I swear. It'll be fun.
Fun, right? The drive took an hour, and with
every mile the houses got fewer and farther apart until there
were none. Just winding roads, dark trees,
and the occasional rusted mailbox leaning like it had
given up on life. By the time we reached the
property, my stomach was already in knots.
The house, or well, houses, looked like something out of a
creepy movie. At the top of the hill was a
giant old Victorian farmhouse, all peeling paint and sagging
roof lines. That's where Mr. Carrick, the
landlord, lived. Clara told me he owned the whole
property. Down a steep gravel driveway
were two smaller buildings, one on either side of the clearing.
Clara and her mom lived in, the one on the left, a one room
shack barely big enough for a bed.
On the right was her mom's section, another tiny building
with a kitchenette and a bathroom separated by a curtain.
No doors, just cloth. Cozy, huh?
Clara said, grinning as we lugged my bag into her room.
She must have seen the look on my face.
OK, yeah, it's a little small, but it's nice.
You'll see. Nice.
Sure, if you liked cramped spaces and furniture older than
dirt. Half the room wasn't even hers.
A tall shelf and a divider cut off the back section where Mr.
Carrick stored his junk. Old chairs, boxes, whatever.
The only other thing in the room was a massive sliding glass door
that led outside. It was almost floor to ceiling,
and it made me feel like I was on display.
I tried to brush it off. At least it's not school, right?
I joked, forcing a smile. Clara laughed and dropped onto
her bed. Exactly.
Let's just chill tonight. No teachers, no homework, just
us. But I couldn't relax, not
really. There was something about the
way the woods pressed in, how the shadows seemed to cling to
the corners of the room, even with the curtains open and that
sliding door. It was like it was begging
someone to look in. The first weird thing happened
pretty early. We'd gone over to Clara's mom's
section to grab snacks. Her mom wasn't in the room, but
the bathroom door was closed and we could hear her humming
inside. Mom.
Clara called out. Yeah, I'm here, Her mom's voice
answered, muffled but clear. I stepped toward the fridge.
But then I heard it. A deep voice, gruff and almost
lazy, muttered from outside the window.
Yeah. I froze.
What was that? I whispered, spinning around to
look at Clara. Her face had gone pale.
That, she stammered. That wasn't her.
We both stared at the tiny window above the sink.
It was dark outside, nothing but shadows in the faint outline of
trees. Nobody was there.
Maybe it was an echo. Clara said, her voice shaky, but
she didn't sound like she believed it.
Neither did I. We didn't talk about it after
that. She grabbed the snacks, I
grabbed my water bottle, and we bolted back to her room like it
was no big deal. Except it was a big deal.
I couldn't stop thinking about how close that voice had
sounded. Too close.
By the time night fell, I was a wreck.
Clara was trying to act normal, but I could tell she was on edge
too. Let's watch something, she said,
pulling out her ancient laptop. Something funny?
Yeah, sure. I mumbled, pulling my knees up
to my chest. The movie was supposed to help,
but it didn't. The whole time, I couldn't stop
glancing at the glass door. We'd locked it, thank God, but
that didn't help much. It felt like we were in a
fishbowl with nothing but a thin pane of glass between US and the
pitch Black Forest. Every now and then I'd see my
reflection move and my stomach would twist like it was someone
else. At some point, I asked Clara
about the divider. Why does Mr. Carrick keep his
stuff in here? Doesn't he have enough space in
the big house? Clara shrugged.
He's weird like that. Mom says he likes to keep an eye
on everything, even his junk. Great, just great.
Now it felt like he was watching us too.
Clara must have seen the look on my face, because she laughed.
Relax, Naomi, it's fine. Seriously, there's nothing out
there. I wanted to believe her, I
really did, but I couldn't shake the feeling that we weren't as
alone as she thought. And then the footsteps started.
The footsteps started out faint. At first I told myself it was
just the wind, or maybe some animal shuffling through the
leaves outside. But then they got louder, more
deliberate. Crunch, crunch, crunch.
I muted the laptop mid sentence, cutting off some corny romantic
dialogue. Do you hear that?
I whispered. Clara froze, her eyes darting to
the glass door. It's probably just a possum or
something, she said, but her voice cracked at the end.
She didn't believe herself, neither did I.
The steps didn't sound like an animal, they were too steady,
too human. Crunch, crunch, I couldn't move.
My chest felt tight, like I couldn't get enough air.
Clara. I whispered, gripping her arm.
It's right outside. We both sat there, frozen,
listening as the sound circled her room.
Slow, deliberate steps on the dry, brittle leaves.
They were moving closer to the back of the building.
I glanced at the divider, that stupid tall shelf blocking the
back section where the second door was.
The footsteps stopped. For a second, there was nothing
but silence. The kind of silence that makes
your ears ring, that feels like it's waiting for something to
happen. Then the doorknob rattled.
It wasn't loud. In fact, it was the quiet,
almost gentle way it jiggled that made it so much worse.
Like whoever was out there wasn't in a hurry, like they had
all the time in the world. Is that door locked?
I whispered, my voice barely audible over the sound of my
heartbeat pounding in my ears. Clara's face was pale.
It's stuck. It doesn't open all the way I
think she thinks. Great.
The rattling continued, slow and deliberate.
I could hear the soft scrape of metal, like they were testing
the lock. My throat was dry and every
instinct in me was screaming to get up and check if the door was
actually secure, but I couldn't move.
My legs felt like lead, and I was terrified that if I made
even the slightest sound, it would draw whoever was out there
right to us. Then the rattling stopped.
We both stared at the divider, our breath shallow.
For a second I thought maybe they'd given up, maybe they'd
left. But then I heard it.
Breathing heavy, Slow, deliberate breathing.
Just on the other side of that door.
Clara clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with panic.
I could feel tears welling up in my eyes, but I didn't dare let
them fall. All I could think was that this
person, whoever they were, wasn't just trying to scare us.
They were waiting, testing. The breathing stopped, and after
a long, agonizing pause, the footsteps started again.
This time they were moving away from the back door, circling
back toward the front of the room, toward the glass door.
We need to call someone. I whispered, fumbling from my
phone. My hands were shaking so badly I
nearly dropped it. Clara nodded frantically, her
face wet with silent tears. I managed to dial 000, the
emergency number here, and press the phone to my ear, trying to
keep my voice steady as the operator picked up emergency
services. What's your location?
We. My voice cracked and I tried
again, whispering as quietly as I could.
We're at a property off Millwood Rd.
There's someone outside. They're trying to get in.
Clara grabbed my arm and pointed at the glass door.
My heart nearly stopped. There, pressed against the
glass, was a handprint. It hadn't been there before.
The smudged outline of a palm and five long fingers dragged
across the dusty surface. The operator's voice buzzed in
my ear, but I couldn't focus on what she was saying.
They're still here. I choked out.
Please send someone, please. The operator tried to calm me
down, her voice smooth and practiced, but I couldn't stop
shaking. She promised to dispatch a unit,
told us to stay where we were and not to open any doors or
windows. As if that was even an option.
Then the ringing started, a loud, shrill piercing ring that
made me jump and nearly dropped the phone.
It wasn't mine. It was coming from the old
landline in the main house. Mr. Carrick's phone.
We sat in stunned silence as the ringing echoed through the
clearing. After what felt like forever, it
stopped and we heard Mr. Carrick's muffled voice.
He was talking to someone. Clara leaned closer to me.
Is he? Is he talking to the police?
I don't know, I whispered back, but deep down I already knew
something wasn't right. Minutes later, the heavy stomp
of boots echoed outside. Mr. Carrick's silhouette
appeared in the moonlight as he marched toward Clara's mom's
section. He didn't look concerned, he
looked pissed. We sat frozen as he banged on
the door, yelling something about wasting his time.
A few minutes later, Clara's mom shuffled out, groggy and
annoyed. We could hear them arguing
through the thin walls, but their voices were muffled,
drowned out by the sound of blood pounding in my ears.
When Clara's mom finally came into the room, she looked
annoyed, not worried. What's going on with you 2?
Why'd you call the cops? Someone's out there.
I blurted, pointing at the glass door.
They were at the back door. There are handprints.
Clara's mom sighed, rubbing her temples.
It's probably just dirt, she said dismissively.
Mr. Carrick poked his head in, glaring at us like we were the
problem. I didn't see anyone, he said
gruffly. Don't call the cops again unless
it's a real emergency. I couldn't believe what I was
hearing. As he turned to leave, I caught
sight of something that made my stomach drop.
There, just outside the glass door, were faint footprints in
the dirt. Not animal tracks, human
footprints. I didn't say anything.
I couldn't. I just grabbed my phone and
texted my mom, begging her to come get me.
My mom arrived just before midnight.
I've never felt such a rush of relief as I did seeing her car's
headlights cut through the suffocating darkness of the
clearing. I didn't even wait for her to
park properly before I yanked open the door and scrambled
inside. Clara was right behind me,
clutching her bag with trembling hands.
Is everything OK? My mom asked, her voice
concerned but calm. I could tell she thought we were
overreacting. 2 teenage girls letting our imaginations run
wild in the middle of the woods. No, I whispered, glancing back
at the property. Mr. Carrick's shadowy figure
stood in one of the windows of the farmhouse, unmoving,
watching. Just drive, please.
She didn't argue. The gravel crunched under the
tires as we pulled away, and I couldn't look back.
I didn't want to see the forest, the glass door, or the
footprints that I knew were still outside.
The ride home was silent except for Clara's occasional sniffles.
My mom tried asking questions, what happened, why we were so
scared, but I couldn't bring myself to explain, not yet.
Every time I open my mouth, the memory of the doorknob rattling,
the breathing outside, the handprint on the glass, it all
came flooding back. By the time we reached my house,
it was nearly 1:00 AM. Clara and I curled up on the
couch, the TV flickering in the background, but neither of us
could sleep. Every creak of the house made me
jump. Every shadow looked like a
figure. I can't go back there.
Clara finally whispered, her voice shaking.
Ever. The next morning, I convinced my
mom to drop Clara back home. She didn't want to go alone, and
honestly, I didn't want her to either.
I figured if I went with her, it'd feel less final, less like
we were walking back into the nightmare.
We pulled into the clearing just as the sun was climbing over the
trees, casting long, pale shadows across the ground.
In the daylight, the place didn't seem as scary, but there
was still this heaviness in the air, like the property was
holding its breath, waiting for something.
Clara's mom met us outside, looking tired and annoyed.
I hope you 2 are feeling better. She said, barely looking at us.
Last night was a lot of fuss over nothing.
Clara and I exchanged a look but didn't respond.
What was the point? Then Her mom said something that
made my stomach drop. Oh, and the wind knocked over
the light pole last night. What?
Clara asked. The pole with the fairy lights
and beads. Her mom explained, pointing to
the side of her building. It must have been the storm or
something. It's on the ground now.
Clara and I walked over to the spot, but the moment I saw the
pole, I knew it wasn't the wind. The pole was thick and heavy,
bolted into the concrete. It had been yanked out of the
ground entirely, the bolts twisted and broken like they'd
been pulled with brute force. The zip ties holding it in place
were shredded, dangling uselessly.
This wasn't the wind. I whispered, staring at the
splintered concrete. Clara didn't say anything, but
her face had gone pale On the drive back.
I couldn't stop thinking about it, about the handprint, the
breathing, the footsteps. What if it was Mr. Carrick?
Clara muttered, breaking the silence.
I shook my head. I don't know, he's creepy.
But I trailed off, remembering the voice we'd heard the first
time we went to her mom's flat. It wasn't Mr. Carrick's voice.
It was deeper, rougher. What if it was your mom's ex?
I asked, the thought suddenly hitting me.
The one you said was, you know, weird.
Clara shrugged, but her hands were trembling.
Maybe. But how would he know where we
were, or even how to get here? I didn't have an answer.
I didn't have answers for any of it.
That night, back at my house, I lay awake, replaying every
moment in my head. I kept thinking about the
footprints outside the glass door, the voice by the window,
the way the doorknob rattled so slowly, so deliberately.
Whoever it was, they knew exactly what they were doing.
They weren't just trying to scare us.
They were testing us, testing the locks, testing our nerves.
And the worst part? I don't think they were done.
I don't know if it was Mr. Carrick or Clara's mom's ex or
some random stranger who stumbled onto the property, but
I do know one thing. Whoever it was, they weren't
just watching us. They were waiting, and if we
hadn't left when we did, I don't think we'd be here to tell the
story. It always felt colder in
Gutter's Hollow, even in the middle of fall, when the days
were brisk but manageable, something about that place dug
under your skin. Maybe it was the way the trees
grew so close together, their branches knotted like old hands,
blocking out every sliver of moonlight.
Or maybe it was just the stories, the whispers about
people seeing things in the trees, about the forest
swallowing. Sounds like it was hungry.
Lucas and I knew better than to admit we were scared.
We were 19, invincible in the way that only teenage idiots can
be. That night, as we rolled our
bikes out of our buddies basement after hours of gaming
and bad jokes, Lucas grinned and slapped my shoulder.
You good for the shortcut? He asked.
He already knew the answer. I looked down the road toward
the hollow, completely unlit and stretched out like an open
mouth. The forest on either side was
just there, waiting, silent. A perfectly good Rd. through
town was behind us, well lit safe.
I shoved my hands deeper into my hoodie pockets and shrugged.
Yeah, saves US 20 minutes, big man.
Lucas chuckled, flicking on the headlights strapped to his bike.
It cast a thin, narrow beam down the center of the road, cutting
through the dark just enough to make it worse.
I turned on mine too, and we set off into the trees.
The thing about the hollow is that it doesn't start scary.
The 1st 100 meters are fine, normal even.
The roads cracked but paved, and if you stay dead center, you can
pretend the shadows are just shadows, that nothing's watching
you. Lucas rode a little ahead of me,
his light bobbing in the distance as we pedaled in
silence. The only sounds were the grind
of our tires against loose gravel and the occasional creak
of a bike chain. About halfway in, it started.
The air shifted first. It was subtle, like someone had
opened a freezer door and the cold just bled into everything.
My hoodie suddenly wasn't enough.
I pulled it tighter around myself, my hands stinging on the
handlebars. I wanted to say something, crack
a joke about how maybe we were imagining it, but then I
realized how quiet it had gotten.
No wind, no rustling leaves, no bugs.
Lucas must have noticed it too, because he glanced over his
shoulder and called back. Creepy, huh?
His voice sounded too loud, like it didn't belong there.
Yeah, I muttered. I picked up speed, trying to
close the space between us. Then we saw the tree.
Lucas's bike light caught it first, a thick, gnarled trunk
blocking the road, surrounded by a mess of dead branches.
It looked like it had been ripped out of the ground and
dropped, their roots and all, but something about it felt
wrong. Too clean, too deliberate, like
someone had put it there. Are you kidding me?
Lucas grumbled as he skidded to a stop.
He swung his leg off the bike and stomped up to it, kicking a
branch like it was the tree's fault for being there.
Some kids messing around, that's what this is.
I stopped just behind him, my light flickering across the
bark. It didn't look fresh.
The wood was old, brittle, crumbling where Lucas had kicked
it like it had been dead for ages.
How did even fall? I asked, hearing my voice shake
a little. There's no wind, Nothing.
Lucas turned to look at me. He didn't say anything, but I
could tell he was thinking the same thing.
Then, as if to break the tension, he forced a laugh and
waved me forward. Come on, help me, we'll lift the
bikes over. Reluctantly, I followed.
My palm scraped against the rough bark as I hoisted my bike
over the tangle of roots and branches.
It wasn't heavy, but every second I stood there I felt more
exposed, like the forest was getting closer.
The air smelled wrong too, like something burning, faint but
sharp enough to make me wrinkle my nose.
Do you smell that? I asked as Lucas hauled his bike
over. Probably just some asshole
camping nearby. He didn't sound convinced.
We got back on our bikes and pedaled harder, moving toward
the bridge. I could see it up ahead now, the
incline that led to the narrow, crumbling overpass.
Just before the bridge started, something flickered to the left
light. A fire stop.
Lucas said suddenly, his voice low.
I nearly ran into him again as he slowed to a crawl, our lights
barely cutting through the darkness.
There it was, a small fire, carefully built just off the
road where the path curved. It wasn't big, maybe the size of
a campfire, but it burned steady.
Something about it felt wrong, controlled.
That's when we saw them. At first I thought it was just
shadows, but then Lucas's light hit them.
Figures 8, maybe more, standing behind the fire in a loose half
circle. They wore long white robes that
reached the ground, the fabric heavy and stained dark at the
hems, like they'd been dragging it through mud.
Their faces were covered by masks.
Wooden masks, rough and handmade, like someone had
hacked them out of trees and carved them into faces.
Hollow eyes, jagged mouths. One of the masks looked too
smooth, like a child's face, with no features at all.
They didn't move. Lucas and I froze.
For a second, it felt like time stopped completely, like we'd
wandered into something we were never supposed to see.
My chest felt tight, my lungs refusing to pull air.
The figures just stood there, still as stone, the firelight
flickering off their robes. Then one of them stepped
forward, Not like a normal step. It was jerky, unnatural, like
its body was figuring out how to move.
The mask tilted toward us, hollow eyes fixed in our
direction. Another figure twitched, and I
swore I heard something, a dry clicking sound like teeth
gnashing together. Go.
Lucas whispered. I couldn't move.
My hands were frozen on the handlebars, my feet rooted to
the pedals. I stared at the figure as it
took another step, faster this time, the other shifting behind
it. Lucas's voice cracked as he
screamed. Go.
The spell broke. We turned our bikes so fast I
nearly fell over, the tires slipping on loose gravel.
I didn't look back. I couldn't.
My legs burned as I pedaled, the sound of our chains rattling and
Lucas's ragged breathing filling my ears.
Behind us, the clicking grew louder, closer.
We hit the bridge, the incline slowing us down, but I didn't
dare stop. The path blurred in front of me,
my headlight bouncing as I rode. Every muscle in my body
screamed, but I kept going, Lucas just ahead of me, until we
crested the bridge and the road started to dip ahead.
There was light, St. lights, civilization.
We didn't stop until we hit the pavement of the main road, the
glow of the lamps washing over us like a flood of safety.
I skidded to a stop and looked back.
The forest was just a wall of black, empty and still, like
nothing had ever happened. Lucas dropped his bike, hands on
his knees as he gasped for air. He didn't look at me when he
spoke. Did you see their feet?
I swallowed, my throat dry. What?
They weren't touching the ground.
He whispered. We didn't say another word the
whole way home. We didn't talk about it as we
rode. There wasn't time.
My lungs burned as I pushed my bike harder than I ever thought
possible, my legs moving on pure instinct, like an animal trying
to escape a predator. I didn't look back, I couldn't,
but I could hear them. The footsteps started soft, like
someone walking through sand, but they picked up speed, quick,
deliberate thuds pounding the gravel behind us, too heavy to
be human. And mixed in with it was this
other sound, faint but undeniable, something clicking
like bones snapping into place. Lucas was just ahead of me, his
light bouncing wildly as he pedaled.
Don't stop. He yelled, his voice raw.
I couldn't answer. My mouth was dry, my throat a
fistful of sand. All I could think about was the
fire, the masks, the way that one figure moved like it had to
learn how to walk. My mind was racing in loops.
What were they? What were they doing out there?
But the more I thought about it, the louder those footsteps
seemed to get. We hit the tree line where the
bridge began, the steep incline rising in front of us like some
cruel obstacle. My bike wobbled as I forced it
uphill, the tires slipping on gravel.
Lucas grunted ahead of me, pushing harder.
I could see the bridge now, narrow cracked concrete
stretching over the train tracks below.
Then I heard it, the scrape a sound like nails dragging over
stone, so close behind me I almost stopped pedaling.
My skin crawled, every hair on my neck rising like it wanted to
peel off my body and run away. It was right there.
I looked back. I shouldn't have.
The light from my bike cut through the dark just far enough
to see them, three of them, now, gliding down the road toward us.
That's what they were doing, Gliding.
Their feet moved like they were walking, but they weren't
touching the ground. Their robes didn't billow,
didn't move at all, as if the air didn't exist around them.
And the masks, God, the masks. They were clear now, caught in
the edge of my light. One had a twisted, jagged smile
carved into its wood, but the other two were worse.
One had no features at all, just a flat, smooth surface where the
face should have been. And the third?
The third had a hollow mouth, stretched unnaturally wide,
black and empty inside. I looked away and pedaled
harder, my legs screaming. Lucas.
I croaked, my voice breaking faster.
I'm trying, He yelled back. His bike swerved on the incline,
but he kept going. We crested the bridge together,
and for one terrifying second, I felt like my body was about to
give out. My lungs were on fire, my legs
trembling, but the sound was still behind us.
The clicking, the scraping. And then I heard something
worse. A laugh.
It started low, almost inaudible, but it grew louder,
spreading out behind us like fog.
It wasn't a human laugh. It was ragged, choked, like
someone trying to force the sound out of a throat.
That didn't work anymore. The noise clawed its way into my
brain, and I swear I could feel it vibrating in my bones.
Lucas heard it, too. He let out this strangled,
panicked noise, half a yell, half a SOB.
I couldn't look at him. I couldn't stop.
We were barrelling down the other side of the bridge now,
the road sloping into a straight stretch that led toward the
blockade we'd climbed earlier, and the footsteps were still
there, still chasing us. The blockade appeared suddenly,
in the beam of Lucas's light. He skidded to a stop so fast I
nearly slammed into him. The tree, the damn tree.
He shouted, his voice cracking. It was still there, the gnarled
mess of branches blocking the road just as deliberate as
before. We have to climb it, I choked
out, already jumping off my bike.
We didn't have time to think. Lucas dropped his bike and
scrambled forward, hauling himself up the dead roots, his
hands slipping on the dry wood. I shoved my bike to the ground
and followed, the air around us feeling thick, like the forest
was closing in. And then I heard it, the crunch
of gravel right behind me. I looked down.
In the thin, cold light of my bike, I saw a hand reaching for
me from the darkness. It wasn't a hand though, not
really. The fingers were too long, too
stiff, the skin stretched Gray and tight, like it had been left
out in the sun for weeks. I scrambled up, my palm scraping
against the wood, something cold and sharp grazing my ankle as I
pulled myself over the top. Lucas was already on the other
side, his face pale and slick with sweat.
Move. He shouted, grabbing my arm and
dragging me down. I stumbled and fell to my knees
on the gravel, panting so hard I thought I'd pass out.
But I didn't stop. We ran.
The road stretched ahead of us like an endless tunnel, but I
could see it now, the faint flickering glow of the
streetlights beyond the trees. We ran toward it like drowning
men, clawing for the surface. My legs felt like they were made
of stone, my vision swimming. But I kept going, and all the
while I heard it behind us. The footsteps, the scraping and
the laughing. The sound followed us to the
edge of the forest. I didn't dare look back, even
when we burst out onto the main road and collapsed in the dirt.
For a long moment we just lay there, gasping, our bodies
shaking so hard I thought we'd fall apart.
The light from the street lamps washed over us like salvation.
Lucas was curled on his side, holding his knee where he'd
scraped it on the tree. I sat up and looked back at the
hollow. It was silent, empty.
The forest just sat there, black and still, like it hadn't just
tried to kill us. Lucas let out a shaky breath and
sat up next to me. Did you?
He stopped. I turned to him.
What? His face was pale, eyes wide and
empty. He swallowed hard, his voice
barely a whisper. Did you see their faces?
I shook my head, my throat too tight to answer.
Did you see their feet? He asked, trembling.
They weren't touching the ground.
We didn't go back for the bikes. We didn't go back at all.
Sleep didn't come easy that night.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, every shadow in my room
suddenly too long, too dark, like it was reaching for me.
Every creak of the house felt deliberate.
The sound of footsteps, soft and rhythmic, echoed in my head even
when the room was perfectly silent.
I didn't know what I saw back there.
Maybe it was some sick prank, some weird local cult.
Maybe we imagined parts of it, But I couldn't stop replaying
it. The fire, the masks, that sound,
the clicking, and the way they moved.
Lucas's voice wouldn't leave my head.
They weren't touching the ground.
By morning, I'd convince myself we had to go back.
Not to the forest, never the forest, but we had to at least
get our bikes. Maybe someone had already stolen
them, but leaving them felt like leaving a loose thread, and
loose threads had a way of pulling everything apart.
Lucas didn't need much convincing.
When I called, he sounded like he hadn't slept either.
Daylight's fine, he muttered. We'll be in and out.
We met around noon, when the sun was at its highest, and pedaled
to the hollow's edge. The road looked so normal in the
daylight, it made me feel stupid.
The forest didn't look hungry or watching, just trees and leaves
and dirt. Lucas grunted as we slowed down,
glancing over at me. See, no big deal.
Yeah? I said, forcing a smile that
didn't reach my chest. We walked our bikes into the
hollow together. The forest still seemed quiet,
unnervingly so, but it didn't have that weight pressing down
on us. I wanted to believe it was
nothing, a trick of light, our brains spooked by shadows and
stupid stories. But when we reached the spot
where the tree had been, we stopped dead.
The blockade was gone. The road was clear.
Not a single branch, not a hint of dust.
The forest floor on either side looked undisturbed, like nothing
had ever been dragged there. Someone must have moved it,
Lucas mumbled, though he didn't sound sure.
Yeah, I said, not believing myself either.
But our bikes weren't there. The spot where we dropped them
was empty, like we'd imagined leaving them behind in the first
place. I felt a chill crawl up my
spine, the sun suddenly feeling thin and distant.
I kicked at the gravel, my voice unsteady.
Maybe they rolled into the ditch.
We split up, checking the edges of the road, but there was
nothing. No bikes, no tire tracks, just
dry dirt and leaves. I was starting to feel it again,
that sinking pressure in my chest, the weight of the forest
around us. My fingers twitched nervously as
I scanned the tree line, my throat tight.
That's when Lucas yelled. Here.
I turned to find him crouching at the edge of the path, where
the underbrush thinned out into a clearing.
He pointed down into the grass, his face pale.
There they were, our bikes, or what was left of them.
They were half hidden in the tall weeds, mangled and bent
like someone or something had grabbed them and twisted them
apart. The tires were flat, the spokes
bent in every direction. My seat was slashed clean
through like it had been torn open with a knife.
Lucas stepped closer, pointing at the handlebars.
Do you see that? He whispered.
I leaned in and froze. There were marks on the metal,
long scorched fingerprints burned into the surface like
someone with searing hot hands had gripped it.
My mouth went dry and I stumbled back, heart pounding in my ears.
Let's go, I muttered. Lucas didn't argue.
He took one last look at the bikes before backing away, his
face pale as milk. We left them there and made our
way out of the forest, walking fast, neither of us saying a
word. I could feel it again, the
forest watching us, the silence pressing against my ears,
growing louder and louder until I was sure I could hear
something else underneath it, breathing just barely there, as
though it was keeping pace with us.
When we stepped out of the hollow and back onto the open
Rd. I finally let out a shaky breath
I didn't realize I'd been holding.
I turned to Lucas. That's it, I'm done, I'm never
going back. He didn't answer.
He just stared straight ahead, jaw clenched, eyes distant.
That night, Lucas called me. I answered on the second ring,
already knowing it wouldn't be good.
Come over. He said.
His voice was low, tight, like he was trying not to shake.
I found something. What?
I asked, my chest tightening. Just come over.
It took me less than 5 minutes to get there.
Lucas met me at the edge of his family's property, flashlight in
hand, leading me toward the back field.
It was getting dark, too dark, and my stomach nodded as we
walked. Then he pointed the bikes.
They were there, mangled just like before, dumped in the tall
grass at the edge of the woods. The same woods, the same hollow.
How? I whispered.
I don't know, Lucas said, his voice shaking.
I don't. He stopped suddenly and aimed
the flashlight at the ground. Just in front of the bikes,
Pressed into the dirt, were footprints.
Long, narrow, bare feet. Only they weren't normal feet.
The toes were too long, too spindly, like something
skeletal. Worse, there were too many.
Neither of us moved. Neither of us breathed.
The silence stretched, pulling tighter and tighter until it
felt like it was squeezing me. Then I heard it.
The sound of gravel. Soft, deliberate steps coming
from the trees. Go.
Lucas whispered. I turned, already running.
We didn't stop until we were back at his house, the doors
locked, the windows closed. My heart slammed in my chest as
I sank onto the floor, my hands shaking so hard I couldn't hold
the glass of water Lucas brought me.
I didn't sleep that night. I lay awake, staring at the
window, listening for sounds I hoped weren't there.
But sometime after three, I heard it.
Tap, tap, tap, Soft, rhythmic against the glass.
I didn't look. I couldn't.
I pulled the blanket over my head, shaking, my breath
hitching in my throat. But I felt it, that heavy
watching presence just beyond the thin pane of glass.
By morning, it was gone. We never spoke about the hollow
again. Lucas and I stopped hanging out
late at night, and I avoided that road like it was cursed.
But even now, years later, I still feel it sometimes, that
presence watching from the edge of the dark.
And every so often, when the house is quiet, I hear it again.
Tap, tap, tap. It was supposed to be a quiet
day, a couple of hours in a forgotten corner of the Welsh
countryside. Just me, my camera and the kind
of light you only get in dying afternoons.
Gold seeping through twisted branches, casting shadows that
look almost alive. I'd found the Grove by accident
a week ago, an ancient cops of oaks that bent and nodded into
each other like skeletons frozen mid wrestle, Perfect for the
kind of eerie shots I loved. When I pulled up to the clearing
at the forest's edge, I was alone.
Just my car, my gear, and the smell of damp earth thick in the
air. It felt like stepping into a
pocket of the world no one had touched in years.
Quiet. Still, I liked it that way.
I had just finished setting up my tripod when I heard the
engine, a low groaning hum that echoed through the trees like it
didn't belong there. I turned and saw it, a rusted
white van rattling up the dirt road and parking next to my car.
A single figure got out. A woman.
She was tall, taller than me, wearing a red raincoat that
looked too bright, too new for the rest of her.
Something was off. Her movements were slow and
stiff as she walked to the edge of the forest where she just
stood facing the tree line, her back to me.
I tried to ignore her. People were strange sometimes,
and I wasn't going to let some random lady ruin my shoot.
The camera clicked and I focused on the screen, framing the
gnarled branches perfectly as the sun dipped closer to the
horizon. Then she moved.
When I glanced up again, she was on the path, the same path I was
standing on. She didn't look at me at first,
just shuffled forward, dragging her right leg behind her like it
was weighted with something heavy.
Every step sent a dull thump through the dirt.
I gripped the tripod a little tighter, keeping one hand on the
camera. Evening.
I said, trying to sound normal. She stopped.
That's when she turned her head. Her face was pale, sunken, with
dark wet hair plastered to her forehead.
Her eyes locked on mine, blank, glassy, like she wasn't seeing
me at all. Her mouth hung slightly open,
lips cracked and colorless. Are you all right?
She tilted her head sharply, too sharply, and let out a low,
broken noise from her throat. Not a word, not quite a growl,
just noise. She stayed like that, head
crooked, body still, as if she were trying to process what I
was, whether I mattered. I took a step back.
Then she lunged, not at me but at the ground, bending over with
such force I heard her joints crack.
Her hands dug into the earth, clawing up damp leaves and mud,
flinging them into the air in frantic, jerky bursts.
The noise she made grew louder, a low hum mixed with sharp
grunts, like she was singing to herself in a language no one
else could understand. My heartbeat drummed in my ears.
I slid my camera into my bag slowly, as if any sudden
movement might snap her attention back to me.
OK, I'll just leave you to it. I muttered, more to myself than
her. She froze.
Leaves clung to her fingers, dirt smeared up her wrists, and
she turned her head again, slowly this time.
She was still hunched over, like a broken marionette that didn't
know how to stand upright. Then she shuffled off back into
the trees, dragging her leg behind her.
I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath until I heard
my exhale shake through the quiet.
My hand fumble for my phone, and I dialed Sophie.
She answered on the second ring, her voice a lifeline in the
stillness. Hey, what's up?
Just stay on the phone with me for a bit, yeah?
I said, keeping my voice low as I stared into the spot where the
woman had disappeared. There's this person here.
I don't know. She's a branch.
Snapped. I whipped my head around.
Nothing. Just trees.
The kind of trees where shadows blur into each other, where
everything looks like it could be someone watching.
You're scaring me, Sophie said. What's going on?
Nothing. It's fine, I'm just being
stupid. I kept her on speakerphone as I
packed up the rest of my gear, telling myself it was wildlife,
probably deer, brushing through the undergrowth.
I heard it again, though, the unmistakable crunch of leaves,
pacing, circling. My breath was short now, too
loud in my ears. I hurried to the clearing, eyes
darting between the trees. The van was gone, thank God.
I let out a shaky laugh. It's OK, I said to Sophie,
trying to convince us both she's gone, whoever she was.
I turned onto the main path, phone still in hand, and that's
when I saw him, A man at the forest's edge, just standing
there. He was taller than I'd thought
at first, his shoulders broad beneath a flannel jacket caked
in dried mud. His hair hung in wet strings
around his face and he looked straight at me with those same
empty eyes and the smile crooked and stretched, splitting his
face like it didn't belong there.
My blood turned to ice. It was her, the same person,
just different now, exposed. Evening, he said.
The voice was low and cracked, like something dead trying to
speak through a throat. That shouldn't work.
I didn't answer. I just kept walking faster, not
daring to look back. I could feel his eyes on me.
I could hear him too, the faint thud, thud of his steps on the
dirt matching mine. When I reached my car, I yanked
the door open, locking myself inside with shaking hands.
My phone was still on, Sophie's voice distant, tinny.
Are you OK, Dan? I looked up.
The man was standing on the road now, still as stone, staring at
me with that awful grin. He lifted his hand, a slow,
casual wave, before taking one deliberate step back into the
woods. And then I heard it.
A humming sound, low, droning, vibrating in my chest.
It came from everywhere and nowhere all at once, and I swear
to God I saw shadows move between the trees.
I didn't stick around to see what came next.
I threw the car into reverse and got the hell out of there,
gravel kicking up in my wake when I passed the rusted van
parked just down the road, hidden now half buried in brush.
The back doors were open, crates, ropes, and something
dark and crumpled that I refused to look at directly.
I didn't stop driving until I hit the main road, where I
finally pulled over and screamed into the steering wheel.
Dan. Sophie's voice crackled through
the phone. I'm fine, I lied.
It's nothing. But I couldn't stop thinking
about the grin and the humming and how for just a second, I'd
seen something else in that forest.
They weren't watching me, they were waiting.
I didn't sleep, not really. I must have dozed off for an
hour or two, but every sound outside my rental cabin yanked
me back awake, every creak of a branch, every whisper of wind
against the walls. I lay there, staring at the
ceiling, the hum I heard in the Grove still rattling around in
my head like a tune I couldn't shake.
By morning, I'd convinced myself it wasn't as bad as it seemed.
The man, the woman, whoever they were, they were probably just a
lunatic squatting in the woods. I could rationalize it.
Strange, yes, but manageable. That's what I told myself as I
drank the strongest coffee I could brew and packed up my
gear. I don't know why I went back.
Part of me felt like I had to. Maybe I wanted to prove to
myself that there was a simple explanation, something that
would make me feel less insane. Or maybe it was something
deeper, something that Grove had sunk into me like a splinter
that wouldn't work itself out. I told Sophie I was heading
back. She called me an idiot.
She wasn't wrong. The forest looked different in
the morning. Lighter, less oppressive, the
sun breaking through the canopy and scattered beams.
It should have made me feel better, but it didn't.
The light didn't reach deep enough, and the silence was
still wrong. The kind of silence that isn't
natural, the kind that feels listening.
I parked at the clearing, heart pounding as I climbed out.
The van was gone. That helped a little.
My car was the only one there, and the woods felt empty.
Still, I gripped the knife I'd tucked into my coat pocket as I
started down the trail. The Grove looked untouched, like
nothing had ever happened. The tripod marks I'd left in the
dirt were gone, though, as if the earth had smoothed itself
out overnight. Fresh leaves covered the ground.
I tried to ignore how they looked like they'd been placed.
Then I saw it. A shred of red fabric, bright
and filthy, caught on a thorny branch.
The raincoat. I stepped closer, my breath
shallow, and noticed something else.
A faint line of disturbed earth leading off the path deeper into
the woods. A dragging mark.
My stomach twisted, but I followed it.
The deeper I went, the colder it got.
The sun barely made it through the branches now, and the air
felt heavy, pressing against me like it didn't want me there.
The drag marks ended in a small clearing I hadn't seen before, a
hollow ring of stones half buried in Moss and Ivy.
My throat went dry. There were symbols carved into
the stones, faint, worn but still there, jagged lines that
twisted into shapes, almost human, almost.
The ground in the center was disturbed, as though someone or
something had been digging. I crouched low and saw fragments
scattered near the pit, old bones, small and brittle like
they'd been there for years. And rope.
A voice in my head screamed Leave.
I stood up and turned sharply, ready to go back.
That's when I saw the footprints, mine and others,
bare feet larger than mine, imprinted in the soft earth.
They circled the clearing, and then I heard it.
A sound, barely audible at first, rising out of the trees
like a low vibration. A humming.
Not one voice but many, layered on top of each other, deep and
steady, like an old chant. I froze.
My eyes scanned the trees, every shadow, every space between
branches. And then I saw them.
Figures. At first I thought it was the
trees playing tricks on me, but then they moved.
People, tall and short, men and women, standing at the edge of
the clearing, half hidden in the gloom.
Their faces were pale and blank, mouths slightly open as the
humming poured out of them. Their clothes were all wrong,
mismatched, tattered layers that looked like they'd been pulled
from another time. I stumbled back, my pulse
hammering in my ears. Who's there?
I croaked. No one answered.
They didn't move, didn't blink, just watched.
Then a shape stepped forward from the line of trees, and I
felt bile rise in my throat. It was him, the man in the
flannel jacket. He was closer now, close enough
for me to see the way his face didn't seem right.
Too smooth in some places, too hollow in others, as if it were
a mask stretched too thin over something else.
That same crooked smile split his face, and when he spoke it
was barely a whisper. You shouldn't have come back.
I turned and ran. Branches clawed at my clothes,
scratched my face as I tore through the woods, the humming
growing louder and louder until it felt like it was vibrating
through my chest. I didn't look back.
I couldn't. I could feel them moving though,
closing in around me, the sound coming from all directions.
I hit the trail, nearly stumbling as I sprinted toward
the clearing. My car was still there.
I dug the keys out of my pocket with shaking hands, throwing
myself into the driver's seat and locking the doors.
The humming stopped. It was silent again.
I sat there, panting, gripping the steering wheel, waiting for
something, anything to appear. Nothing did.
After a long minute, I forced myself to look back at the
trail. They were gone.
I backed out slowly, half expecting to see the man step
out from the trees, but there was nothing.
I turned onto the road and drove, not stopping until I was
miles away, the trees behind me swallowed up by distance.
Later, back at the cabin, I plugged in my camera, hoping the
photos would distract me, anything to convince myself that
what I'd seen wasn't real. But as I scrolled through the
shots, my chest tightened. The Grove was there, perfectly
framed, the trees twisting into dark silhouettes.
But in the shadows I saw them, faint outlines of figures
standing perfectly still, watching.
And in the last photo, the very last one, there was something
else, a shape in the foreground, just out of focus, close, too
close. I slammed the laptop shut and
sat back, the humming still rattling in my skull like it
never really stopped. They hadn't just been watching.
They'd been waiting.