Chapter 1: Where GPS Goes to Die
Summary:
A long drive, a weird town, and a house that looks like it’s auditioning for a horror movie. What could go wrong? All the protagonist wanted was a quick in-and-out inheritance check. What they got was a crumbling porch, some cryptic warnings, and a whole lot of regret. And they haven’t even gone inside yet.
Small towns are weird. This one? Might be something worse.
Chapter Text
Some places just feel like they want to kill you.
Maybe it’s the air–too still. Or the silence–too heavy. Or maybe it’s the gas station cashier staring at you like you just walked in with a third eye blinking on your forehead.
This town had all three.
You’re not sure when the trees started looking like they wanted to eat you, but by the time the road narrowed into a cracked ribbon of asphalt surrounded by pine, the light was different.
Dimmer. Greyer. Like the sun had to try harder just to get through the canopy out here. You’d been driving for three hours, most of it through a series of increasingly sketchy small towns, and now the GPS was gasping for life with one flicking bar of signal and a red battery light threatening to bail on you at any second.
The air felt heavy. Like the kind of humidity that made your hair frizz and your soul itch.
“Great. Perfect. Just the vibe I wanted for this spontaneous nightmare vacation.”
You’d passed a sign a while back that read “WELCOME TO RED PINE,” though someone had clearly taken a crowbar or maybe just blind rage to the letters, because it now read “WE__OME TO __D PI_E.” Below it was a sad little hand-painted notice that said: Population: ???
Comforting.
Your car rumbled over another pothole deep enough to have its own ecosystem, and you winced. “Sorry, baby,” you muttered, patting the dashboard. “You didn’t deserve this.”
The town wasn’t even on most maps. That should’ve been your first clue that things were probably going to suck.
But no, you’d been the responsible one. The only idiot in the family willing to handle the house.” It’s just an old place,” you told them. No one else was willing to set foot on the property. They all believed that going there would curse you and cause nothing but trouble, but how bad could it really be? It's just a normal old house.
Except for the part where the guy who used to live there went full recluse-doomsday-hermit after surviving a literal asylum fire and dying mysteriously, leaving behind a legacy of cryptic messages and inherited trauma.
Totally normal. Love that.
The road curved sharply, and suddenly you were descending into something that almost qualified as a town. Not big enough to have a Walmart, but maybe there was a gas station. Hopefully, one that didn’t sell knives and moonshine at the same register.
The first building you passed looked like it used to be a diner, now boarded up and partially collapsed on one side. Across the street stood a rusted-out truck half-swallowed by weeds. The only signs of life were a dusty convenience store with an “OPEN” sign barely lit in red neon and a bar with half its name missing.
You pulled into the lot of the convenience store and parked, the tires crunching over gravel and broken glass. As soon as you stepped out of the car, the silence hit. Not total–there were birds, the faint rustle of trees–but something was off.
The kind of quiet where your skin prickles and your instincts whisper Don’t turn your back.
The air smelled like woodsmoke and wet leaves. You ignored the chill running up your spine and walked in.
The place looked like it hadn’t been remodeled since the early ‘80s, flickering fluorescent lights, sun-bleached candy behind scratched plexiglass, and a fridge humming in the corner with maybe two sad sodas inside. A fan buzzed overhead but didn’t actually move any air.
An older woman stood behind the counter, arms crossed, gaze level.
You smiled, trying to channel your most charming “I’m not a serial killer, please just sell me chips” energy. “Hey. Uh, just passing through. Can I get gas here?”
She didn’t answer for a moment. Just stared at you. Her eyes drifted to the window, like maybe she was checking to see if you’d come alone. Finally, she said, “Pump doesn’t work. You’ll have to siphon it.”
“...Cool. Love that.”
She raised an eyebrow.
You cleared your throat and tried again. “Okay, well, can I at least grab a drink? Been driving forever.”
The woman nodded slowly and went back to wiping down the counter with the kind of focus reserved for people avoiding conversation.
You snagged a bottle of tea and a dusty bag of trail mix, resisting the urge to grab one of the hunting knives in the display case, just in case this turned into a horror movie.
As she rang you up, she finally said, “You’re headed up to that house, aren’t you?”
You froze, half-reaching for your wallet, “...What house?”
She gave you a look that suggested you were a terrible liar. “The house where the old man went crazy. That place don’t get visitors unless someone’s stupid, cursed, or both.”
“Neat,” you said flatly. “I’m going with cursed. Thanks.”
She didn’t smile. “You don’t wanna go up there, hon.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I don't want to either. I was voluntold by a will.”
Her eyes flicked to your wrist. “Family?”
“Unfortunately.”
SHe sucked her teeth and handed over your change. “You stay away from the woods, you hear? Especially after dark. They don’t like people watching.
“..They?”
She didn’t answer.
You left.
You made it about five feet before your car sputtered and died like it had just remembered it was tired of existing. The engine gave one last sad wheeze and clicked off, dashboard lights blinking out like it was giving you the finger on the way down.
“Oh, come on,” you groaned, gripping the steering wheel like you could guilt it back to life. “Don’t do this to me. Not now. Not in ‘Population question Mark’ Hellville.”
You tried the ignition again. Nothing. Not even a cough.
“Cool. Love that. Fantastic. Totally not a sign I should just turn around and go live in a Wendy’s parking lot.”
You popped the hood, climbed out of the car, and immediately felt it again–that too quiet, too-heavy sensation in the air. No birds. No wind. Just the soft hum of the gas station cooler behind you and the distant creak of an old sign swaying.
The store clerk was definitely still watching you through the grimy window. You could feel it. Or maybe it wasn’t her.
Maybe it was something else.
You glanced over your shoulder into the woods across the road. Pine trees as far as you could see, thick and dark and too still. No movement. No deer. No squirrels. Just shadow.
“...If a serial killer is out there, now’s your moment,” you called, raising your voice a little.
“I’m distracted, emotionally fragile, and probably delicious. Let’s get this over with.”
The trees declined to respond, which, honestly, was probably for the best.
You turned back to your car and peered under the hood, which was laughable, because your knowledge of engines began and ended with “something they go vroom.” The wire looked fine. The battery hadn’t exploded. There weren’t any obvious gremlins chewing on things.
You sighed and wiped your hands on your jeans, which were already dust-covered and travel-wrinkled. “Guess it’s time to play everyone’s favorite game: Find The One Mechanic in Town And Pray He Doesn’t Wear Skin Masks.”
You locked the car out of sheer habit–because heaven forbid someone steal your broken vehicle, and headed toward the rust-coloured building across the street marked “MURPHY’S AUTO.” A crooked sign swung above the garage door, and several dead trucks were parked around the lot like rusty tombstones.
You hesitated outside the door, hands on your hips.
The sensation of being watched prickled down your neck again. Not just watched–evaluated. Like someone was waiting to see what you’d do next.
You glanced up. Nothing in the windows. No figures. No movement.
“Alright,” you muttered. “Let’s meet the local cryptid.”
You pushed open the door, and a little bell overhead gave a half-hearted jingle.
The shop smelled like motor oil, coffee, and faintly of weed. There were bumper stickers all over the counter that read things like Honk If You’ve Seen A Ghost and Aliens Did 9/11. A black and white photo of a man standing in front of a vintage pickup hung crookedly on the wall.
A guy emerged from the back wearing coveralls and a trucker cap that said “BIGFOOT IS REAL AND HE OWES ME MONEY.”
“Hey there,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag. “You look like you’ve had a day.”
“You could say that,” you said. “My car decided to die dramatically in front of your local horror movie set. I think it’s mad I’m making it go somewhere haunted.”
He snorted. “That’d be Red Pine. Place’ll suck the life outta whatever rolls in. You stuck in town or just lost?”
“Bit of both. I’m here for… family business.”
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask.
“Well,” he said, gesturing toward the door. “Pop the hood, i’ll come take a look. Name’s Murphy, by the way. Yeah, like the sign.”
“You named the shop after yourself?” you asked, following him out.
“No, after my cat. But he’s dead now. SO technically, I guess it is me.”
You blinked. “I have so many questions and zero energy to ask any of them.”
He grinned.
Outside, the shadows had lengthened. The sun had started to dip lower, casting sharp, slanted lines across the pavement. You thought you saw something move across the street again–a flicker in the corner of your eye, but when you turned your head, nothing was there.
Murphy opened your hood and leaned in. “Huh.”
“Huh’ is not comforting,” you said.
“Nah, just weird. Battery’s fine, starter looks okay. It could be a sensor. Could be the fuel pump. Could be the Red Pine curse.” He winked, then leaned back and gave you a shrug. “I can tow it to the shop if you want. Might be an overnight thing.”
“I just got here and I am already needing an overnight mechanic visit. This place is trying to murder me with mild inconvenience.”
He laughed and clapped you on the shoulder like you were old friends. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen worse. Hell, last guy who broke down out here ran screaming into the woods and was never seen again.”
He smiled.
“...You’re joking,” you said.
“Mostly.”
“Cool. I’ll just add that to the mental file labeled ‘Deeply Unsettling Lore.’ Right next to ‘The trees don’t like being watched.’”
Murphy waved a hand. “Oh, that’s just Irene. She says that about everything. She once told me her TV was possessed because it turned out during a thunderstorm.
He towed the car without fuss, and you rode shotgun in his ancient, rattling pickup that smelled vaguely like grease and peppermint. He gave you a run-down of the “hotspots” in town, which mostly included one bar, one diner currently closed due to rats, and a hiking trail that had been shut down “because the forest reclaimed it.”
“Reclaimed?” you asked.
“Yeah, you know,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “Whole trail just kinda disappeared under the underbrush one summer. No one’s gone down it since.”
You stared at him.
“Red pine eats things,” he added with a grin.
“...Great. I came all this way to clean out a haunted house in a man-eating forest. You ever considered rebranding this place as a tourist trap?”
He glanced at you sideways. “You’d be surprised how many do come looking for weird shit. Ghost hunters. Internet types. Some kid once brought a whole drone rig and got scared off by an owl.”
“I’m rapidly realizing I am exactly that idiot internet type, except I forgot the drone and came with emotional baggage instead.”
Murphy pulled up to the garage and helped you get your car parked. He promised to look at it properly the next morning and handed you a spare key to a loaned truck “just in case.” The truck looked like it had seen things, namely every decade since the 19070’s– but it ran. Mostly.
You climbed inside and waved him off. “If I disappear, avenge me by telling people I was hot and sarcastic.”
He laughed. “You’ll be fine. Probably.”
It was late afternoon by the time you rolled up to the house.
You hadn’t even walked up to the porch yet, but your body already hated it. Every nerve in you pulled tight like a piano wire. The trees loomed tall around the clearing, casting long shadows that spilled toward the house like reaching fingers.
The wind stirred, and you heard something, a rustle in the woods. A faint creak from somewhere above, like an attic shifting or a floorboard stretching in sleep.
You turned in a slow circle.
Nothing. Just wind. Just trees.
Still, you spoke out loud, voice dry and loud in the quiet.
“If you’re planning to axe murder me, at least wait until I’ve had dinner. I didn’t suffer through that gas station trail mix for nothing.”
No response.
The house waited. Silent and sagging.
Chapter 2: House of Horrors (But Make It Rent Free)
Summary:
Settling into the house proves harder than expected, especially when the décor includes mold, weird stains, and a growing sense of being watched. Between questionable furniture choices, an inconvenient power flicker, and an old box tucked where no box should be, things get… strange. Dinner is burned, nerves are fried, and curiosity? Well, it’s not doing the protagonist any favors.
Sometimes it’s better not to press play. But when has that ever stopped anyone?
Notes:
I hope you like it!! I'm always open to comments and feedback, or if anyone has any ideas, I'd love to hear it!!
Chapter Text
The house looked like it was trying to swallow itself.
The porch sagged down in the middle, its railings twisted and splintered from years or neglect. The windows were blacked out with what looked like trash bags, duct tape sloppily put over the seams. It looks like no one had been there in years, which, to be fair, no one probably has been.
“Home sweet home,” You mutter, turning off the engine.
You sit there for a moment, fingers still on the keys, staring at the house like it might change into something less horrifying if you just blinked hard enough. It doesn’t. Obviously.
I didn’t want the place, I wasn’t even supposed to inherit it, but everyone else in the family noped the hell out as soon as his name was mentioned in the will. Said he would only bring bad things into your life.
But here I was, half a tank of gas lighter and looking at the house that I’d only seen once or twice, maybe when I was six or seven,and all I could remember was the smell.
It smelled weird even back then. Moldy and stale, like the walls were exhaling something you shouldn’t breathe.
The first time I’d come here, he was already unraveling.
He used to be a doctor, head physician at some psychiatric hospital that was on the edge of town, right next to the woods. They built it far away from everything else in case one of the patients decided to go on a little field trip. It was isolated, Quiet. Self-contained.
Then it burned down. Just… poof. One night, the place went up in flames. No survivors.
Except for him.
My parents never talked about what he saw. Maybe they didn’t know. Maybe they didn’t want to. But whatever happened, It broke something in him. Cracked his brain like an egg on pavement.
After the fire, he moved here and never left. Stopped picking up the phone. Started saying things, Weird things. Like how the trees moved when no one was looking. How voices whispered through the walls at night. Got rid of all the technology he had because he said there was a constant static hum behind every screen, every wire, like a bug chewing its way through his skull.
He insisted people were sneaking in. Moving stuff. Leaving messages. Playing tricks. Gaslighting him, basically.
He boarded up his bedroom windows. Put three different locks on every door. Kept a journal filled with scribbles that started off as sentences and slowly devolved into a mess of scratches and angry spirals..
Eventually, the family wrote him off.
Paranoid. Dangerous. Unfit to be around children.I remember my mom crying in the kitchen after they cut him off. Said she wanted to help him more, but there was nothing she could do.
And now he was dead.
Suicide, they said. Or exposure. The body was in bed shape when they found it, so … pick your favourite, I guess. But the house? The house was left to me.
Why me? Well, everyone else in the family said they would rather gargle bleach than set foot in this place. So. Congratulations, me, I guess.
You finally pry yourself out of the car and stretch. Your legs protest loudly after three hours of white-knuckled highway driving and one too many rest stops that looked like murder scenes.
Looking up at the house, it was massive. A hulking wooden thing that looms over the driveway like it’s judging you. Probably is.
You step onto the porch, which groans under your weight like it’s not ready for visitors.
Musty air clings to your skin as you reach for the keys in your jacket pocket. The lock sticks, of course, but eventually turns with a shuddering clunk. You push the door open, and the smell hits you harder this time: dust, mildew, something vaguely metallic.
As you walk into the entrance way, the floor creaks under your boots. Your eyes adjust slowly to the dim light, filtering in through whatever holes haven’t been plugged with garbage bags and anxiety. And right there, smack in the middle of the floor–
“Of course, the house came with bloodstains. Why wouldn’t it?”
You make a face and step over the dark stain like it might reach up and grab your ankle.
The hallway is long and narrow. Every step kicks up dust. A cobweb grazes your face, and you recoil with a quiet curse, swatting the air like you’re being attacked.
You run a hand along the wall, brushing away some cobwebs, and you continue walking when you trip on a loose board.
“Fuck” you mumble to youself, Kneeling, you crouch and tug at the warped floorboard until it giveswith a hollow snap.
Underneath is a small, beat-up box.
“Well, that’s not ominous at all,” you mutter.
Inside the box are old cassette tapes. A whole stack of them, rubber-banded together, with handwritten labels that have mostly faded into smudges. Alongside them is a folded piece of yellowed paper. You pull it open carefully.
Stick figures. Trees with gagged eyes. A house-this house. And a crude map leading out into the woods.
You stare at the contents for a long moment.
“...Fuck. This is creepy. Okay. Nope. This is definitely the start of a horror movie. And not the kind where anyone survives.”
You glance at the tapes again, the labels peeling. Just looking at them makes your skin itch a little.
“Yeah… that’s gonna be a later problem.”
You shove the box closed and tuck it under your arm, standing back up.
“I just got here. I’m not about to dive into this Blair Witch bullshit on an empty stomach.”
You find the bedroom down the hall– at least, what used to be a bedroom. The mattress is just there on the floor, no frame, dust-covered, but not… horrifying. The boarded windows let in thin strips of grey light. You set your duffel down and flop onto the mattress.
It makes a noise like it’s dying.
“Same, buddy.”
You unpack. Clothes, a toothbrush, a flashlight, and a half-charged phone that definitely has no signal out here. One book you’ve already read. A knife, because obviously.
Then it's kitchen time. And by “kitchen,” you mean a crime scene where food used to be.
Half the drawers are swollen shut. There’s a cast iron pan still on the stove, crusted with something that might be rust but could also be congealed despair. You find a newer-looking pan in a drawer– it's still in its packaging, bless- and cook the bare minimum: instant noodles and a fried egg.
It’s hot, at least. You sit at the rickety kitchen table, eating it like it's the best meal you’ve ever had.
The house groans above you, Something shifts upstairs. Or maybe it’s just the wind. Maybe..
After dinner, the silence becomes noticeable.
Uncomfortable.
You remember the box, it's still sitting in the hallway like it’s waiting.
“Okay, fine. You win.”
The words barely leave your mouth before you realize.. You have no idea how the hell you’re supposed to play any of these tapes.
You look down at the box like it’s personally betrayed you. “I swear, if I drove all this way just to be haunted by a bunch of VHS cassettes without a damn player, I am suing the ghost of Uncle Crazytown for emotional damages.”
Of course, it’s not like there’s a labeled Media Room waiting for you. So you do what any brave, capable adult would do in this situation.
You go snooping.
You check the obvious places first, under the TV stand in the living room, no TV, of course, because why would anything be helpful?. Inside cabinets filled with old newspapers and what might’ve been mouse nets, and one closet that honestly smelled like something had died in it, and you noped out of there instantly.
You mutter the whole time while moving around the house like a gremlin.
“Oh sure, let’s hide the super-secret cursed tape player in the least accessible corner of the haunted crackhouse. That makes perfect sense.”
It’s while you’re digging through a dusty chest in the hallway–one filled with mismatched wires, cracked remote controls, and an aggressively ugly lamp shaped like a goose- that you feel it.
That little prickling sensation on the back of your neck.
Like you’re not alone.
You freeze. Look over your shoulder. Nothing.
No shadows moving in the hallway. No doors creaking. Just that feeling. Like the walls are leaning a little closer than they were five minutes ago. Watching. Listening.
You move an old newspaper and then you see it the tape player, finally.
You grab the tape player, ignoring the feeling from before, it's ancient, bulky, but still intact, and give it a test shake. There’s a familiar rattle inside. A battery compartment, probably.
“Oh, thank God,” you whisper. “You do still exist. Thought for sure I was gonna have to carve a tape deck out of wood like some paranormal Boy Scout.”
You head back towards the kitchen, still keeping your steps light and ears sharp, trying not to imagine anything staring at you from between the cracks in the boarded-up windows.
When you step into the kitchen, you stop short.
One of the overhead lights is on.
You’re positive you didn’t turn that on. You haven’t touched the switch all day. And it’s a nasty yellow kind of light—flickering just enough to be unsettling. Like it’s trying to strobe you into a seizure.
You stare up at it, hand tightening on the tape player.
Then you scoff.
“Oh, cool. Poltergeist knows how to use a light switch. Real impressive. If you’re gonna start messing with my utilities, at least make yourself useful and fix the hot water.”
You plop the box of tapes on the table, grab the nearest cassette, and slam it into the player before your brain can start doing that fun thing where it spins off into paranoia and starts telling you that shadows are blinking. You don’t even bother to check if the tape is labeled, because mystery is apparently the theme of the evening. Also, your patience has been on life support since you stepped through the front door.
With a mechanical clunk, the tape slides in. You press “play.” A high-pitched squeal of static screeches through the tiny built-in speaker and you wince, stabbing the volume dial down.
“Jesus–okay, yeah, let’s just murder my eardrums before the ghosts can.”
For a second, all you get is static. WHite noise hissing out like the house itself is trying to shush you.
Then it settles.
The screen clicks over to something dark and shaky. Footage starts playing: it’s the woods–bleak and skeletal, branches sticking out like claws, overcast light making everything look sickly and grey. The camera stumbles through thick brush, crunching leaves underfoot, as if whoever’s filming had no idea what they were doing. You’re not sure if it’s just old film degradation or some kind of weird lighting glitch, but parts of the trees seem… off. Too smooth. Or maybe too still.
You lean forward a little.
There’s no narration. No music. Just the sound of dry wind hissing through bare trees and the crunch of steps.
You’re about to comment on how this is literally the worst nature documentary ever when the cameraman stops.
Just… stops.
And for a few moments, nothing moves. The frame lingers on a clearing–nothing dramatic. Just dead leaves and moss-covered stones. Then, out of the left side of the screen, something moves.
At first you think it's a tree swaying, but the movement is too smooth. Too intentional. A person? Maybe? There’s the outline of someone–hood up, hands at their sides. They’re standing perfectly still between two trees at the edge of the clearing, half-hidden in shadow.
You don’t get a clear look at their face, it looks like they have some sort of mask on. The camera dips, jolts, zooms in just slightly, and then freezes again. Not literally–it’s still rolling, but the person doesn’t move.
“Okay, not to be rude,” you mutter, “but I would rather eat glass than find out what happens next.”
Your stomach knots up, something cold curling in your gut. And just when you’re about to stop the tape, you hear it–
Thump.
Upstairs.
You freeze. One hand hovering over the eject button. That wasn’t the tape. That was real. That was upstairs.
You stare at the ceiling like it’s personally responsible for ruining your evening.
“Great. The rats are lifting weights now.”
The tape continues to play, stubbornly ignoring your growing discomfort. The figure in the frame, still unmoving, feels like it’s watching you. The camera slowly pans left, as if trying to get a better angle. And then blink and you’d miss it, a slight tilt of the head.
No footsteps. No breathing. Just that same, unbroken stare.
You hear it again.
Scraaaaape.
A long, dragging noise from the floor above. Followed by silence.
You slam pause.
The screen freezes with the hooded figure caught mid-turn.
You stand up, pushing your chair back with a screech. “Okay. Let’s just lay this out. I haven’t slept properly in two days, I’m running on gas station jerky and spite, and if a ghost is trying to play musical chairs upstairs, I swear I will go full exorcist with a can of Febreze.”
The house doesn’t respond. Of course.
You step into the hallway again, squinting up the dark staircase. It looks worse now, somehow. Like it knows you heard something. Like it’s waiting.
You stay at the base, debating your life choices, then sigh and backtrack to the kitchen.
Screw it. If someone’s squatting up there, they can wait until you’re caffeinated and armed with a broom.
Back in the kitchen, the light you had dismissed earlier is still on. Flickering, you roll your eyes.
“Oh, look who’s still trying to be spooky. You know there’s a dimmer switch, right?”
You sit back down and press play again.
This time, the camera is moving. Running, maybe. It jostles and swerves through thick underbrush. Branches whip past the lens. The breathing is fast now, harsh. Panicked. You catch glimpses of the forest–twisting, spinning–before the camera drops to the ground with a jolt and cuts to black.
The screen flashes blue.
Then: tape two auto-loads.
You frown. “Wait, what–how the hell?”
You didn’t touch it. But somehow, another tape is now playing.
The new footage opens on what looks like the same house you’re sitting in.
Your spine straightens.
It’s night in the footage. The angle is low–like the camera was set up on the ground, points at the porch. No movement. The wood creaks in the breeze, just slightly.
And then, someone steps into frame. Briefly. Just a leg. A boot. Then gone again.
You hear a faint tap-tap-tap from upstairs.
You hit pause. Again.
This time, the silence is heavier.
You wait a beat.
Another.
Nothing.
You let out a breath that you didn’t know you were holding and mutter, “Okay. Time to die dramatically in Act One, apparently.”
You look at the tape still rolling in the machine. The red LED blinks.
Your gaze drifts back to the screen. For a second, you think you see the porch door swing open in the footage. But the frames jumps again and it’s closed.
You rewind.
The door is shut.
You stare harder.
It’s definitely not your imagination. Something in this footage is… shifting. Things in the background aren’t where they were a few seconds ago. A chair moves between cuts. A shadow on the siding disappears when the camera jitters, then returns–but it’s longer.
You rewind it again, frame by frame, leaning in so close to the screen you can hear the static hum.
The last frame shows the porch.
Empty.
But–no. Wait.
You squint at the window to the left of the door.
At first glance, it’s just a dark reflection of the porch steps and crooked railing. But nestled in the blackness behind the glass–barely visible, like the film was too old or the shadows too thick– is a shape. A person.
The hood and that same mask.
The same goddamn guy from earlier in the tape.
He’s standing inside the house. Right behind the window. Watching.
Not moving. Not blinking. Not supposed to be there.
You blink hard and rewind again, freezing on the exact frame.
There he is.
Still.
Perfectly posed. Like a mannequin forgotten in the shadows.
You don’t breathe for a few seconds. Your stomach turns over like it’s trying to escape your body. You glance toward the window in the real kitchen, heart hammering so hard it almost drowns out the static.
“...Cool,” you say out loud, voice tight and falsely bright. “Totally normal. Love that for me.”
You jab the eject button, and the tape spits out like it's done with you, too.
You don’t watch another.
Not tonight.
Chapter 3: Mild Haunting, Major Inconvenience
Notes:
woah things are getting spooky. Btw I love comments
Chapter Text
You wake up to the hum of something buzzing. Not your phone of course not, it’s still dead and useless on your nightstand, but a deeper, throatier kind of buzz. Fridge? Power line? Poltergeist? Honestly, who knows anymore.
You sit up, groaning as your spine makes a sound like microwave popcorn. Your blanket’s half on the floor, your mouth is dry, and the air smells like mildew and old wood glue. Great. Love that for you.
Then it hits you. The memory. Or the half-memory. That creeping sense of unease. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, heart pounding for no good reason, and stare at the floor.
Last night.
The sounds from outstairs. The lights turning on by themselves. The kitchen window creaking open when no breeze should’ve done it. That crawling sensation across your skin. And the definite, unmistakable sense that something—someone was watching you.
You exhale like it might push the fear out of your chest.
“Nope. Not doing this. Not spiraling. This is a no-spiral zone.”
But the house doesn’t feel like it agrees.
You shuffle through the hall, toes cold against the warped hardwood floors. The boards creak under your feet like they’re complaining. You pause for a second and glance toward the staircase leading towards upstairs. Still closed. Still ominous. Good.
In the kitchen, you pour the last of your lukewarm coffee into a mug that says "#1 Nephew You’re not a nephew, but the house decided that was your mug now. You take a sip. Bitter. Fantastic.
The fridge hums louder now. You kick it lightly. It stops.
“Okay. Didn’t mean to offend you.”
The kitchen light’s on. Again.
You swear you turned it off last night.
You turn it off now. Stand in the doorway for a second. Wait. Nothing. Silence, except for the occasional groan of the house settling—like a large man trying to get comfortable on a futon.
You linger there for a moment, noticing how the silence doesn’t feel empty. It’s like the house is holding its breath. Watching. Listening. You flip the light switch again just to hear it click.
You should leave. You should go into town, buy a cheap bottle of wine, and pretend this is all a weird Airbnb situation you can review with passive-aggressive stars. But instead, your eye lands on the tape player.
You sigh. “Okay. Fine. You win, I’ll watch it.”
You rewind the first tape again and press play.
There’s the usual static, then the frame stabilizes. Same tree line. Same figure. But something’s wrong.
You lean forward, brow furrowed.
A chair in the background was facing away yesterday. Today? It’s angled slightly toward the camera. You pause. Rewind. Play.
“Oh, we’re doing the ‘ghosts that rearrange furniture’ thing now. Super original.”
You fast forward. Just before the static kicks in again, the figure’s head jerks slightly. Like it hears something.
And then the phone rings.
You jump.
Just once. No caller ID.
You let it go to voicemail. A second later, the machine clicks. You walk over and hit play.
Breathing.
Then your own voice, hoarse, whispering:
“Don’t go upstairs.”
You stare at the machine like it might grow legs and sprint away.
You haven’t been upstairs since the day you moved in. Haven’t had a reason. Not a good one, anyway.
“Nope. Nope, we’re not doing that today. We’re not doing possession. We’re not doing haunted walkie talkies. Absolutely not.”
You slam the STOP button and back away like it might explode.
You try to shake it off. Go outside. Clear your head. Get some sun, if that’s still legal in this zip code.
The air’s damp. Everything smells like wet moss and regret. The kind of morning that would make a raccoon rethink its life choices.
You walk a lazy loop around the house. Just enough to convince yourself you’re brave.
Then you see them: symbols. Carved into tree bark. A circle with an x crossed through it. Not deep, but fresh.
You crouch. Examine one. The bark flakes off under your nail.
A branch cracks behind you. You whip around nothing. But it’s not nothing. It’s never nothing.
You stand up straight, slowly. The hairs on the back of your neck rise like they’re trying to escape. The trees feel closer than they should be. Like they’ve edged in during the night.
You spin in a circle. “Okay, cool. Definitely not ominous. Loving this energy. Really vibing with the murder-forest aesthetic.”
You walk quicker now. Every sound bird cry, twig snap, wind is a threat. You keep glancing back over your shoulder. That oppressive feeling of being watched? It clings to you like a bad perfume.
You hear leaves crunch to your left. When you look, there’s nothing but brush. But you swear, swear there was movement.
“Okay, mysterious woods stalker. At least buy me dinner first.”
You bolt back toward the house.
The kitchen light is on.
You turned it off.
The tape? Halfway ejected. The kitchen chair? On the floor.
Your keys are in the fruit bowl now. You didn’t put them there.
You laugh. A little too loudly.
“Okay, Casper. Cute.”
You try your phone again. No signal. The bars flicker for a second, then vanish. The internet’s been out since you got here last night. You’re too proud to admit you’re starting to panic.
You double-lock the front door. Then the back. Put a chair under your bedroom doorknob like it’s going to stop anything that wants in.
You talk to the house now. Like it’s a roommate with weird habits.
“If you’re gonna keep turning on lights, you better start chipping in for the power bill.”
As you get into bed, something shifts above you. A soft drag of something across the attic floor.
You stare at the ceiling. Count the seconds. One… two… three…
The TV turns on in the living room. Low static hum. No volume. Just white noise.
You pull the blanket over your head.
“Cool. TV ghost has opinions now.”
You don’t sleep. You doze. Drift. Dream. Someone whispering just outside the bedroom door. Knuckles tapping on glass. A breeze that shouldn’t exist in a sealed room.
You wake up from your nap to see it’s gray and watery outside. You walk the perimeter again. The symbols are still there. Deeper now. And there are more of them.
You find one near the back steps with a smear of something dark in the grooves. Mud? Blood? You don’t look too hard.
There’s something new under the porch. A pile of feathers. Black, sleek, unnaturally clean. Arranged in a spiral.
You say, “Absolutely not,” and go back inside.
You swear you hear footsteps behind you as you close the door. When you whirl around, there’s no one. Nothing. But you’re sweating. The feeling hasn’t left.
You make another round of the house. A shirt you left in the laundry basket is now on the floor. One of the kitchen chairs is pulled out slightly. The back door was locked, but now it’s ajar barely.
You lock it. Again. This time you wedge a broom handle through the frame.
By the time you collapse on the couch, there’s a knock at the door.
You freeze. Who the hell would be knocking out here?
You open the door slowly. No one’s there. Just a sheet of notebook paper on the porch.
It’s been folded into a neat square. Inside, in shaky block letters:
"You’ve been fun to watch."
You stare at the paper.
“Cool. Great. Wonderful.”
You go back inside, toss the note in the trash, and pour yourself a drink despite it being 10 AM.
The tape player whirs again, unprompted.
You stare at it.
The second tape waits on the table.
Maybe you’ll watch it.
Maybe you’ll burn it.
But first, the car.
Because no amount of creepy spirits and sketchy phone calls is gonna stop you from needing to get the hell outta here.
You grab your jacket and keys and head back into town, the dirt roads kicking up dust under your boots. The sky is heavy, the kind of gray that feels like it’s watching you too. Probably right.
Murphy’s Garage is the kind of place where time forgot to update anything. Rusted signs, an ancient gas pump that hasn’t worked in years, and Murphy himself half mechanic, half local legend. The guy with a crooked smile and eyes that seem like they’ve seen things. Maybe too many things.
“Hey there, stranger. Got your ride all fixed up,” Murphy says, wiping his greasy hands on a rag. “Took longer than I thought—old parts, you know how it is.”
You lean against the workbench, glancing around at the cluttered space—license plates from decades past, faded posters of muscle cars, and a dusty radio playing something bluesy low in the background.
“Thanks,” you say, voice a little hoarse from the morning. “I owe you.”
Murphy finally looks up, eyeing you. “This town doesn’t get many visitors. And even fewer that stick around. You got guts comin’ out here, I’ll give you that.”
You smirk. “Yeah, well, desperate times call for desperate measures.”
He nods, dropping the rag into a greasy bucket. “Listen, I ain’t one for spooking folks, but... word around here is that house you’re stuck in? It’s got a history. Not the kind you read about in travel guides.”
You raise an eyebrow.
Murphy lowers his voice to a gravelly whisper. “People say there’s been strange goings on, voices in the night, shadows moving where they shouldn’t, things that make your skin crawl. Old timers call it cursed. Newcomers just call it ‘that place.’”
You roll your eyes but can’t hide the chill crawling up your spine.
“Local kids dare each other to get near it, but none ever last long. Some swear they hear footsteps behind ‘em when there’s no one there. Others see shapes just beyond the tree line.”
You swallow, trying not to look like you’re actually freaked out. “Sounds like small-town ghost stories.”
Murphy shrugs. “Maybe. But then again, some say those stories come from real bad experiences. Like people going missing, or coming back... different.”
You glance at the door, wondering if anyone’s lurking just outside. “Missing, huh?”
“Yeah. Decades ago, a family lived there. Quiet folks. Then one day, they just vanished. No note, no clue. Just gone.”
Your stomach twists.
Murphy pulls open a drawer and fishes out something wrapped in oil-stained cloth. He unwraps it carefully and holds out an old lighter, its metal scratched and weathered, with a strange symbol etched into the side.
“Found this near the house last week,” he says. “Dropped right by the back porch. Thought you might want it.”
You take it, cold metal pressing against your palm. The symbol looks vaguely familiar, like the carvings you saw on the trees.
“Thanks,” you say, pocketing the lighter.
Murphy pauses, then adds, “If you’re gonna stick it out there, you keep your eyes open. And don’t trust the quiet.”
You nod. “Got it.”
Outside, the sky has darkened further, clouds gathering like an audience waiting for a show to start. The town feels smaller somehow, the buildings leaning in like they’re whispering secrets.
You make your way over to the bar because, after the past few days, you need a drink. Badly.
You push open the creaky door of The Rusty Nail, the local dive bar that smells like spilled beer and broken dreams. The dim, yellowish light inside flickers unevenly, and a handful of regulars glance up from their drinks, their faces weathered like the town itself.
“Stressful day,” you mutter to yourself, sliding onto a cracked leather stool at the bar. The bartender, a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue, nods knowingly as she sets a beer in front of you without asking.
“Long time since we had a fresh face around here,” she says, wiping a glass with a rag that’s seen better days. “You’re the one livin’ in that old nightmare on the hill, ain’t ya?”
You smirk, taking a long sip. “Yeah, that’d be me. Trying not to lose my mind.”
She chuckles, low and dry. “Mind’s the first thing to go. You want real stories? You gotta talk to Old Hank. He’s got the dirt on that place.”
Before you can ask who Hank is, a gruff voice interrupts.
“That’s me,” says a man settling into the stool next to you. Old Hank looks like he’s been carved out of bark — a thick beard, eyes sharp and restless, and a crooked smile that’s seen too much trouble.
“You looking for stories or nightmares?” Hank asks, leaning in close, like he’s sharing a secret you can’t unhear.
You grin. “At this point, I’ll take both.”
Hank glances around, lowering his voice even further. “That house and those woods have been swallowing folks for decades. Kids, mostly. They say some never come back. Others come back... different.”
“Different how?” you ask, leaning in, suddenly all ears despite yourself.
“Lost. Scared. Talking nonsense about a tall man who watches from the trees. Folks say he’s not really human. Something older. Something angry.”
You swallow, feeling the air tighten.
“And that’s not all,” Hank continues. “People who stare too long into those woods start seeing things. Shadows, figures. Whispers. Some go insane trying to make sense of it.”
Your hand tightens around your beer. “Sounds like a real community builder.”
Hank snorts. “Nah, it’s more like a nightmare incubator. There’ve been murders too violent ones. Bodies found at the edge of those woods, far from any trail. No signs of struggle, just... gone mad, or worse.”
You laugh, but it’s brittle, forced. “Great. Perfect place to move into.”
Hank taps the bar with a crooked finger. “Just remember, no matter what you see, keep moving. Don’t stop. And whatever you do, don’t look too long.”
The weight of his words hangs between you like smoke.
You nod, trying to act like you’re the chillest person ever despite the cold prickles racing up your spine.
“Thanks for the warning,” you say, finishing your beer. “I’ll be sure to... keep my eyes to the ground.”
Hank grins, a little too knowingly.
“Good luck, kid. You’re gonna need it.”
You nod at Hank, the weight of his words still settling within you as you push off the bar stool. The buzz of the place now feels thicker, the low murmur of conversation turning into an ominous hum in your ears. You throw a few bills on the counter, grab your jacket, and step out into the cool night air.
The streets are quiet, the kind of quiet that feels too complete, like the whole town is holding its breath. You shiver not entirely from the chill as you cross the empty parking lot and slip into your car. The engine hums to life without complaint, Murphy did good.
You drive back toward the house, headlights cutting through the darkness, but the stories from the bar crawl under your skin like poison ivy. Kids disappearing, a tall figure in the woods, people losing their minds… Murder. Blood.
You tell yourself you’re just a rational person trying to piece it all together, but something in the back of your mind whispers otherwise. The house isn’t just a creepy old relic it’s a prison.
Back at the house, the porch light flickers faintly. You step inside and set your things down, heart hammering in your chest.
“Alright, tape number two. Let’s get this over with.”
You slide the second tape into the player and settle back, bracing yourself like it’s a bad movie you can’t stop watching.
The screen flickers to life with grainy footage, handheld and shaky. The image is dark, the thick forest crowding every frame, trees looming like silent sentinels watching a nightmare unfold.
The camera wobbles violently as whoever’s holding it runs, heavy breaths ragged and desperate. You hear the crunch of dead leaves underfoot, branches snapping as they’re pushed aside. Behind the camera, ragged breaths grow louder, closer. Something is hunting them.
Then they appear.
The first figure steps into frame a tall, lean shape cloaked in a faded yellow-orange hoodie, the hood pulled low over a black ski mask. Two piercing red eyes burn through the darkness like embers, fixed in a cruel frown that promises nothing but pain. The figure moves with a twisted ease, stalking through the woods like a predator who owns this place.
A voice cuts through the panic deep, warped by a voice changer, dripping with sarcasm.
“Run all you want, it just makes the chase more fun.”
The camera jolts as the runner trips over a root, scrabbling for purchase. The pursuer closes in, slow and deliberate.
Another figure bursts from the trees—a person in a dirty tan jacket, wearing a mask that’s almost human but warped, pale with black tips around the eyes and mouth. This one doesn’t waste words. The sound of a sharp blade slicing through branches cuts through the static. His movements are angry, savage, relentless.
The runner’s panic escalates; they stumble and fall harder this time, hands clawing at the dirt as the pursuers close the noose.
Then, a third figure appears, smaller but no less terrifying. Brown hair sticks out beneath an orange-tinted goggle set and a grimy face guard, giving him a wild, almost feral look. His hands grip two hatchets, the blades glinting ominously even in the poor light.
His movements are frantic and unpredictable, punctuated by sharp, jerking tics and twitches that make his presence even more unsettling.
The footage becomes a twisted ballet of terror and violence.
The runner scrambles up a fallen tree, their hands slipping in the mud as the trio closes in. Blood is smeared along the bark, dark and sticky.
You flinch as the camera dips lower, catching a close-up of a torn wrist, a ragged, bleeding gash that pumps crimson like a grim fountain.
The first pursuer steps forward, a pistol raised, echoing shots ringing through the forest.
Branches shatter as the others close the distance.
The second pursuer’s knife slices through flesh with a sickening wet sound, dark, glistening blood sprays.
The person running screams something raw and desperate, a sound that lodges in your throat.
The third swings his hatchets wildly, each blow driving deeper, splinters of wood and shards of blood flying with every strike.
The camera wobbles, nearly toppling as the runner collapses, body writhing on the forest floor. The frame jitters violently, then swings back up to capture the pursuers standing over their prey.
The tan-jacketed figure kneels, the white mask inches from the runner’s face, the eyes cold and merciless.
The orange-goggled figure’s tics intensify as he raises one hatchet, dripping with blood.
The yellow-orange hooded figure leans down, voice dripping with venom and mockery.
“Thought you could hide? Silly.”
The screen blurs with motion the camera falls.
Then, a boot stomps down hard, crushing the lens in a burst of black.
Silence.
You sit frozen, the tape player clicking in the quiet room.
Your heart pounds as a cold sweat breaks out along your spine.
The house feels darker now, as if it’s feeding on the images you just watched.
You yank the tape out, your hands trembling like you just touched a live wire. The silence in the room feels suffocating, heavy like the shadows themselves are pressing in.
Your heart is still hammering like a jackhammer, and your breath is ragged, shallow. You stare at the black screen, the crushed camera lens burned into your mind’s eye like a brand.
You try to laugh it off, but the sound’s hollow. “Okay, that was… something.”
Something way too real.
You can’t shake the image of those red eyes, glowing in the dark, mocking you with every slow, deliberate step.
The tape wasn’t just footage. It was a message. A warning. Or maybe a damn invitation.
The room seems colder now, the corners darker. You glance toward the window, expecting normaljust the usual warped tree branches swaying. But there.
Out of the corner of your eye, a flicker.
A shadow that moves too quickly, disappears when you blink.
Static whispers seem to crawl through the air, barely audible but insistent, like a radio tuned just off frequency.
Your temples throb. The pounding headache crashes over you like waves.
You rub your eyes, hoping it’s just exhaustion. But no.
In the woods beyond the cracked windowpane, the branches twitch again.
Figures.
Just out of focus. Just out of reach.
You jerk your head around. Nothing. The empty yard stares back, silent and still.
“Get a grip,” you mutter, voice shaking. “It’s just your brain playing tricks.”
But the feeling won’t let go.
The tape played a loop in your mind, those merciless faces, the glint of blades and gunmetal.
You can almost hear their voices, distorted and cruel, echoing through the silence.
Your skin prickles.
Every creak of the house feels like footsteps.
Every flicker of light feels like eyes watching.
You catch yourself peeking out the window again, heart slamming against your ribs.
Nothing but trees.
But you know.
You’re not alone.
Not really.
Chapter 4: Trying to Dump the Past (Literally)
Notes:
One more written, I hope you enjoy, at some point I'm gonna have to go back and edit this because I lowkey forget things I wrote.
Chapter Text
You wake up gasping. Sweat-drenched, tangled in your sheets like they tried to strangle you while you slept.
Which, considering how the last 48 hours have gone, isn’t entirely off the table.
Your heart’s doing its best impression of a jackhammer. Your skin’s clammy. Your mouth is dry. And your brain, your poor, twitching, overworked brain, is still running the tape on loop like a masochistic film festival.
The screaming. The stumbling through leaves. That crunch when the hatchet landed. The way those three just… watched, like they’d seen it all before. Like it was routine. Mundane. Someone’s life ending in the woods, and all they cared about was whether the camera got the shot.
And then the foot, the heavy stomp, right into the lens.
You clutch your temples like you can squeeze the memory out. No dice.
“Okay,” you mutter, breath shaky. “You’re fine. You’re totally… not fine, but you’re alive. That’s something.”
The house groans in response, like even the floorboards know that’s a lie.
You swing your legs over the edge of the bed and sit there for a moment. Just breathing. Or trying to. Because the second your feet touch the floor, you’re hit with the full weight of it.
They killed someone. And you watched.
Not a movie. Not a YouTube deep dive with commentary. Real. Raw. Grainy. And burned into your brain.
You close your eyes, and there it is again. The victim’s gasps. The way the guy in the ski mask tilted his head before lunging. The glint of a blade. Blood on leaves. Breathing gets harder. Shallower. Your ribs tighten like the house itself is reaching in to squeeze them shut.
You try to stand, and the floor tilts. Or maybe it’s you.
“Okay. Okay, nope. That’s a no for standing.”
You collapse back onto the mattress and curl into yourself. Fetal position: the official pose of what the actual hell is happening to me.
The static’s back. Not on a screen inside your head. A low, thrumming buzz under your thoughts, like a wasp’s nest rattling between your ears. You clutch at your skull again and breathe like someone in a cheap yoga video.
In. Out. In. Out. In, nope, that’s not helping.
You lurch to your feet and stumble into the hallway, heart going full jazz drummer against your ribcage. You need air. Light. Sanity. Something. Anything.
The house isn’t having it.
It’s too quiet. The kind of quiet that’s not empty, but listening.
You shuffle into the kitchen, hands trembling, and slap the faucet on. The water runs brown at first, because, of course, it does before it clears up. You cup your hands, drink like a panicked animal, and splash your face. Cold. Real. Sharp.
The static fizzles a little. Not gone. Just quieter.
Your phone is still dead. Because your life is cursed and you forgot to charge it again in all the murder tape and masked creeps in the woods chaos.
You plug it in and pace. You try to tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. This is just stress. Horror movie adrenaline. Sleep deprivation. Definitely not the beginning of a complete mental breakdown, no sir.
Then you catch your reflection in the dark microwave screen.
You look like hell. Pale. Eyes hollow. Lip trembling. There’s a smear of something on your cheek, dirt? Blood? You wipe it away, pretending you didn’t just flinch at your own hand.
When the phone finally buzzes awake, you snatch it like it’s a lifeline.
One bar.
Good enough.
Your thumb hovers. You’re not even sure who to call. The police? What do you even say, “Hi, I inherited a haunted murder house and now I'm seeing things?”
No.
You need someone real. Familiar.
You tap your mom’s number and press the phone to your ear. It rings once. Twice.
Then: “Hey, it’s me. Leave a message.”
Voicemail.
You try again. Dad. Sister. Your cousin, who once brought a smudging kit to Thanksgiving and might actually believe you. No one answers. You’re alone in static, echoes, and a house that feels like it’s breathing down your neck.
Your breath comes faster. Ragged. Sharp. Your hands tremble so bad you drop the phone and it clatters across the floor. You grip the edge of the counter, trying to ground yourself.
But it’s not working.
The floor swims. The fridge hums too loud. Your chest seizes up.
You’re not breathing right. You’re not breathing right.
Panic claws up your throat like a wildfire, suffocating, searing, swallowing every rational thought in its path.
You drop to your knees.
You try to speak. To scream. Nothing comes out.
The walls feel too close.
The shadows too dark.
The woods outside too alive.
You can feel them. Watching. Whispering. Waiting.
You curl forward, forehead pressed to the cool tile, and ride it out like a storm. Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Time’s a joke now anyway.
Eventually, the grip loosens.
You’re still shaking. Still gasping.
But you’re breathing.
You drag yourself upright like a zombie, hands slipping on the counter. Your legs are noodles. Your shirt is soaked. You feel like you’ve been hit by a truck full of bees.
The house creaks again. Friendly reminder: it’s still here. And it knows. Whatever’s out there? It’s closer than before.
You look toward the window and see movement. Not in the woods this time.
In the glass.
A flicker.
A shape, reflected behind you for just a second.
You whirl around—nothing.
Of course.
Of course.
You’re losing it.
You sink back into the kitchen chair, clutch your phone, and text your mom.
me: hey. question. you ever dealt with ghosts? or like. evil woods?
You stare at it, waiting.
Three dots.
Then nothing.
Gone.
Of course.
You laugh. It’s a bad laugh. Hysterical. Unhinged. The laugh of someone dangling over the edge and waving at gravity.
You wipe your face again and slump over the table.
The static buzzes louder.
The tape sits on the counter where you left it.
And you know—there are more.
More tapes.
More horrors.
More truths you’re not ready for.
But it doesn’t matter.
Whatever this is?
It’s already started.
And you’re already in too deep.
You eye the tape like it personally insulted your entire bloodline.
It’s just sitting there. All smug and VHS-y. Square little liar. Like it didn’t just hijack your soul and fill your head with death and echoing static.
You don’t even want to touch it. It probably bites.
Still, you inch toward it with the caution of someone trying to defuse a bomb made of evil and outdated technology.
“Okay,” you say, aloud, because talking to yourself is now a coping strategy, “you’ve haunted me, traumatized me, and ruined any hope I had for sleep. You don’t pay rent. You don’t get to stay.”
You grab it, wrap it in three layers of old grocery bags, because maybe evil can’t penetrate plastic? and stomp out the back door in your socks, which immediately get soaked because of course the yard is a swamp today.
You march it to the rusted garbage bin at the edge of the property line, throw the cursed cube in, slam the lid, and dust off your hands like you just solved all your problems.
“There,” you mutter. “Handled. Exorcism, but eco-friendly.”
Feeling triumphant, you head back inside to reclaim your sanity by cleaning. Because nothing says ‘I’m not haunted’ like a fresh lemon-scented counter and a suspiciously clean bathroom.
You grab the broom. Cue generic cleaning montage music in your head. You hum a little. Start sweeping up dust that’s probably older than you. The hallway rug coughs up something that looks like a mouse mummy. The kitchen counters fight back with mystery stains. You’re deep in it now—murder house who?
And then, twenty minutes later, you go to toss some junk mail onto the kitchen table and,
It’s there.
The tapes.
Not just any tapes.
The tapes.
Unwrapped. Sitting right in the center of the table like it never left. Like you didn’t just feed it to the trash gods.
You stare at it.
It stares back.
“Okay. Bold of you.”
You stomp back outside. Check the trash bin.
Empty.
Completely empty. Like nothing was ever in it to begin with.
You don’t even get mad. Not yet. This is way past mad. This is personally victimized by magnetic tape levels of disbelief.
“Round two, motherfucker”
You head to the shed and grab lighter fluid and a pack of matches you found in a drawer. You dig a little fire pit in the yard, your one accomplishment today, and ceremoniously chuck the tape in.
“This is for my sanity, you demon rectangle.”
You soak it in lighter fluid, spark a match, and let it drop.
FWOOOM.
It catches fast. The flames lick the edges, and for a second, it’s satisfying. Cathartic. Cleanse this house with fire, baby.
You cross your arms and watch it burn.
The flames die down. The smoke wafts. You cough dramatically and head back inside, victorious.
You make it all the way to the living room this time before the hairs on your neck stand up.
You look at the coffee table.
It’s there.
Unburned.
No soot. No melt marks. Just… waiting.
“Alright, what is your damage?” you snap, pointing at it like it personally owes you emotional compensation.
You scoop it up with two kitchen tongs and stomp to the bathroom. Toilet plan: activated.
It doesn’t flush.
Because of course it doesn’t.
You try twice. It just… sits there. Floating. Watching.
You try the sink disposal. It jams the moment the tape hits the blades, and your whole kitchen smells like ozone and regret for a full ten minutes.
You wrap it in aluminum foil and bury it in the backyard next.
Six feet under.
But when you come back inside, muddy and panting,
You know the punchline already, don’t you?
Yup.
There.
On the bed.
Neatly centered.
Almost like it wants to be watched again.
You collapse onto the floor beside it, arms splayed like a crime scene outline.
“Fine. Fine. You win. You’ve out-stubborned me, and I once refused to apologize to a vending machine for three years.”
You don’t touch it this time.
You just lie there and glare at it while it looms.
By the time the sun starts sliding toward the tree line, painting the walls in rust-red light, you’ve reached a fragile acceptance.
The tape’s not going anywhere.
You’ve tried garbage, fire, water, earth, toilet—like you’re hosting a DIY element-themed exorcism—and it just keeps coming back.
Worse? Your phone, which was just working, won’t turn on again.
You hold the button. Plug it in. Scream at it. Threaten it with spiritual cleansing. Nothing. Just the cold black screen of digital betrayal.
You toss it onto the counter and lean back in the chair, eyes half-lidded, too tired to care anymore.
And then—
Buzz.
You freeze.
The screen lights up. A flicker. A glitchy glow. Like someone turned it on from the inside.
You grab it fast. The home screen stutters, static crawling across the icons. For a second, it shows your wallpaper—your dog, looking very judgmental—and then glitches.
An app opens on its own. Not one you recognize.
No label. Just a red triangle.
The screen shifts. Grainy black-and-white footage loads.
A document.
Police report.
You scroll.
DATE: March 4th, 2003
LOCATION: Ash Pines, State Forest Trailhead
REPORTING OFFICER: Deputy Joel Rankin
VICTIM: Unknown Male, est. age 20-25
You read faster. Your heart sinks lower.
Found in the woods. Multiple stab wounds. Axe trauma. Shot once, point-blank. Brutal. Overkill. No suspects. Case never solved.
Camera found nearby—destroyed.
“Holy shit,” you whisper.
The description—the location—it’s the same forest.
The same one behind the house.
The same forest from the tape.
Your chest tightens. Your ears buzz. You scroll again.
There’s a crime scene photo attached. You tap it.
And immediately regret it.
It’s low quality. Blurry. But you can see enough.
The trees.
The angle.
The blood.
It matches what you saw on the tape.
And then—just as you try to look away—something flashes in the photo’s edge. A silhouette. Just barely visible in the trees. Watching.
You back out of the app. Or try to. The phone locks up.
The screen goes white.
Then red.
Then black again.
Dead.
Just like that.
You drop it like it bit you.
And the tape?
Still sitting there.
Patient.
Waiting.
You stare at your phone like it just told you your horoscope was “prepare to die screaming.”
You pick it back up with the tips of your fingers, like it might explode into bees or blood or some other horror you’re not emotionally prepared for. The screen’s blank again. Totally black. You hit the button.
Nothing.
You plug it back in.
Nothing.
You whisper to it, “Come on, you digital bastard, give me something.”
Like it’s answering a prayer from a very tired, very cursed person, the screen flickers, one last breath, and the report pops back up for a fraction of a second. Not all of it. Just a blink. But you see it.
You see it.
“Witnesses reported seeing a man matching this description fleeing the area: approximately 6'3", yellow hoodie, black ski mask with red markings described as a downward-facing mouth, possibly painted. Eyes… red? Possibly goggles. No ID found. Suspect still at large. Considered armed and extremely dangerous.”
You can’t breathe for a second.
You saw that.
On the tape.
Not in the woods. Not in a dream. Not in some foggy mental spiral.
On the goddamn tape.
That exact figure, towering, strange, impossible to miss. Same hoodie. Same mask. Same vibe of absolute malevolence.
You shove the phone away from you like it’s radioactive.
“Nope,” you say aloud, again. Your go-to mantra these days.
“Nope nope nope nope nope.”
You back away from the table like the tape might lunge. Maybe it can.
Nothing makes sense anymore. Ghost VHS with murder footage? Check. Reappearing object physics? Check. Phone channeling crime scene archives like it’s ghost-wifi enabled? Sure, why not.
Your knees hit a chair and you collapse into it.
You’re shaking.
Actually shaking.
Like your body has finally caught up to the emotional tailspin your brain’s been in for the past few days.
Because that wasn’t just a creepy dude on a tape.
That was a killer.
A killer who’s still out there. Still breathing. Still real.
And apparently still interested in hanging around the woods behind your new "cozy" haunted house.
You rub your arms, trying to chase away the chill crawling up your spine. It doesn’t leave.
You look at the tape.
“I saw you,” you whisper.
The tape doesn’t respond. Of course it doesn’t. But you feel like it’s listening. Like it knows.
That masked man, thing whatever he is, he’s more than just some freak in a ski mask. That wasn’t some old college film project gone wrong. That wasn’t a joke. That wasn’t special effects.
That was real.
And that means the others are real, too.
The shorter one in the tan coat with the angry eyes behind the white mask.
The twitchy one with the orange goggles and the axes and the freakish bursts of laughter.
You shudder, wrapping your arms around yourself like it might hold you together.
You remember how they moved. The sheer violence of it. The enjoyment.
God, you watched someone die. You watched them.
They ran and begged and screamed, and those three came after them like animals. No hesitation. No mercy.
And now… now you’re starting to understand what’s really going on.
Or at least, that whatever this is?
It’s not just haunting.
It’s hunting.
You stand suddenly, too fast. Your knees protest. Your stomach flips. But you need to do something.
You grab the tape again, barehanded this time, too shaken to care about cursed object safety protocol, and shove it into a drawer. You slam it shut like that’ll make it stay.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” you mutter, voice breaking halfway through.
You pace.
You pace like the floor will give you answers.
Okay. Okay. Deep breath. You’ve got context now, right? A murder. A suspect. Maybe a lead. There’s a name on that report—Deputy Joel Rankin. Maybe he’s still around. Maybe he knows something.
Maybe—
Thump.
You freeze.
You wait.
Thump.
Closer.
You rush to the window and yank the curtain aside.
Nothing.
Just the trees. Just the endless, yawning woods. Pale light filtering through branches that shouldn’t be swaying in a breeze that doesn’t exist.
You close the curtain slowly. Back away.
This isn’t normal paranoia anymore.
You feel it. The tightness in your chest. The nausea. Your skin too hot and too cold all at once.
A scream starts to rise in your throat, but it’s not fear this time, it’s panic.
The full-body kind. Like your brain just pulled the emergency brake and now every part of you is trying to abandon ship.
You gasp.
The walls are too close.
The light is too dim.
The air’s too heavy.
You stumble into the hallway, gripping the banister, trying to remember how to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. But it’s not working. Your lungs feel like they’re folding in on themselves.
Your vision warps at the edges.
You slide to the floor, back against the wall, hands clutching your knees.
“Stop,” you whisper. “Stop, please, I can’t—”
Your voice cracks. You squeeze your eyes shut.
And then your hand finds your phone again.
You don’t think.
You just dial.
Your parents’ number.
It rings once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then the click of a connection.
“Hello?” your mom says.
And just like that, you’re crying.
The kind of crying that grabs you by the spine and wrings you out. No warning. Just a flood. Hot, snotty, humiliating.
“Oh, honey,” she says instantly. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? What happened?”
“I can’t—” you choke. “Mom, I—I don’t know what’s happening. The woods, there’s something in the woods, and these people—they’re real—and I saw someone die and I can’t get rid of the tape and the phone won’t work but then it did and it showed me something and—”
You’re babbling. You know you are. None of this sounds sane.
There’s a pause on the line.
“Honey,” she says gently. “I think you might be having a panic attack. I need you to breathe for me, okay?”
You nod, forgetting she can’t see you.
“Try to slow it down. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Remember that app we used back in high school?”
You do. You try.
It takes time. Way too long. But slowly, the pounding in your chest eases.
A little.
“Talk to me,” she says. “Tell me what’s going on. Start at the beginning.”
You hesitate.
You want to tell her everything. To let her carry it. To be the adult. But the second you picture her face, your dad’s, too, you realize something awful.
If this tape is real…
If those people are still here…
Then you’re not just in danger.
You’re a target.
And anyone close to you might be, too.
You swallow hard.
“I just… I think this house is messed up,” you say instead. “I found some weird stuff. I think it’s messing with me.”
“Well, of course it is. It’s a new place. Big change. Why don’t we come visit? Or you come home for a few days?”
You can’t.
You want to. God, do you want to.
But something about that feels wrong. Like running away will only make it worse. Like whatever’s attached to you will just follow.
“No,” you whisper. “I think I just need to figure it out. I’ll be okay. I just needed to hear your voice.”
She sighs. “You’re scaring me, sweetheart.”
“Yeah,” you say, trying to joke, “I scare me too.”
You hang up before you lose your nerve.
The house creaks around you like it’s listening.
Like it knows you told.
You pull yourself up off the floor, legs weak, and shuffle back to the drawer.
The tape is still there.
Right where you left it.
Right where it’ll always be.
Watching.
You’re tired of this.
The fear. The confusion. The helplessness.
You're done being the haunted dumbass protagonist in a found-footage spiral. You didn't sign up for this, and you sure as hell aren’t going to just let it roll over you like a Final Destination premonition.
You wipe your face with the back of your sleeve and straighten up.
No more crying.
No more pacing.
No more waiting to die in the world's creepiest house like some cautionary tale they tell at slumber parties.
You take a breath that doesn't shake this time and say, out loud, to no one, because that’s where you are now as a person
“Fine. If you want to haunt me, cool. But I’m haunting back.”
The woods.
The police report.
That murder happened somewhere close. That means someone here knows something. And if the town's not going to hand you answers, you'll drag them out of the shadows kicking and screaming.
You grab your bag and start stuffing it with anything that might be useful: flashlight, multitool, spare hoodie, pepper spray, a protein bar that might outlive you, and a notebook already half-filled with unhinged scribbles and theories. You're going full Nancy Drew with trauma and caffeine withdrawal.
Your phone still won’t hold a charge for more than a few minutes at a time, but you toss the portable charger in anyway. Just in case.
You open the drawer one last time.
The tape hasn’t moved.
But it feels like it’s smiling.
“I’m not scared of you,” you lie directly to it.
Then you slam the drawer shut and march toward the door before the bravery leaks out.
You're going to find where it happened. The place from the report. The place the body was found. You’ll search every goddamn inch of these woods if you have to. Because someone died, and no one seems to care. And that, on top of everything else, doesn’t sit right with you.
You tug on your boots, tie the laces with shaky fingers, and glance back at the house one more time.
The light in the upstairs hallway flickers.
Of course it does.
“Keep it warm for me,” you mutter.
Then you step outside into the cold morning air, the trees whispering just out of earshot, and let the door swing shut behind you.
You’re not running anymore.
You’re hunting.
And whatever's waiting out there?
You’re going to look it in the eye.
Even if it kills you.
Chapter Text
I stared at the police report like it had just insulted me. My fingers gripped the edges of the paper, creasing it with a tension that had been simmering in my gut since I first watched that cursed tape.
Real murder.
Real victim.
A date that lined up with the footage almost perfectly, too perfectly.
A knife. A scream. A man in a white mask stepping out of the darkness like he belonged there. And now? A dead girl with a matching timeline, a matching wound, and a location I couldn't pinpoint to save my life.
Which, unfortunately, was a non-hypothetical concern at this point.
I let out a laugh that sounded a lot more like a dry heave. “Cool. Awesome. Love that for me.”
My eyes scanned the report again, desperate for something I’d missed. But no dice. No GPS coordinates, no clear address, no little X-marks-the-death-spot.
Just a vague description: “North edge of Deep Elk Woods, off Old Logging Road 17. Site was unmarked, body discovered by hunter.”
Super helpful. Because, of course, my hometown, or whatever this Godforsaken town was, had not one but multiple logging roads with ambiguous numbers. And why the hell would the police make it easy for people like me to track down what should definitely be sealed-off crime scenes? No one plans for the nosy amateur detective with commitment issues.
I flopped down into the moth-eaten armchair that had definitely seen at least three generations of mildew. The house creaked around me like it was trying to disapprove in Morse code. I folded the police report in half and smacked it lightly against my forehead.
"Old Logging Road 17," I muttered. "Cool. Where's Road 1 through 16? Were they decimated in the Great Logging Apocalypse? Why does this town label things like it's trying to be rejected by Google Maps?"
I paused, then sat bolt upright.
The map.
The one I found in the floorboards with the tapes.
I’d completely forgotten about it, probably because I’d been too busy freaking out over the eldritch analog horror show being projected into my living room. But now that I thought about it… hadn’t there been something marked on it?
I jumped up, disturbing a cloud of dust from the chair that probably shaved two years off my lungs. I hurried to the corner where I’d stashed the map, still rolled and crinkled like it was straight out of a ‘survive in the wilderness’ pamphlet for people with no sense of direction.
It took a minute to dig it out. I’d stuffed it behind a stack of old VHS cases I couldn’t bring myself to destroy yet. Not for lack of trying, the one I microwaved still came back.
I wasn’t touching that one again unless it was in a pentagram with holy water on standby.
I unfurled the map on the dining table, which tilted slightly to the left because one leg had surrendered to entropy. The thing was big. Old. Faded like it had been left in the sun for too many summers and soaked in a little too much cigarette smoke.
It was hand-drawn, too none of that clean topographical print stuff. Someone had traced the edges of Deep Elk Woods like it was personal to them.
The roads were labeled in thick marker, with some parts so smudged it looked like someone had cried on it. Dramatically.
And there it was. Dead center-right, nestled in a curve of what looked like a river, a red X. It even had a note scrawled next to it.
“Don’t go here. For real.”
I squinted at the handwriting. It looked familiar. Not just in a generic “slightly paranoid teenager” kind of way, but specific. Like the same hand that labeled those VHS tapes.
“Oh, you dramatic bastard,” I said aloud, lightly tapping the X. “You knew something. You definitely knew something.”
Unfortunately, I did not. And there was still the small matter of not being able to read a map to save my life. Or someone else's, for that matter.
I turned the map sideways. Then upside down. Then squinted really hard and tilted my head like that would magically summon a third-grade geography lesson back into my skull. It did not.
“So, like… north is up, right?” I said to no one, because that’s where we were now. Talking to maps. “Unless whoever drew this is one of those freaks who rotate their paper to match their walking direction.”
The map did not answer. Rude.
I traced the lines with a pen that had maybe half its ink left. The X was near something labeled “Tanner Creek,” and the closest road was marked as “17,” so there was a connection to the police report. Assuming that road still existed and wasn’t just a deer trail now.
But there was no scale. No legend. Nothing that told me, “Hey, this squiggly bit is a mile long and this tree-shaped doodle is where you’ll definitely be eaten by forest cryptids.”
I sighed and rubbed my temples. “Okay. Think. If I were a dumbass who wanted to find a body dump site that hasn’t been touched since 2009, what would I need?”
A compass, maybe.
A sense of direction.
Cell service. Ha. Hahaha.
I checked my phone just for fun. One bar. Useless.
I glanced toward the hallway where my backpack sat, half-unzipped. I’d packed a flashlight, some granola bars, and a small knife I’d bought at a gas station because the packaging said “Survival Edition” and I’m a sucker for branding.
But none of that mattered if I couldn’t locate this spot without reenacting Blair Witch: Clueless Edition.
I turned back to the map and tried a new tactic: brute force staring.
“If I just glare at you long enough, will you suddenly reveal all secrets unto me?” I asked it. “No? Cool. Love that.”
I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture of the map, just in case. Then I tried comparing it to Google Maps. After five minutes of squinting and zooming and matching vaguely-shaped rivers, I screamed into a throw pillow.
“This forest is too goddamn big.”
On Google Maps, Deep Elk Woods looked like an endless blob of green, stitched with a couple ghost roads and way too many nameless clearings. Every trail was either unlabeled, overgrown, or just straight-up missing.
I even tried searching “Old Logging Road 17.”
What did I get?
A listing for a hiking trail three states over, and an old Reddit thread from 2012 where someone asked if it was haunted. The responses were either “Yeah don’t go there” or “fake and gay.”
Real helpful.
I went back to the physical map and tried to match up the river curves to the blobs of blue on my phone. It kind of worked. After a few rotations and a couple minor panic attacks, I had a rough overlay of where the X lined up.
I circled it with a red pen like I was grading a test. Then I drew a giant sad face next to it.
“There. That’s where I think the murder woods are,” I muttered. “Now if only I had a helicopter, a drone, or literally any sense of cardinal direction.”
I slumped against the table and stared at the ceiling. It had the same stain I’d been ignoring for days, like a Rorschach blot shaped vaguely like a man with a knife.
“Not today,” I said aloud, flipping the map over just in case the back had cheat codes. It did not. Just more faded paper, and something that looked like a grease stain shaped like Texas.
I started pacing. It helped, sort of. Thinking in motion. It gave my brain the illusion of doing something useful, even though all I was doing was wearing a trail into the ancient floorboards.
I ran through what I knew.
The tapes showed a masked man killing a girl in the woods.
The police report matched the death, down to the wound.
The map marked a spot that aligned with Road 17 and the area described.
Someone had tried to warn people not to go there.
So what did that mean?
The tapes weren’t fiction. Or if they were, someone had taken method acting way too far. Either way, this wasn’t just creepy footage anymore. It was evidence.
Of what? That was the part that made my spine itch.
A murder. A haunting. A curse?
Or something older, something stitched into the dirt of this town?
I stared at the corner of the map again. There was something there I hadn’t noticed before. A tiny doodle. A cabin. And next to it, a note: “Start here.”
I stared at it for a long time.
“Start where?” I whispered. “Whose cabin?”
And then it hit me.
This house.
It had to be. The layout matched—the clearing, the bend in the river nearby, the old broken road that led here. This wasn’t just some paranoid doodler marking random crap. This was deliberate.
Whoever made this map started here. They found the tapes. They lived here. Or hid here. Or… died here?
I backed away from the table, suddenly aware of every shadow in the room.
The VHS tapes. The warnings. The police report. The mask.
It all looped back here.
To me.
To this place.
I sank back into the chair, trembling slightly. This wasn’t just some Scooby-Doo mystery anymore. This was a spiral. A deep, dark spiral that had already claimed at least one person and if I wasn’t careful, it might just add me to the list.
I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that I’m clutching an old map like it’s the Rosetta Stone, or that I’ve started talking to it out loud like it’s going to give me the answers.
The crumpled paper is spread across my kitchen table, corners curling like it’s trying to retreat back into itself. A faint pencil X bleeds into the yellowing page, pressed so hard the lines almost tore through. It’s in the middle of a blob of green forest, completely nondescript otherwise. No idea where it was leading other than to whatever nightmare was waiting out there.
I tapped the X with my finger. “What are you? Where are you?”
Nothing, obviously. Not like the thing was going to whisper north-northwest, twenty paces past the creepy oak with the face.
I leaned back in the chair and rubbed my eyes, headache still throbbing from the last tape. The static wasn’t just confined to the television anymore it had wormed its way into my skull.
A faint buzzing followed me around, ebbing and flowing like a broken radio station. Sometimes I’d swear I heard words in it. Little fragments. My name. Laughter. A voice that wasn’t mine, mocking, low.
The smart move would be to burn the tapes, the map, and maybe the house, too while I was at it. But I’d already tried the first one, hadn’t I? The tape that came back, pristine, like it had never touched fire. I wasn’t stupid enough to think the other ones would go any differently.
So, instead, I sat there like some wannabe detective who’d failed Cartography 101.
Maps, in theory, are supposed to be helpful.
This one just looked like someone had sneezed lines onto parchment. Half the time, I couldn’t tell if I was staring at contour marks, or if the paper had just aged weird. I tried lining it up with a modern map of the town, pulling one up on my phone. The roads didn’t match other then the one that showed that the house is the start. The river didn’t even curve the same way.
Had things changed that much in fifty years? Or had this map always been… wrong?
The more I stared, the more it seemed to shift under my eyes. I blinked, shook my head. For a second, the X looked farther south. Another second later, it snapped back like a rubber band.
I laughed, the kind of laugh you only do to keep from screaming. “Oh, great. The paper’s haunted too.”
After two hours of getting nowhere, I had to push away from the table. The chair scraped too loud against the floor, making me jump like I’d triggered a landmine. I half expected something to knock back.
I tried distracting myself wash a plate, check the sink. That kind of thing. Mundane chores to keep me from losing my grip. Except every time I turned around, something in the house had shifted.
The lamp in the corner tilted a different way.
A door I knew I had shut was open just a crack.
My phone, left charging on the counter, now face down on the floor.
None of it was big enough to scream “intruder,” but the little changes stacked on top of each other until my skin crawled. Someone was here. Not here-here, but near enough to be moving things when I blinked.
The thought sent me pacing straight to the front door, half expecting to see it wide open. Instead, I froze at the doormat.
Muddy footprints. Just one set. Leading right up to the door and then… stopping. Like the person had either vanished or been swallowed whole the second they reached the house.
I swallowed hard, shoved the deadbolt tighter, and retreated to the kitchen table. My map waited there, smug and silent, like it had known all along I’d come crawling back.
I told myself I’d be systematic about it this time. Old habits die hard—college note-taking mode activated. I opened a notebook, jotted down every detail:
“X = woods. Possible tape connection. Possible police case. No clear entry point.”
Writing it down helped, but only for about thirty seconds. Then I noticed the lines on the map again how jagged they were, how whoever had drawn them hadn’t been calm. These weren’t tidy surveyor’s marks. They were frantic, gouged into the paper as though the pencil had been a knife.
A chill swept through me. I touched the marks with my fingertip and felt the faint ridges where the lead had bitten deep. This wasn’t a hiker casually sketching directions.
It was a warning.
A desperate one.
And here I was, treating it like a puzzle instead of a flare gun.
That realization barely had time to sink in before the static started up again. Not from the TV this time I hadn’t even plugged it in since the last tape.
No, this buzz seeped from the walls. At first it was faint, the kind of hum you ignore until it grows teeth. I pressed my ear against the drywall, and instantly regretted it.
The vibration wasn’t just sound it sank into my bones, a heavy, low thrum that rattled my jaw. And underneath it, faintly, voices. Not words I could understand, but tones: angry, impatient, like I was eavesdropping on a conversation that wanted me dead.
I staggered back, clutching my temples. That’s when I caught movement at the window. Tall, still, watching. My head snapped toward it nothing. Just curtains swaying as though they’d been touched.
The buzzing in my skull flared. I stumbled to the table and grabbed the pencil again, hand shaking as I scrawled into the notebook:
“They’re closer. I think the map is pulling me toward them. Or maybe marking where they came from. Either way, I have to go. I need answers.”
When I looked at the page, my stomach flipped. The handwriting didn’t look like mine. The slanted angles, the rushed jagged strokes they matched the lines carved into the map.
For a second, I wasn’t sure I’d written it at all.
I shut the notebook so fast it was like slamming a coffin. The house groaned in reply, beams shifting in the ceiling, a low creak that sounded uncomfortably close to laughter. Great. Even the architecture thought I was a joke.
That night, I didn’t even bother pretending I could sleep.
What was I supposed to do tuck myself in and hope the murder-map tucked itself in too?
No thanks. I parked myself at the kitchen table, back pressed to the wall, staring at the paper like it might grow legs and scuttle off if I blinked.
Every shadow stretched too long. Every creak of the floorboards had me checking corners like some bootleg Scooby-Doo character without the dog. And every time I looked away from the map for more than two seconds, I swore the stupid X moved a hair to the left just to spite me.
By the time the sun thought about coming up, my nerves were fried. I was twitchy, jumpy, and one more creak away from just burning the entire house down and moving to—hell, I don’t know Arizona.
But the problem is, I knew exactly how that’d go. I’d light a match, and the house would somehow survive, just sitting there smug like,
“Oh, fire? Cute.”
And then the tapes would be waiting on the hood of my car. Or my pillow. Or worse, inside the microwave with a sticky note: Try again.
So yeah. Running wasn’t an option.
The only way forward was through. Lucky me.
Packing for a cursed woodland adventure is way less fun than Instagram makes hiking look. I wasn’t picking out aesthetic water bottles and matching fleece jackets. I was raiding my own kitchen like some underpaid prepper.
Flashlight. Batteries. Water bottle. Two sad protein bars that tasted like sawdust and regret. A kitchen knife, because if a tree demon or serial killer shows up, I’m sure they’ll be very intimidated by my four-inch serrated bread-slicer. Really setting myself up for success here.
Each zip of the bag sounded like a gunshot in the dead-quiet house. I half-expected the walls to clap back with applause.
When I finally looked up, the map was sitting there, folded like an obedient little rectangle, practically begging me to pack it. I slid it into the front pocket with the kind of care you give a venomous snake, slow, deliberate, praying it doesn’t bite.
Then I just sat down hard in the chair, staring out the window. The woods loomed in the distance, dark and smug in the morning light. Trees swayed lazily in the breeze, but I could’ve sworn something else was swaying in the opposite direction, like the forest had its own heartbeat.
I tightened my grip on the bag’s strap. I wasn’t ready not yet. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. But apparently, that’s not the point anymore.
Because ready or not, those woods are waiting.
And I’m just dumb enough to walk in.
Notes:
I'm finally back, I am so excited, I have so many ideas, I hope you guys enjoy. I would also love to know if you guys have any ideas! And don't worry, we will be seeing the proxies soon.
Chapter Text
The first thing I noticed stepping outside was how the house glared at me. Peeling paint, sagging porch, and an aura that screamed, You’re insane, and I know it. I adjusted my backpack strap for the hundredth time. The air smelled like wet leaves, old pine, and impending doom basically my perfume for the morning.
I took a deep breath, trying to psych myself up. “Alright, Casual stroll into a haunted forest. Nothing can go wrong. Probably.” My voice was steady enough to fool no one, least of all me.
I checked my gear, muttering like a deranged scout leader. Flashlight? Check. Extra batteries? Check. Two sad protein bars that tasted like sawdust? Check. Tapes and a portable tape player? Check. Knife that screamed I have no idea what I’m doing? Check. Sanity? Debatable.
The porch groaned underfoot as I stepped down. Twigs snapped in the yard, a tiny chorus of nature judging my life choices. I’d almost tripped on the cracked step.
Perfect start.
I adjusted the strap again, wishing the universe would provide a sign that this wasn’t going to end in either horror or humiliation or both.
I fished the map from my front pocket. The red X glared at me, mocking. I turned it, squinted, tilted my head, whispered sweet nothings. Nothing worked.
“Alright,” I muttered. “Cartography for Dummies and the Damned. Don’t fail me now. I’d prefer to survive this without becoming a human bookmark for the forest.”
I took a step toward Old Logging Road 17. The familiar dirt road was deceptively innocent, like a hallway leading to a haunted house in a shitty teen movie. The trees arched overhead, branches cracking lightly, almost like applause. Sarcastic applause. Congratulations, you’ve just volunteered to get lost.
I paused to admire the view. Mist hung low over the ground. Birds were absent—probably in therapy after seeing me try to follow the map. Every shadow seemed wrong. I tightened the backpack straps again. The forest smelled alive and vaguely judgmental.
I set my first mental goal: survive until the creek. Easy, right? Just trudge through mud, dodge roots, avoid death traps, and don’t look like a complete idiot.
The first stretch of road was deceptively straightforward. Then the weeds began, tall and insistent. My boots sucked at the mud, toes sinking as though the forest was eating me alive. Every step felt like negotiation with gravity. I slipped once, cursed at the universe, and nearly face-planted into a bush. Fantastic. Nothing says adventure like a full-body dirt imprint.
I reached for the flashlight, even though it was daytime. Shadows were already thick under the trees. Branches scraped my arms. My pulse kicked up. Every so often, a twig snapped behind me. A deer? A squirrel? Or… something else? I refused to look back. Eyes forward, survivor.
At one point, I realized I hadn’t eaten breakfast.
Big mistake.
My stomach grumbled. The protein bars in my bag were unappealing, tasting like sad sawdust wrapped in cardboard. I shoved one into my mouth anyway. Survival, I told myself.
I stopped and looked at the map again. Each squiggle, each X, each line seemed to mock me. North? South? East? West? Sure. Just like the forest itself wanted to keep me guessing.
I whispered, “X, please. Don’t make me die out here. I didn’t sign up for whatever this is without at least a hint of success.”
My internal monologue alternated between sarcastic commentary and sheer panic. Why did I even decide to follow this map? Pride? Curiosity? Deep-seated masochism? Probably all three. I squared my shoulders and trudged on.
The first proper leg of the journey felt endless. Roots tripped me, mud sucked at my boots, branches slapped my arms, and every noise was amplified. Leaves rustled, the wind whispered. It was like the forest was alive, stretching its limbs just to watch me squirm.
I caught sight of Tanner Creek in the distance, which the map said should be quaint. Reality: a muddy, rushing nightmare. Rocks lined the bank like hidden landmines. I stepped on one. Slipped. Screamed. Regained balance. Fantastic.
By now, I was muddy, sweaty, and questioning my life choices. The house looked like a safe option from here. I imagined it waving sarcastically: See? Told you so.
The map trembled in my hands as though it knew the forest was about to chew me alive. I studied the lines, trying to match them to real life. Trees were taller than the sketches. Paths missing. Water curving differently. I muttered,
“Thanks, Cartography for Dummies and the Damned. Your sense of humor is… murderous.”
I trudged forward, past the point where retreating seemed safe. Each step deeper felt like walking into the forest’s mouth. Mist thickened. Shadows grew longer. The forest felt patient, as if it had all the time in the world to toy with me.
I stopped. Deep breath. Pulled out the backpack. Checked flashlight. Batteries. Knife. Protein bars. Map. And sanity, the most questionable item of all.
The first mile ugh, maybe half a mile was deceptively calm.
Too calm. I tripped on a root, cursed violently, and felt the first real pang of paranoia. The forest was no longer just a forest. It was aware. Watching. Waiting.
I glanced back. The house was a silhouette against the mist. I half-waved, half-saluted, and whispered, “Wish me luck, buddy. Don’t get any funny ideas while I’m gone.”
And then I stepped off the road, into the woods.
The forest swallowed me almost immediately. The narrow path beyond the logging road was no longer a dirt trail; it had devolved into a tangle of roots, fallen branches, and mud that greedily claimed my boots. Each step felt like negotiating with a creature that had a grudge against pedestrians.
The red X in my mind burned brighter with every wobbling stride I took, mocking me like it had somehow anticipated my complete lack of coordination.
I swung the flashlight in a lazy arc even though it was still early enough for daylight. The beam bounced off the trunks of trees that leaned inward, creating unnatural shadows that danced across the undergrowth. My heartbeat pitched up. Every rustle branch, leaf, or maybe animal—sounded deliberate, measured. I could almost imagine the forest whispering, You think you belong here?
I sighed, talking to myself as I always did when things went south.
“Yeah, absolutely fine. Just a casual stroll where the flora is actively judging my life choices. Nothing suspicious at all.”
A twig snapped behind me, sharp enough to make my stomach leap into my throat. I spun. Nothing. Just more trees swaying innocently or pretending to. My boots squelched in the mud. I cursed under my breath. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this yet. The map hadn’t even started actively murdering me, right?
I moved on, stepping over roots and puddles, trying to mimic the sort of confident stride I imagined hikers in Instagram photos had.
Spoiler: my version was a cross between a drunk ballerina and someone trying not to implode from sheer anxiety.
Branches slapped my jacket as if the forest were testing me. I ducked reflexively, grabbed my backpack strap, and muttered, “Yes, forest, please, give me the full spa treatment of humiliation before murder. Much appreciated.”
The path twisted, and suddenly the air thickened. Not in the foggy, picturesque way, but heavy, almost tactile. It pressed against my skin like wet velvet, like someone had dipped the forest in molasses. Every inhale tasted like damp earth and pine needles. My pulse hammered in my ears.
I stumbled upon the first creek crossing. Tanner Creek, if the map was to be trusted. Reality: a churning, brown ribbon of water that gurgled menacingly, bordered by slick rocks. I balanced on one, slipped slightly, and nearly toppled into the mud. Perfect. My first real taste of this forest’s charm offensive.
I crouched to inspect a footprint in the wet mud human, probably recent. My brain started sprinting through horror scenarios while my mouth filled with sarcastic commentary.
“Ah yes, nothing says safety like unknown footsteps leading deeper into the obviously dangerous woods. Cool. Love that for me.”
The creek ended, and the path narrowed again. Roots became more aggressive, like they were actively reaching for me. The underbrush clawed at my pants, and somewhere, leaves rustled in a way that sounded like a hundred tiny whispers.
I paused, flashlight sweeping the area, searching for something. Any movement. Nothing jumped out. Yet I felt watched, undeniably, like invisible eyes were cataloging my every misstep.
I shifted my bag higher and muttered, “Alright, just keep walking. Step by step. Don’t look like a total idiot in front of… whoever’s watching.”
My thoughts refused to stay calm. The map burned in my mind: the X, the creek, the vague squiggles representing trails that might not exist anymore. The woods had started playing tricks already.
I swear a path appeared where there hadn’t been one before, then vanished when I tried to trace it. Leaves shifted as if someone or something had brushed past moments before I noticed.
Birds remained absent, insects buzzed too loudly. Somewhere far off, a hollow knock echoed against a tree. Not natural. My stomach flipped. I started talking faster, more frantically, sarcasm coating the fear like a thin veneer.
“Sure, forest, knock all you want. Totally normal. Definitely not ominous. I love being the solo lead in a horror movie with no dialogue coach.”
I walked, stumbled, slid, and cursed through the next stretch. The sunlight filtered through the canopy in uneven patches, creating bright spots that made the darkness around them feel deeper. My pulse thumped in response to every small noise.
A deer or something burst from the undergrowth ahead, eyes wide. I jumped, nearly dropped my flashlight. The animal froze, stared at me, then bounded away with a rustle of leaves. My relief was immediate and short-lived. I whispered to myself,
“Congratulations, you startled the wildlife and confirmed you’re terrified. Excellent progress.”
I came to a clearing. Mist hovered low to the ground, curling around roots like ghostly fingers. Shadows pooled unnaturally, stretching across the moss. My throat tightened. Something about this clearing felt like a stage set. I half-expected the red X itself to rise out of the fog and wag a finger at me.
The forest’s noises changed here. A low, constant hum under the wind’s whistle. Leaves rustled even when there was no wind. My skin crawled. I stopped, listening, flashlight trembling slightly in my grip. Every hair on my arms stood on end. I could hear something—a whisper? a fleeting fragment I couldn’t understand.
“Okay, brain, relax,” I muttered, pacing slowly.
“Just air, just fog, just absolutely terrifying forest nonsense.”
I forced a smile at myself. The humor was necessary. Without it, I would have collapsed in terror somewhere between the creek and wherever the hell I was supposed to be.
I pressed on, aware of the subtle changes. Branches seemed to shift if I looked away for a second. The ground had depressions I hadn’t seen before, mud puddles that weren’t there moments ago. I glanced over my shoulder constantly. Footsteps? Or echoes of my own movement? My heart jumped every time a shadow twitched.
At one point, I slipped again on moss-covered roots. I swore loudly, then froze. Muddy footprints appeared around mine, but not my own. Perfectly human. Fresh. Leading deeper into the woods.
“Fantastic. Trail markers courtesy of ghosts or serial killers. Excellent,” I muttered, voice shaking slightly.
The trees began to lean closer together. The path narrowed to barely a foot-wide tunnel of roots and branches. The red X in my head pulsed like a warning beacon. Every step was deliberate, careful, though I could feel my confidence draining with each squelch of mud.
Then, for just a moment, I thought I saw movement at the corner of my vision. Tall, still, unnervingly calm. I whipped around. Nothing. Just shadows pooling. My pulse jumped. I muttered something sarcastic under my breath, though I sounded like a nervous lunatic.
“Oh yes, definitely fine. Totally alone. Forest has impeccable social boundaries. I love this hike.”
Somewhere ahead, a bird cawed, then immediately went silent. The timing was too precise, too calculated. My stomach churned. I pressed the flashlight further ahead, illuminating the twisting path. Every step felt like the forest was breathing around me, patient and waiting.
I stopped again, flashlight swinging in wide arcs, chest heaving. My hand gripped the map tucked in my pocket. Red X. Creek. Path. All of it. I could feel the forest trying to shove me in the right direction or maybe the wrong one. Either way, it had its claws in me.
The creek was behind me now. My boots were caked in mud. Sweat ran down my back. And yet, there was no turning back. Every step forward was a negotiation with fear, with uncertainty, with the forest itself.
I muttered under my breath, “One foot in front of the other. That’s all it takes. Just one more step, and then one more after that.”
And so I moved forward, into the twisting, whispering, judging woods, hoping that survival was more than just stubbornness and sarcasm.
The forest had a way of twisting perspective. Every path that looked obvious for a second became impossible the next. The map felt like a cruel joke, smugly folded in the backpack as if waiting for the perfect moment to humiliate. The X pulsed in memory, a warning or a dare. Maybe both.
The first problem was scale. It was impossible to tell what a mile looked like in these woods. Every turn, every creek, every bend seemed longer than it should. The tiny river sketched on the paper did not match reality. The creek that had been a manageable trickle before was now a half-swollen torrent. Branches tangled overhead, roots reached out for boots, and the mud tried to swallow everything. The map had promised straight lines and easy markers, but reality was a different kind of math, one with too many variables and a forest that clearly did not care about accuracy.
A thought rose and refused to leave. Maybe this was a test. The map was not a tool. It was an instructor in a class called Survival for Morons. A cruel teacher with the patience of a sadistic saint. Every step taken was evaluated. Every hesitation noted. Every glance at the map a chance for it to mock.
The first attempt at navigation was simple in theory. Turn left at the fallen oak, walk until the creek bends south, then follow the narrow trail along the bank. The first part was manageable. The second part less so. A fallen tree blocked the path.
No problem, there was a trail visible under the roots. Only it curved back on itself in a confusing loop. Every time a step was taken, the world seemed to shift just enough to erase progress.
Fingers drummed on the map. Why did the red X have to glow in memory? Why was it always perfectly centered in the mind, unchanging while the forest refused to cooperate? The paper was stubbornly flat in the backpack, unhelpful. It offered no hints, no magic compass, no reassurance. Only lines and symbols. Tiny, sharp, urgent lines that had once seemed like guidance but now looked more like scars inflicted by a previous traveler or a warning carved in haste.
Movement flickered at the edges of vision. Nothing concrete, just shadows that might have been tree limbs, birds, or hallucinations. It did not matter. The mind could manufacture fear with little input. It had done it well so far. Every turn, every bend seemed like a trap waiting to snap shut.
A tree had a carving in the bark. A symbol almost like the ones on the map. Heart racing, the hand reached out and traced the grooves. The pencil marks on paper came alive in memory. The lead lines dug into fingers as though they had depth, as though the X itself might leap off the page and punch. The sensation made it impossible to tell whether the map was guiding toward safety or drawing closer to the inevitable.
Each line, each squiggle, seemed to shift slightly when glanced at too long.
Paths on paper that had been straight became curves, the bends sharper, the distances longer. The forest mirrored these distortions. A fallen log that appeared crossable from a few steps back was now an impossible obstacle, slick and treacherous.
Frustration grew like a living thing. How could something so small hold so much power over perception? The map was not a map. It was a contract, a binding agreement between the paper and the forest. Obey it exactly and perhaps survive. Misstep and risk slipping into confusion, or worse. The pencil lines had more authority than instinct, more command than knowledge.
Then came the issue of direction.
North? East? South? West? Compass readings were useless.
Shadows shifted unpredictably. The sun flickered through leaves in patterns that made orientation meaningless. Each time the map was consulted, confidence eroded further. The X seemed both near and impossibly far.
Time was no help either. Minutes stretched into hours. Mist thickened, curling through roots and branches, hiding any attempt at visual confirmation. Every familiar landmark seemed to dissolve under the haze. A rock that had served as a reference disappeared under moss. A tree with distinctive bark moved perceptually with the wind. Nothing could be trusted.
Panic flared briefly, managed only by sarcastic commentary to the invisible audience.
“Sure, perfect. Let’s wander endlessly in a forest that has declared itself sentient. Totally reasonable plan. Nothing could go wrong. Absolutely nothing.”
The map was consulted again. Symbols had a strange urgency. The lines connecting markers were not straight but frantic, jagged, like the person who drew them had been running, bleeding, or screaming. Maybe all three. Each line was a pulse, a heartbeat that echoed in memory, demanding attention, obedience, or recognition of the danger.
A creek fork appeared. Both paths looked viable, both appeared marked in memory, but one was narrower, darker, more overgrown. The map offered no advice. The X waited. The decision had to be made. Hands shook as the choice was taken. The narrower path was selected, guided more by instinct than logic. Mud clung to boots, branches lashed arms, roots threatened ankles. Each step was an achievement and a risk.
Noise intruded then. Something shifted nearby. Not sudden, not loud, but deliberate. A branch fell. Leaves rustled. The hum of the forest intensified. It was not wind. It was aware. Every nerve screamed that eyes were watching, that the shadows had a consciousness beyond flora and fauna. Every glance over the shoulder suggested movement that was impossible to track.
The map’s X flickered in memory. Did it shift slightly to the left? Maybe. The idea alone was enough to make one pause. Direction was a suggestion, not certainty. Following it became an act of faith. Or desperation. Or both. The forest seemed to toy with this.
A tree leaned improbably over the path. A symbol etched in bark mirrored one on the paper. Trembling fingers traced it, heart thumping. Static prickled at the skin. Not auditory, not visual, but an electrical, internal sense of wrongness. The lines on the map and the carving on the tree were linked somehow. The X was real. The forest had been marked. Every symbol carried meaning, warning, and threat simultaneously.
The path continued, twisting impossibly, roots curling like snakes. Every attempt at straight progress was thwarted. The map, consulted repeatedly, only deepened the sense of confusion. Landmarks disappeared. The creek curved unexpectedly. The red X mocked silently, a perfect, cruel dot.
Occasionally, glimpses of movement appeared between trees. Shadows that might have been branches, or might have been watching figures. One moment, the forest seemed empty. The next, something almost human stepped behind a tree, just enough to vanish when looked at directly. Heart thumped. Breath caught. The sarcasm that had kept fear at bay now felt thin, inadequate.
The forest narrowed. Mist thickened further. Visibility was reduced to a few feet. The red X felt unbearably close, like a pulse just beyond perception. The map could not provide reassurance. Lines, symbols, and angles all meaningless without context. Each step became a calculation, a negotiation with instinct and fear.
The mind began inventing traps. Roots were suddenly spikes. Fallen branches were potential weapons. Every creak or snap of wood made the heart leap. The map was consulted again and again, each time offering little more than frustration, a reminder of the X, a mockery of the confidence needed to navigate.
At one point, a shadow crossed the path. No sound, just a form, tall, deliberate. A human shape? The heart pounded violently. Step by step, cautiously, it disappeared into the mist. Nothing followed. Or maybe everything did. The forest did not care.
The journey stretched on, endless, disorienting. Each landmark was both familiar and alien. The map demanded obedience without explanation. The X loomed in memory, both goal and threat. Paranoia thickened. Sweat and mud combined with fear into a sticky, suffocating sensation.
By the time the sun began to dip, the sense of isolation was complete. The forest had claimed a rhythm of noise, shadow, and static. Every line on the map had weight. Every symbol was alive. The red X pulsed like a heartbeat, reminding that the journey was far from over.
Confidence wavered, replaced by a tentative, cautious resolve. The forest had revealed itself, partially, but withheld the worst. Following the map was necessary. Obedience was necessary. Survival demanded it. Yet even as the path continued, uncertainty reigned supreme. The X awaited. Every shadow hinted at its guardians or observers. Every turn carried risk.
Every symbol carried warning.
The map had been shoved back into the bag, mutely judging, while every nerve screamed that something had changed. Footsteps crunched over leaves, roots snagged boots, and somewhere, impossibly, the forest sighed like it had just noticed the audacity of my presence.
The red X pulsed in memory, a warning or a dare. Maybe both.
I dug into the pouch and pulled out the VHS tape, sliding it into the portable player with hands that shook more than I cared to admit. The little screen flickered, whined, then came to life. And the forest sprawled across it like a mirror, every twisted tree, every patch of mist, every mossy root matching what I could see around me. My stomach did a slow, ungraceful flip.
“Great,” I muttered, tightening the strap across my chest.
“Portable horror museum, complete with live commentary. Just what every forest explorer dreams of.”
I squinted at the video, trying to line up landmarks with the path I’d just hiked. Fallen log there, jagged rock here, that little bend in the creek ahead.
If the tape was telling the truth and that was a very generous assumption at this point it confirmed I was standing in the right place. The red X had been more than a warning; it was a target, and the tape was showing me I’d hit it.
And then, out of the corner of my vision, movement. Tall, lean. Head covered in a black ski mask, the red smile painted across it grotesquely bright even in the filtered forest light. Hands in pockets. Standing casually, watching. My flashlight swung like it had a mind of its own, searching for proof that I wasn’t imagining it. Nothing. When I blinked, it was gone, just the trees swaying innocently in the mist.
“Perfect,” I muttered. “My own personal forest spectator. So reassuring. Absolutely charming.”
The tape hissed, static crawling under skin, vibrating through the chest. Voices slithered through it, fragments, laughter, maybe my own name. Not coherent words, just tones: impatient, angry, mocking.
The forest itself seemed to hum with it, alive with the sound, the static blending with the whisper of leaves and snapping branches.
Branches cracked. Leaves rustled. Every nerve screamed. Another shadow flicked behind a tree, deliberate, teasing. Pulse quickened. I muttered sarcastically, trying to anchor sanity:
“Sure. Totally normal. Just a forest, a tape, and a slightly homicidal ambiance. Nothing to worry about.”
And then the axe. Embedded in a tree trunk, clean, deliberate, gleaming faintly. Blade half-buried in weathered wood, handle pointing like a warning—or an invitation. My hands clenched. Was this decoration? A message? Forest hospitality with a side of terror?
“Fantastic,” I muttered under my breath. “Axe chic. Very tasteful. Perfect for woodland ambiance.”
Every step forward became negotiation with fear. Every glance to the side revealed a shadow that vanished the instant I focused on it. The mist thickened. Static pulsed from the tape, subtle but insistent, entwined with the forest around me. The X pulsed in memory. Every symbol from the map, every line, every mark, carried weight now, tangible, alive.
The masked figure appeared again, just for a second. Leaning casually against a tree, silent, red smile grotesque in the dim light. Then gone. No rustle, no noise, just vanishing. The forest seemed to hold its breath, waiting.
I forced humor into my voice.
“Perfect. Walking into a live horror show. Portable VHS screaming, forest playing peekaboo, masked forest critic, axe decoration. Very normal. Move along, brain. Very normal.”
I glanced back at the tape, desperately trying to ground myself. The screen flickered, and the forest on it shifted subtly branches, roots, mist, every curve matching my surroundings almost too perfectly. And then, just for a heartbeat, a shadow moved across the video in the same way I’d glimpsed it in the corner of my eye.
My stomach dropped. The tape wasn’t just showing the woods it was showing where I am right now.. My hands shook as I clutched the player.
A branch cracked behind me, closer this time. Far too close. The tape hissed, static spiking violently. The laughter echoed again, louder, threading through the trees, wrapping around the fog, curling around my chest. I spun.
Nothing. Not a leaf stirred, not a shadow moved, except for that impossible shape standing at the edge of my peripheral vision for just a heartbeat before vanishing.
I pressed the tape player to my chest, knuckles white, trembling. The forest didn’t feel safe anymore. The mist thickened. Shadows shifted. The red X on the map, the warnings in the tape, every mark in the woods they all pressed against me now. Forward was the only choice.
I swallowed hard, muttering dryly,
“Lovely. Absolutely wholesome forest adventure. Nothing could possibly go wrong. Nope. Not at all.”
Another branch snapped. Not far away. I froze, heart hammering, tape still running in my hands. A figure had been there no, maybe it was everywhere. Watching, waiting.
The static buzzed through my bones. I knew I couldn’t turn back. Couldn’t stop. The X, the axe, the tape, the laughter all of it demanded forward.
And then, in the mist ahead, a shadow shifted. Just a hint, a flicker. But enough. Enough to make my blood run cold.
Step forward. Keep the tape running. Keep moving.
Something was waiting.
Something was close.
Notes:
Two uploads in a day who am I? sorry this chapter is a bit boring.
Chapter Text
The forest had officially won. The map, compass, and any shred of common sense I thought I had were useless against this endless expanse of green. I spun around in a circle for the third time in ten minutes, and each rotation made me feel a little dumber.
This wasn’t orienteering. This was a poorly written survival comedy where I was the punchline.
I shoved the map into my jacket pocket, muttering to it like it had ears.
“You know what? Forget it. Forget you. You’re obviously in cahoots with the trees and the fog and probably that creepy VHS tape that keeps whispering my name when I’m not looking.”
The map did not respond. Shocking. Betrayal, thy name is forest cartography.
Every rock and twisted root mocked me. I tripped over one, caught myself, and landed in a mud puddle. The forest silently applauded. Leaves brushed my arms as I stood up, adjusting my backpack that felt far too heavy for what I was carrying. Water, protein bars, flashlight, and a kitchen knife that probably wouldn’t even fend off a particularly aggressive squirrel. Yep, I was ready for this apocalypse. If only the apocalypse included directions.
I muttered under my breath, running a hand through my hair.
“Okay, let’s do this like a competent human. North is up, right? Unless all the trees decided to take a group trip and rotate themselves ninety degrees without telling me. That would explain a lot.”
I paused to stare at a particularly suspiciously shaped tree. It had a gnarled knot that resembled a face, sneering at me. I was convinced it was laughing. I’m pretty sure it was. Nature has a cruel sense of humor.
Branches clawed at my jacket as if trying to keep me in place, and every rustle made me jerk around like I’d just been shot. I was sure that on the other side of every bush lurked either a hungry animal, a forest ghost, or both. The tape was still in my bag, occasionally vibrating with static that seemed to respond to my panic levels. I should have left it behind. I should have burned it. But no. I had to be a moron and bring it along. Excellent life choices.
I squinted at the muddy ground, convinced I was tracing some sort of hidden path. Probably just raccoon prints. Maybe they were laughing at me too. Every time I thought I recognized a bend in the trail, it turned out to be another identical bend. Trees repeated themselves like bad wallpaper, roots snaking out at me as if conspiring to trip me again. My sense of direction had abandoned me somewhere between Old Logging Road 17 and the end of sanity.
“Okay,” I whispered, stopping mid-step to catch my breath.
“Time to admit that I have officially lost all possible ability to locate anything ever.”
I leaned against a tree, hugging the knife like it was a long-lost friend. The forest didn’t reply. Figures. It was busy plotting my doom with the shadows.
The sun was starting to dip behind the treetops. Or maybe it wasn’t. Hard to tell when everything looked the same and shadows stretched like they were auditioning for a horror film. The mist rolled in low to the ground, coating my boots with dampness, making each step a squelchy reminder of how little control I had. I contemplated just lying down and letting the forest consume me like a tragic fairy tale. I decided against it when I noticed what looked like a snake curled over a branch. Probably a branch. Definitely a snake. Definitely plotting.
I tried to focus on breathing, which was difficult when every snap of a twig made me whip around and hiss like a startled cat. The tape hissed softly in my bag, adding static commentary to the forest’s symphony of terror. Great. My own personal sound effects department. Maybe it was trying to tell me something. Maybe it was just laughing. Who could say?
I sighed heavily, dropping my shoulders.
“You know what? Fuck it. We’re turning back.” I spun to retrace my steps, squinting at landmarks that refused to cooperate.
Trees looked the same, rocks had doubled in number, and mud puddles had multiplied exponentially. Maybe the forest didn’t want me leaving. Maybe it was bored. Or maybe it enjoyed watching me flail like a very lost amateur detective. Whatever the reason, I did not have the energy to argue.
Stepping cautiously, I tried to recall the trail markers, if any existed beyond vague impressions in my mind.
“Left at the tree that looks like it’s flipping me off,” I muttered.
“Right at the root that might be a trap. Excellent navigation. Very professional.”
I kept moving, pretending that confidence mattered. Confidence did not matter. My boots squished in mud, and the branches scraped against my shoulders as if reminding me how much the forest owned me now.
I paused again, noticing how quiet it had become. Too quiet. Like the forest was holding its breath. My heart thudded in my chest, competing with my ragged breathing. Static hissed through the tape, louder now, and I had the distinct sensation that someone or something was watching me. Probably.
Hopefully. Maybe it was just my imagination. Maybe it was the forest mocking me personally.
I muttered sarcastically,
“Great. Now I’m being stalked by either the forest or my own terrible decisions. Fun. Fun times.” I pressed forward, wishing I had a GPS, a map that actually made sense, or at least a guide who didn’t have a death wish.
Nope. Solo mission. Just me, mud, cursed VHS tapes, and apparently a very judgmental ecosystem.
At one point, I stumbled into a low-hanging branch, hitting my forehead and nearly dropping the backpack. I muttered something incomprehensible at the tree, which may have been a threat or a prayer. Possibly both. The forest was not impressed. Static from the tape hissed again. Maybe it was applause. Maybe it was laughter. My guess was equal parts both. I shuffled along, trying to focus, trying not to panic, trying not to scream at the audacity of this entire situation.
Eventually, I reached a patch of trees that seemed vaguely familiar. Probably a coincidence. Probably not. Maybe the forest enjoyed the suspense. I didn’t care to find out. I kept moving, faster now, boots squelching in mud, branches snapping, heart racing, tape hissing intermittently like a tiny judgmental narrator. I was retreating. That was all that mattered. Forward or backward movement mattered. Survival mattered. Logic was optional.
After what felt like an eternity in a green hellscape designed specifically to break morale, I reached a clearing that might have been the way out. Or might have been a trap. Probably both. I squatted to catch my breath, listening to the tape static and the soft, unsettling creaks of the forest. It was like applause, or laughter, or someone whispering,
“Yes, keep going, we love this.”
I shook my head and muttered,
“Congratulations, me. Professional disaster navigates forest. Still alive. Barely. Success.”
My hands rubbed my face as the forest seemed to close in around me again, but I didn’t care. Retreat had been declared, the battle with navigation lost, and my sarcasm quota fulfilled.
For now, survival meant turning back, ignoring the red X, ignoring the cursed map, ignoring the forest’s personal vendetta. For now, I would walk, grumble, and hope nothing followed me home.
Mud squished under my boots as I trudged through the forest, grumbling like a disgruntled wildlife documentary narrator. At this point, the map was dead to me, my sense of direction had checked out early, and my entire survival plan consisted of hoping that if I walked long enough in one direction, I would accidentally find civilization or at least a Starbucks. Preferably Starbucks. Definitely coffee first, forest horrors later.
That’s when I saw it. Lying on the ground, suspiciously pristine like someone had set it out for a really morbid Easter egg hunt, was a VHS tape. It was too clean to be lost, too intentional to be accidental, and absolutely, positively cursed in ways that my brain refused to analyze rationally. I stopped dead, crouched like I was defusing a bomb, and squinted at it.
“Oh sure,” I muttered, speaking to myself because why not.
“A mysterious VHS tape just chilling in the middle of the forest. How convenient. Next thing you know, it’ll have a little sticky note saying, ‘Please, watch me and lose your will to live.’”
I poked it with my toe. Nothing happened, except I realized that the tape was heavier than expected. Probably because it was filled with malevolent intent and maybe some magnetic tape. Definitely enough to ruin a day if it decided to self-destruct.
I knelt down and picked it up, brushing off dirt with the same care I would give a rattlesnake or a stranger’s used coffee cup.
“Yep. Totally safe. Nothing ominous about this at all. Move along. Keep moving. Or don’t. Who am I to judge?”
My voice echoed through the trees, which was probably a bad idea because the forest was big and very judgmental.
Of course, I had no choice but to inspect it. The label was scribbled in that familiar, slightly panicked handwriting from the other tapes, which immediately sent a cocktail of terror and sarcasm straight to my veins. Fantastic. I was officially being tailed by a handwritten threat that had evolved into a forest-friendly treasure hunt.
Who even does that? Amateur murder map enthusiasts? Extremely committed evil pranksters? Whatever. Not my problem. Well, maybe it was.
I slipped the tape into my bag with the care of someone handling a live grenade, knowing full well that the portable VHS player I’d dragged along would probably complain about its new forest roommate. Portable tape player. Tiny plastic death machine. My own personal horror cinema on wheels. I imagined it groaning, whining, or screaming static at me just because it was powered up and not in the safety of my kitchen. That would have been fun. Really fun.
Finally, after a full minute of sarcastic mental pep talks
“Good job, professional idiot. You’ve found a cursed object and now you get to interrogate it like a detective who’s legally blind.”
I pulled the tape out and fished the portable player from my backpack. It clicked satisfyingly, like some industrial horror machine eager to participate in my misfortune.
I pressed play, bracing myself. Static hissed and fuzz bloomed across the tiny screen. Grainy black-and-white images flickered into life like some vintage nightmare. It was exactly the same tape as before, same grainy murder footage looping like an evil home movie. I groaned and plopped down onto a mossy log because standing upright was clearly overrated.
“Perfect. The same cursed tape. Because, yes, I was really hoping for déjà vu in the middle of the forest.” The forest agreed silently. No applause, no sighs, just trees judging me in a way that only endless vertical green can manage.
I leaned closer, squinting at the screen. The static made everything look alive, twitchy, like it was breathing under its own cruel rhythm. The masked figure moved in jerky, deliberate steps, each motion making my stomach tighten. I could feel my pulse in my teeth. This was not supposed to be an aesthetic forest walk.
This was supposed to be “find the X, check the map, get out before the tape kills your sanity.” Spoiler: that plan was already garbage.
I glanced around as I half-sat, half-crouched on the log. Trees, bushes, the occasional rock all innocent, all silently mocking me. I jabbed at the VHS buttons with trembling fingers, trying to make it pause or rewind, anything that would let me analyze the footage without it feeling like I was staring directly into the void. The figure didn’t care. It marched on, murderously patient, like it had all the time in the world to make sure I was panicking just enough.
“Seriously?” I muttered aloud.
“This is the vacation I signed up for. Hiking, mud, cursed tapes, existential dread. Could we get a little pamphlet or something? Maybe a brochure: ‘Welcome to Forest Funland: We Eat Lost Hikers for Breakfast.’” The VHS hissed in agreement. Or static. Maybe both.
I couldn’t stop staring at it. Every flicker of movement felt personal, like the tape knew I was there and was judging my incompetence. Every static-blurred frame screamed, not in sound but in atmosphere: you are alone, helpless, and slightly ridiculous. I leaned back against the log, hugging the portable player to my chest like a teddy bear possessed by malevolent intent.
“Yep, totally fine. Nothing ominous about bringing a cursed VHS player into the woods. Nothing at all.”
And then, through the corner of my eye, I caught movement. Not from the tape, not from the forest floor, but up ahead a shadow that didn’t belong. My stomach did that flip I was starting to know all too well, the one that said: stop thinking about this and run, except I had no idea which way to run.
I froze, glancing down at the tape again. Grainy flicker. Masked figure still walking, still jerky, still sinisterly casual. The forest did not help me. The tape did not help me. And the shadow didn’t move closer, which was worse because it implied intelligence, observation, and very bad intentions.
I whispered to the VHS player, because talking to electronics is definitely the rational thing to do in a forest haunted by your own poor decisions.
“Do you see them too? Or am I officially losing it?” Static hissed. I took that as a yes. Fantastic. Conversation partners in cursed media, very helpful.
I held the tape up a little, as if showing it the shadow, hoping it would illuminate the problem. It didn’t. It flickered. The same figure moved like a puppet on a string. I was still on the log, still clutching the portable horror machine, still internally screaming and externally narrating my own demise in snarky commentary.
“This is fine,” I muttered. “Absolutely fine. Nothing to see here. Just me, a cursed tape, and possibly-people-who-should-not-be-seeing-me. All good.” The forest agreed silently.
I barely had time to catch my breath before I realized I wasn’t alone. Not like alone with trees and mud alone, but someone was actually here. Or three someones. And no, I didn’t get a memo for “forest buddies day.”
I ducked behind a tree, trying to blend in with the moss and foliage like some sort of camouflage ninja. Not that it mattered. My track record of subtlety in life was about zero, but hey, desperate times.
There they were. Three of them, each striding through the woods like they owned the place, which, considering the forest already hated me, they probably did. One was in a yellow hoodie, but the bright color didn’t matter masked head to toe, black ski mask with a red smile crudely painted across it. Lovely. Very cheerful. I imagined them grinning in real life and instantly lost a little more faith in humanity. They were carrying a gun casually, like it was a thermos filled with coffee instead of something that could ruin my day, week, or life.
Next was someone in a tan jacket and a white mask with a face scrawled across it, holding a knife that looked suspiciously sharp. Like, “I could ruin your picnic in less time than it takes to eat a granola bar” sharp. Sarcasm screamed inside my head: Fantastic. Just what I wanted. Friendly neighborhood stalkers. I love outdoor sports.
The last one had brown hair and some goggles perched on their head, swinging an axe lazily at their side, like it was a fashion accessory. A very threatening, “I could chop down a tree or you, whichever comes first” fashion accessory. I had no idea who they were, what their names were, or if I should be complimenting their sense of style or running for my life. Spoiler: running seemed better.
They didn’t notice me. Good. I was grateful. Yet they weren’t just walking. They were talking. Sarcasm dripped off every word like some twisted forest comedy. I strained to catch the dialogue. Bits of jokes, dark humor, casual sarcasm utterly normal, if you ignored the murder implements.
“Think she’ll follow the map or lose her mind first?”
The yellow-hoodie voice sounded casual, like they were debating dinner plans instead of the absolute terror of someone wandering into their line of sight.
“Bet on the mind. Always the mind,” the tan jacket replied, chuckling through their mask.
The axe wielder snorted. “Nope. Both. She’s a hot mess. I love it.”
My sarcasm meter short-circuited. I wanted to yell: Hot mess is a bit generous. Panic-stricken, covered in mud, clinging to a cursed VHS player counts as “hot mess” now? Excellent. Validation achieved.
I crouched lower. A twig snapped under my boot. They didn’t flinch. Not even a glance. They were comfortable here, like predators knowing the jungle bends to their whims. That thought did not help me feel safe. Or alive.
I peeked through the branches, trying not to hyperventilate. I couldn’t see faces, but I could see the way they moved: confident, deliberate, and terrifyingly coordinated. They weren’t hunting anyone they were watching. Observing. Waiting for… me?
The yellow hoodie’s gun glinted in the sun, lazily pointed downward, which was both comforting and terrifying. I reminded myself that “downward” didn’t mean “not lethal.” The knife twitched in the tan jacket’s hand like it had a pulse of its own. Axe-wielder just walked, axe bouncing lightly, like a casual stroll through the park with murder on their mind.
I tried to stay calm. Tried being invisible. Tried thinking maybe if I didn’t breathe, they’d forget I existed. That plan failed when my stomach growled like an annoyed bear.
“Fantastic. You’re really nailing the whole ‘don’t get murdered’ vibe,” I muttered to myself.
The tape in my bag vibrated slightly, probably judging my commentary. Great. Now I had two sets of judgmental entities.
The trio paused for a moment, talking again. Dark humor, jokes, casual observations about the “mission.” Watching me. Probably sharing sarcastic commentary behind those masks too. My internal monologue added: Yes, and someday they’ll publish a Yelp review about the clueless forest wanderer. Spoiler alert: one star.
I tried to plan my next move. Should I run? Should I retreat? Should I pretend I was a tree? None of those felt like viable options. So I froze. Like a really stupid statue. The kind that even squirrels avoid because it radiates bad luck.
And then they moved again, melting into the shadows between trees like they were part of the forest itself. My heart leapt into my throat. I realized they weren’t even hurrying. They weren’t hunting me. They were professionals at this. Watching, waiting, measuring. I had no idea what for, and that was exactly why my paranoia went nuclear.
I crouched lower, whispered sarcastically to myself: Great. Welcome to the forest, starring me, a VHS tape, and three homicidal fashionistas. Rated R for ridiculous, M for mad, and possibly L for lost.
The forest was silent except for the crunch of leaves under their boots. I had no plan, no allies, and zero survival skills in situations where sarcasm did not, in fact, save lives.
I peeked one last time, and then they were gone, swallowed into the green like they’d never been there. I exhaled slowly, which probably sounded like a trumpet announcing my presence to anything else lurking. Fantastic.
I hugged the portable VHS player to my chest. Safe, mostly. No one had noticed me. Yet. But the tape wasn’t playing, and that felt like a pause before the storm. My sarcastic little voice in my head added: Welcome to the sequel of your life, starring cursed media, murderous stalkers, and one very unlucky forest tourist.
I froze behind the thick trunk, pressing myself into the bark like it could absorb me entirely. Not that it mattered. These three moved with the confidence of predators, completely unaware of my existence.
My breath hitched and I reminded myself not to squeak, not to laugh, not to sneeze quietly into the forest floor. Survival skill number one: do not die. Survival skill number two: do not die while hiding behind a tree and feeling like a paranoid shrub.
They had gathered in a small clearing a little downhill, speaking low enough that only someone ridiculously close could catch it, which I absolutely was. I strained to catch the words. Every syllable hit like a weight pressing on my chest.
The one in the yellow hoodie leaned against a tree, calm and deliberate, every movement measured. He radiated danger like a magnet, attractive in a way that made my brain panic. Sarcasm flowed from him naturally, but it had a sharp edge that could slice clean through anyone’s defenses.
“She’s… hot,” he said casually, and the way he said it made my stomach twist. Not hot in a mundane, weather-report kind of way. What the hell was wrong with me? Why did I kind of… like that?
I froze. Heat pooled in my chest, sharp and insistent. Tan jacket immediately bristled. “Hot? Hot how? Like, oh she’s cute, let’s kidnap her hot? Or scream-and-run hot?” His voice was harsh, easy to ignite.
The yellow hoodie smirked, leaning just slightly closer to his companion, the red smile on the mask cutting across his face like a warning. “Hot enough to make me want to see her scream,” he said, low and deliberate. A pause. “Below me.”
I felt my stomach drop. Did he just say that out loud? And in public, sort of public, though by public I meant entirely in the forest with me hiding. Scream below him? Somehow… my pulse spiked in ways it really shouldn’t have. Heat pooled low in my chest, annoying and thrilling all at once. Fantastic. Definitely need new hobbies—or maybe just new brain wiring.
The tan jacket made a noise of disbelief, arms crossing tightly. “What way, exactly? Like stare, or… torture, or…?” His words were sharp, defensive.
The yellow hoodie tilted his head lazily, smirk curling across the mask. “You’re missing the nuance. It’s not about the method. It’s about the anticipation. Feeling them squirm, knowing exactly how helpless they are… The Operator likes suspense. And I… like savoring it.”
Goggles-wearer’s fingers clenched on the axe, a twitch of eagerness in every movement. “Yes… yes… perfect… make her… scream… exactly like… I… want.”
I sank a little lower behind the trunk, wondering if I could curl up into a ball small enough to disappear entirely. They weren’t even aware I was there, yet every syllable pressed into my ribs, carved into my skin. Poetry, menace, flirty threat all rolled into one calm, attractive predator.
The one in the goggles shifted on the balls of their feet, adjusting the straps on their head, tapping the axe against their leg in sharp, deliberate beats. Every movement was quick but purposeful, like a coiled predator, nervous but calculated. They spoke in a clipped, stuttering rhythm that carried an edge of menace. “I-I-I think it’s… s-so… s-she’s reckless… tempting… fun to watch.” The pauses, the flick of the axe, the precise shuffle of boots—they radiated a controlled intensity, the kind of nervous thrill that could snap into violence at any second.
Tan jacket scoffed, flicking the knife casually. “None of this is fun. This is work. She’s going to get hurt, and we just follow orders. That’s it.”
Yellow hoodie’s voice cut through, low and smooth, teasing, a dangerous caress in the air. “Work isn’t about enjoyment. Work’s about control, precision. Anticipation. But…” He let the word hang. “…sometimes, watching her panic… it’s kind of… satisfying.”
I pressed myself flatter against the tree, heart hammering. That smirk under the mask, the way he tilted his head, the almost flirtatious cadence of his words—it was a power play I could feel in my bones.
Goggles guy clicked the axe lightly, adjusting the straps again, shifting weight from one foot to the other, eyes darting between the others while they spoke. The rapid movements, the staccato way they stuttered out phrases, the way they sometimes leaned forward to punctuate a point it all screamed energy you couldn’t bottle. Tense, unpredictable energy that could explode into violence at any moment.
“See?” yellow hoodie said smoothly, voice low and casual, like he was talking about the weather. “Even our… overexcited friend here gets it. Watching her… it’s not just entertainment. Control, precision, the thrill of knowing how far she can go. Like a performance… and I enjoy performances that scream. Especially when the person performing doesn’t even know they’re being watched.”
Tan jacket groaned, slamming the knife against a tree lightly. “I swear, I hate this job. I don’t even—ugh. Why us?”
“Because he said so,” yellow hoodie replied easily. Calm. Deadly. Magnetic. One word, spoken in that tone, made it clear there was no choice. The Operator had decided. They were all trapped, following rules they didn’t want to follow, and yet somehow they made it look effortless.
“Yeah,” goggles guy said, one hand clenching and unclenching on the axe. “H-he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t want us here. B-but we follow. I-I-I follow. Watch. Wait. And… she’s… she’s good.” The stuttering rushed out like water over rocks, movements tense and fast, gripping the axe as if holding on to some invisible lifeline.
Yellow hoodie tilted his head toward the tan jacket, smirk in full force. “Watching her isn’t just… amusing. There’s something about her… the way she moves, the fire in her eyes… makes me want to see how far I can push her. That sass, that attitude… I want to push her limits, see what she can handle. Dangerous. Exciting.”
Tan jacket froze mid-hand gesture, eyebrows furrowed. “Wait. Wait. Push… like what?”
Yellow hoodie leaned forward slightly, voice lower, teasingly dangerous. “You’ll see. Anticipation is half the thrill. Let’s just say… patience is part of the game. And I intend to savor it.”
I felt my chest tighten, a mixture of dread and… something else. Something in the way he said it, the slight weight behind his words, the flare of dangerous amusement it was like he was daring me to exist, daring me to flinch, daring me to show fear. And maybe enjoying the idea a little too much.
Tan jacket muttered under his breath, knife tapping nervously against his hand. Goggles guy shuffled, axe moving in quick little taps, stuttering again. The three of them were a chaotic triangle of controlled menace, each one different but perfectly aligned to dominate the forest they moved through.
Yellow hoodie’s voice dropped, smooth and dark, a slow drawl that lingered between the trees. Flirty, but sharp. “Anticipation, sass… she doesn’t even know. If we’re stuck doing this job, might as well make the most of it. See how she reacts, watch her panic… feel that fire. Makes it… worth it.”
The one in the tan jacket huffed, shifting impatiently, fingers twitching near the knife at their side.
“You’re all talking like we’re just… spectators. We’re supposed to act if things go sideways. I swear, one wrong move and I’m cutting her path open. Why wait?” Their voice had that sharp, impatient edge, the kind that could slice through nerves as easily as skin.
The goggles-wearer tilted their head, axe tapping a deliberate rhythm against their leg. “I-I-I mean… yeah… y-you’ve got the point. I-I’d… respond… u-urgently, s-s-so to speak. Could be… fun. Testing reactions… seeing what snaps first.” Their stutter made every word feel like it carried weight, the hesitation more menacing than hesitation ever should. They darted a glance at the yellow hoodie, as if silently asking permission to indulge their more violent impulses.
Yellow hoodie smirked, shoulders relaxing as though the chaos around him was exactly where he wanted it. “Now you’re talking sense. But don’t get too eager,” he said smoothly, voice low, almost teasing, yet layered with that dangerous undercurrent. “We’re not savages… yet. Precision matters. Anticipation matters. But,” he leaned slightly forward, smirk widening, “if she gives us a reason… I won’t stop you from testing your toys.”
The tan jacket let out a low growl, the knife shifting in hand as their eyes narrowed. “Toys? You call a real human toy?” They let out a short, sharp laugh. “She moves the wrong way, she dies. That’s all there is to it.”
Yellow hoodie’s gaze flicked toward the one in the tan jacket, amused but predatory. “Yes, yes, you’ll get your chance. But we savor it first. You know I love seeing the tension build before the storm. Makes it… worth it. And if we’re stuck doing this job anyway, might as well make the most of it. Play a little… have some fun.” His tone lingered like smoke, both playful and heavy with threat.
Goggles-wearer shuffled slightly, tapping the axe against their thigh again. “F-Fun… yes… right. M-Make them… scream? Feel it… real. I-I-I could enjoy that… very much.” They shivered, not from cold, but from anticipation, every movement jittery yet contained, a predator held in check.
“Exactly,” Yellow hoodie says, voice low and casual. “Every move counts. Every second of fear, every little gasp… it’s all part of the show. And you,” he nods toward goggles, a sly grin tugging at his lips, “seem to enjoy making it… unforgettable. Masky,” his eyes flick to the other, “you do what you do best. Me? I just like watching. Sometimes closer, sometimes from afar depends on the mood.”
Masky let a low, sharp laugh escape, knife catching the faint sunlight. “Closer, huh? Hoodie talks a lot about watching… me, I prefer to get my hands dirty. A little proximity makes it… more interesting.” His fingers brushed the hilt, eyes scanning the forest, calculating, predatory, and a little teasing.
Yellow hoodie chuckled softly, low and teasing, a dangerous edge under the humor. “Getting our hands dirty is fun,” he said, voice casual, letting it hang between them. “But no need to ruin the suspense before the main act, right?” His gaze swept the clearing ahead, hood shadowing his eyes. “She doesn’t even know we’re here. That’s the real thrill. If we’re stuck doing the Operator’s bidding, might as well enjoy ourselves.”
Masky snorted, shifting impatiently. “Some of us like a more… direct approach.”
The guy with the goggles stuttered, tapping the axe against his leg, a nervous rhythm underlining each word. “I-I-I… yeah… yeah, I-I agree. But… b-but we need to b-be careful. S-she’s… smart. Observant. And… fun… to track.” His voice cracked slightly, then steadied as he leaned forward, scanning the shadows. “I-I-I want to… see how she reacts… see what she’ll do… if we push… just a little. Not too much. J-just… enough.”
Masky rolled their eyes, tightening grip on the knife. “Edge or not, I say we get our hands on her. Let the fun start.”
Toby shuffled slightly, eyes flicking from Masky to the trees, voice catching on a stutter again. “I-I-I-I… I d-don’t mind hands-on. N-not… not at all. But we… w-we have to… keep it… interesting. Calculated. Dangerous. Like a… performance.” He shifted his weight, tapping the axe once more, each flick of it deliberate, tense.
Toby’s hands trembled slightly on the axe, lips curling into a twitch of a smile, voice dropping lower. “Y-yeah… waiting… it’s… it’s part of it. Every moment counts. And w-we… we’ll see… how she handles it… how far she… c-can go…”
Masky growled low, a teasing edge to it. “Far enough to make it fun, or I’m losing patience. That’s all I’m saying.”
Yellow hoodie’s gaze lingered on the forest ahead, voice smooth, almost lazily dangerous. “Fun, yes… but control. We enjoy it more when the show plays out. And if the fire sparks too early? Well, we handle it. Each in our own way.”
Toby’s twitching increased, a manic rhythm under his careful words. “E-each in our own… w-way… yeah. We… we have the tools. W-we know what to do. And… and it’s… thrilling.” His eyes glinted under the goggles as he shuffled, tapping the axe with a subtle intensity, a dark energy that made even Hoodie smirk with appreciation.
Masky’s knife shifted in hand, a low chuckle rumbling out. “Thrilling, sure. But I want results. Close, messy… perfect.”
Yellow hoodie just tilted his head, voice calm but heavy, smooth and predatory. “Let’s see how far we can push her. The game’s only begun, and the audience… well, that’s us. Watching, waiting. The thrill? Priceless.”
They disappeared among the trees, their laughter and murmurs fading, leaving only the rustle of leaves and my own ragged breathing. I sank lower against the trunk I’d been pressed against, heart hammering like a drum solo. My mind replayed every word, every pause, every damn smirk. “Hot enough to make me want to see her scream,” Hoodie had said, and for some messed-up reason my stomach had flipped. Why did that make me… feel something? A rush? A thrill? My brain screeched “WTF is wrong with you,” but the thought only made me flush hotter.
And then Toby. Nervous, twitchy, stammering his way through every sentence, yet that undercurrent of calculation, of dangerous curiosity… I had no idea why, but I’d been drawn to it. Masky, predictably, was all edge and sharpness, knife always ready, smirk always on the verge of cutting someone.
They weren’t just killers. They were… performers. Predators who knew the rules of the game, and somehow, somehow, I was part of it now. Watching them retreat, I realized I’d just gotten my first real look at the threat I was dealing with—and at the same time, my pulse betrayed me with an excitement I didn’t want to admit.
The forest felt colder, the shadows heavier, and I knew I wouldn’t forget a single word they’d said.
Notes:
Woooo! we finally meet them I hope all that build up was worth the wait. I' d love to hear all your comments and feedback!!
Chapter 8: Dusty Archives and Dead Kids
Notes:
Sorry it took so long but its out now new chapters should soon!
Chapter Text
Sitting in the thick underbrush, I tried to convince myself that my ears weren’t still ringing with everything I’d overheard. Hoodie, Masky, and Toby three terrifyingly competent people who could probably dismantle me with a glance had just walked out of my line of sight. And yet, for some ungodly reason, my brain kept replaying every single word like some sick, twisted audio loop.
Seriously. What was wrong with me? Hoodie’s voice the smooth, dark, teasing drawl that made it sound like he could ruin my life while simultaneously offering me a damn cocktail kept echoing. He’d said she’s hot, anticipating, sass, fire. Hot. Fire. Sass. And okay, fine. I wasn’t falling in love, but I wasn’t going to lie: it had made my stomach do a little flip.
Terrifying, but in a “oh crap, that was kind of hot in a completely messed-up way” sort of way. I groaned. Fantastic. Terrified, slightly aroused, and completely confused.
And then there was Masky. Hands-on, lethal, dangerous in a way that made my brain short-circuit. The way he twirled his knife in his fingers when they spoke, half teasing, half threatening like he’d love to get close and push boundaries was enough to make me gulp nervously. Okay, yes, maybe I was impressed, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be within arm’s reach. Definitely not. My pulse sped up anyway. Fantastic.
Toby, with his jittery movements, stuttering speech, and rapid flick of the axe, was next on the list of things my brain absolutely should not be analyzing like some twisted study subject. Not playful, not childish, but precise, controlled chaos. He was dangerous, professional, unpredictable—and yes, terrifyingly engaging. I shook my head. God, why does danger have to be so… interesting? I was supposed to be hiding, running, surviving. Not mentally cataloging movement patterns and speech tics like a perverse field study.
The conversation they’d had kept looping in my head. Hoodie’s silky, smooth voice, speaking about anticipation, sass, fire, watching her panic. Masky’s low laugh, knife glinting, teasing with a dangerous edge. Toby stuttering, twitching, but surprisingly controlled in the midst of all that nervous energy making little comments about her, about the situation, about being forced to watch by the Operator.
Their tone was casual, joking, sarcastic… and yet every word carried weight, a threat, a dark amusement. They weren’t enjoying this fully, but they were finding something to occupy themselves. Something perverse. And I was fascinated. Infuriatingly, terrifyingly fascinated.
I sat there, chewing on a stray blade of grass like it was going to give me wisdom. Hoodie’s words lingered:
“Anticipation, fun, sass… she doesn’t even know. I’d like to see her react. See her panic. Feel that fire. Makes life… worth it.” My stomach clenched. Damn. That was… kind of hot. Totally wrong, utterly inappropriate, terrifyingly wrong.
My internal monologue groaned in protest. Why does my brain get to find this attractive? Seriously. Survival instincts should be screaming at me, not doing mental cartwheels.
The fear the sharp, gut-twisting fear was still there. They had weapons. Deadly weapons. And they were nearby. Watching. Anticipating. Waiting. Masky with his knife, Toby with his axe, Hoodie with that impossibly calm, flirty, “I know exactly what I’m doing and I’ll enjoy every second of it” attitude.
All of them working under the Operator’s control. And yet, they had personalities, a dark humor, a sarcastic bite that made my head spin. And yes, I admitted it begrudgingly: the danger made it… compelling. In a completely terrifying, “I might die and I’m kind of enjoying this adrenaline” way.
I attempted sarcasm as a coping mechanism. Fantastic. I’m hiding in the forest, listening to three murderously competent people joke about my demise, and my brain keeps sending “hey, that’s kind of hot” signals. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Survival skills intact. Mental sanity? Questionable. Internal monologue? Definitely messed up.
I debated my next move with brutal honesty. Stay here? Nope. Too risky. I’d become a forest exhibit for their dark humor. Follow them? Even worse. Not a snowball’s chance in hell. Retreat? Probably the only sane option, even if my brain was screaming about missed opportunities to gather “intelligence.” I had to go back to the house. Regroup. Think. Pretend my stomach hadn’t reacted the way it had. Pretend that Hoodie leaning against a tree, casually commenting on the thrill of fear, hadn’t made my pulse stutter.
So I moved. Slowly. Carefully. Practically crawling through the underbrush like a sarcastic, terrified ninja who was trying not to fantasize about how messed-up it was that the threat had a drawl that could give me heartburn.
The forest was quiet, too quiet. My pulse hammered. My brain jabbed at me: Did they notice I was gone? Probably not. They were still joking, teasing, casually discussing their “job,” completely unaware of me skulking behind a bush. And I realized something: if I survived this forest, I was going to need therapy, a new coping mechanism, and possibly an intervention for my perverse brain responses.
I chuckled quietly. Yeah, survival first. Reaction to flirty, lethal threats second. But the forest had its own sense of humor, apparently. And so did I, apparently.
The walk back through the trees was… well, I’d call it “peaceful” if my heart wasn’t pounding like I’d just signed up for a marathon against three professional murderers. Every snapping twig under my sneakers felt like a death knell, every rustle of leaves might as well have been Masky’s knife brushing against my ribs. I tried to convince myself I was in stealth mode, but let’s be real I was just a terrified idiot moving at the pace of a geriatric turtle.
Broken twigs on the ground? Totally squirrels. Definitely not men in masks with knives, axes, and voices smooth enough to make my stomach betray me. Flattened leaves? Yeah, squirrels again. Must be one hell of a squirrel party out here. And that faint sound of laughter in the distance? You guessed it. Squirrels telling jokes. A comedy show, right here in the forest. Nothing to do with the trio who just spent ten minutes debating whether my fear was “art.” Nope. Not at all.
“Wow,” I muttered under my breath,
“imagine being so egotistical you think every noise in the forest is about you. Get over yourself, girl. The squirrels aren’t out here gossiping about how hot your fear is.”
I winced immediately. Out loud. I actually said that out loud. Fantastic. Might as well pin a neon sign to my back: free entertainment, come stalk me.
My brain, helpful as ever, decided to provide imaginary commentary from my not-so-friendly trio. Hoodie’s smooth drawl slid into my thoughts: Anticipation, fun, sass… she’s narrating herself like a reality TV contestant. Someone get the popcorn. I rolled my eyes. Then Masky chimed in, in my head of course, low and sharp: Hands-on approach is more fun. I’d drag her back myself just to shut her up. And then Toby, stuttering but grinning like a maniac: Y-you’re gonna trip on your own feet before we even touch you.
Great. I was hallucinating their voices now. Sarcasm, threats, stutters the full package. My brain was staging a roast while I tripped over tree roots. Perfect survival strategy.
The deeper I went, the heavier the air felt, like the forest itself knew what I’d overheard and was pressing down, trying to keep me from escaping. I kept scanning behind me, expecting a hood, a mask, or a pair of goggles to peek out from behind a tree. Nothing. Just shadows that stretched too long and the faint trickle of distant water.
When the house finally came into view, slumped and broken in the clearing, I could have kissed it. Ugly, rotten siding, busted shutters, windows that looked like they hadn’t been cleaned since the last century home sweet creepy home. My brain, naturally, decided this was the moment to get cocky:
“Yeah, come on guys, follow me back to my haunted crack den. Nothing like candlelight and peeling wallpaper to really set the mood.”
Still, I approached cautiously, like the house might lunge at me if I got too close. My hand brushed the front doorknob, cold and gritty against my skin. I turned it slowly, listening for movement inside. Nothing. No sudden rush of footsteps, no creak of a floorboard. I slipped inside anyway, immediately checking the living room, then the kitchen, then upstairs, like I was starring in some low-budget horror flick.
Windows? Still there. Well, some of them. Closed, at least. Locks? Intact. Doors? Shut. Everything technically in place. And yet, the longer I stood there, the less I believed it. The air was heavier inside, charged somehow, like the walls were holding their breath.
I circled back to the living room and froze. The couch cushions weren’t where I left them. One was tilted just slightly, like someone had sat there, leaned back, then stood up. My throat tightened. Maybe I moved it? No, I would remember. I was hyper-aware of every detail now, every placement of furniture, every creak of the floor.
I forced myself to laugh under my breath. “Okay, cool. Yeah, love what you’ve done with the place, guys. Real feng shui with the cushions. Ten out of ten, would recommend breaking in again.”
But even with my sarcasm, I could feel it the weight of their words pressing against me. Hoodie’s voice floated back: Anticipation, fun, sass… she doesn’t even know. My stomach twisted. The bastard wasn’t wrong. I hadn’t known. I’d been walking around this house like it was mine, like I was safe. And all along? They’d been watching. Waiting.
The Operator might have sent them, but they weren’t just following orders. They were playing. Toying with me. Finding their entertainment in my panic.
I turned toward the nearest window, half-expecting to see a figure standing in the trees. Nothing. Just dark branches swaying in the breeze. But I couldn’t shake the feeling of being observed, like eyes were tracing my every step from just out of sight.
I pressed my forehead against the glass, my breath fogging the pane. “Hope you’re enjoying the show,” I whispered, mocking myself as much as them. “Hate to break it to you, but the undressing part comes with a price tag.”
Silence answered, heavy and unbroken. But I knew they were there. Somewhere out in the dark, listening, waiting, laughing to themselves about how easy this was. And worst of all?
A tiny, traitorous part of me almost wanted them to be.
By the time I dragged myself upstairs, my nerves felt like they’d been wrung out and slapped back into me. Every creak of the old staircase was an accusation: stupid, stupid, stupid.
The house was quiet, but not the good kind of quiet more like the tense, waiting kind. The kind that makes your skin crawl because it feels like something else is breathing in sync with you.
Still, I had to sleep eventually. Or at least attempt to. My body wasn’t going to keep running on caffeine, fear, and spite forever. I flopped onto the warped mattress, pulled the blanket up like it was some magical shield, and muttered,
“Sure. I’ll just close my eyes and trust that serial killers aren’t rearranging my kitchen. Great plan. Totally fine. Not insane at all.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, repeating to myself that it was only a house, only walls and windows. The trio weren’t actually here. Not inside. Not breathing under the same roof. Not waiting. Right? Right.
Sleep eventually dragged me under, but it was restless, sharp around the edges. Every dream blurred into flickers of movement through trees, whispers of voices I’d overheard, flashes of a smirk lit like a match in the dark.
When I jerked awake hours later, the air was colder. Too cold. My neck prickled before I even sat up.
At first, I thought maybe I’d imagined it the sense of being watched, the twist in my gut. But then I noticed it.
The window across the room. I’d locked it. I remembered locking it. Now it was cracked open, curtain shifting just slightly with the draft. My mouth went dry.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, feet touching down on creaking wood, and scanned the room. Nothing obvious, nothing glaringly different. But then my gaze landed on the chair near the corner. Tilted at an angle. Facing my bed.
Oh. Oh, perfect. Fantastic. My own private audience seating.
My chest tightened as I stood, slowly, scanning again. The small pile of my things near the dresser looked wrong too. The flashlight I’d left at the top was now at the bottom, shoved under a shirt. My journal had been nudged an inch closer to the edge. Little changes. Subtle enough to make me question if I’d done it myself, but not subtle enough to be accidents.
I whispered, barely audible: “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
They’d been here. Not outside. Not in the trees. Here. In my room, in my space, breathing my air while I slept.
My first instinct was pure horror heart racing, throat tight, legs threatening to give out. But right on its heels came the sarcasm, sharp and ugly, my brain’s favorite survival mechanism.
“Wow,” I muttered, voice shaking. “They have a serious kink for watching me sleep. Great. Fantastic. Classic. Didn’t know I’d signed up for the world’s worst OnlyFans.”
I paced once, twice, fists clenching and unclenching. My reflection in the cracked mirror looked wild-eyed, hair sticking out in a way that screamed horror movie final girl at the breaking point.
I stared myself down and whispered, “I hope you enjoyed the show, boys. Because the next act? I might be awake and angry.”
The words tasted bitter, shaky, but they grounded me. Anger was better than fear. Anger meant I still had a spine, even if it was trembling.
I leaned back against the wall, exhaling slow, steady breaths. Part of me wanted to scream into the night, demand they stop playing games and just face me. Another part the rational part that didn’t have a death wish knew that would be the dumbest move I could make.
Instead, I forced myself to sit back on the edge of the bed, hands digging into the mattress. If they wanted anticipation, if they wanted suspense, then fine. Two could play at that game.
Still, I couldn’t shake the image of that chair angled toward my bed. Someone had sat there. Sat and watched. Listened to my restless breathing, maybe even counted the way I twitched in sleep. The thought made my stomach twist, heat prickling my skin with both disgust and… something I refused to name.
The yellow hoodie’s words replayed in my head, slow and deliberate: Every second of fear, every little gasp… it’s like art.
I swallowed hard, whispering into the dark: “Yeah? Well, hope the art show was worth it.”
My voice didn’t echo. It just dropped flat into the air, heavy and oppressive. I swore I felt it linger.
I pushed myself back under the blanket, curling up tight, eyes locked on the corner where the chair had been shifted. My pulse refused to slow, and sleep? Yeah, that wasn’t happening again.
I lay there, forcing myself to breathe, pretending my sarcasm was armor thick enough to keep out the shadows. Pretending I wasn’t starting to understand exactly how much they enjoyed having me cornered.
And worst of all, pretending I didn’t, in some dark twisted way, enjoy spitting venom right back at them.
Morning light bled weakly through the cracked window, gray and unwelcoming. I sat on the edge of the bed, blanket still wrapped around me like a straightjacket, staring at the chair that had definitely not been angled that way last night. No matter how many times I blinked, it didn’t reset itself.
I exhaled slowly. “Alright. Enough pretending this is fine.”
The thing about being violated in your sleep aside from the obvious horror and existential crisis was that it killed your ability to stay still. My nerves buzzed with restless energy. If I sat here long enough, I’d go insane imagining Hoodie lounging in my chair with that smirk, Masky leaning against the wall with their knife, or Goggles tapping that damn axe against the floor in some twitchy rhythm.
So I stood, peeled myself out of last night’s clothes, and muttered to no one but the peeling wallpaper:
“Hope you enjoyed the show. Five stars on Yelp? Or do I need to spice it up next time?”
The air didn’t answer, but the prickle at the back of my neck told me I wasn’t wrong to say it out loud.
I dressed quickly, practical layers over sarcasm. Sturdy jeans, hoodie, jacket. If they wanted to watch, fine they could enjoy my “forest chic” survival couture.
Then came the packing. If I was going to venture out again, I wasn’t doing it barehanded. I rummaged through my supplies, narrating each choice because apparently talking to myself was now the only way to stay sane.
“Flashlight because nothing says terror like a dead battery in the woods.”
“Granola bars Operator may control time and space, but he can’t stop me from getting hangry.”
“Portable VHS player because why not bring the cursed viewing experience with me? Maybe I’ll screen the tapes for squirrels.”
“Map completely useless, but looks professional. Really sells the explorer vibe.”
“Knife sharp enough to butter toast or stab my anxiety.”
I shoved each item into my backpack, the so-called Operator defense kit, and stepped back to admire my work. If this were a video game inventory, my stats would read: +5 Sarcasm, +3 Snacks, +1 Weaponry, -10 Sanity.
I zipped the bag closed with more force than necessary, like maybe that would trap my fear inside too. It didn’t. The weight pressed against my shoulders the second I slung it on, grounding and suffocating at the same time.
My eyes flicked back to the chair one last time. I pictured them there again, shadows filling the room, smirks and knives and heavy silence. The trio didn’t need to leave messages carved into my walls I already knew they were watching. Always.
And here’s the kicker: I couldn’t stop thinking about them.
About Hoodie’s calm cruelty, the way his voice wrapped threat and flirtation together until you couldn’t tell which was which. About Masky’s sharp temper, sparks of aggression like they’d slice first and think later. About Goggles’ restless movements, erratic and alive, each tic and stutter making the air crackle.
Their humor was black tar, sticky and corrosive, and yet I caught myself smirking at the memory of it. Like some part of me found it entertaining. Like some deeply broken part of me wanted more.
I dragged a hand down my face, groaning. “God, what is wrong with me.”
No answer, of course. Just my own voice bouncing back at me, jagged and hollow.
I tightened the straps on my pack, squared my shoulders, and muttered, “Fine. You want a show? I’ll give you one.”
I opened the door, braced against the morning chill, and stepped outside.
The house loomed behind me, sagging like it was exhausted from keeping secrets. And maybe it was. The weight of all the nights I’d spent inside its rotting walls pressed down on me, heavy with unseen eyes.
I adjusted my pack again and smirked weakly to myself.
“Maybe I should start charging admission for my personal horror show. Front-row seats for the masked psychos, fifty bucks a pop.”
The forest swallowed the sound.
But somewhere in the quiet, I swear I heard laughter.
I stood on the porch, backpack digging into my shoulders, staring at the treeline like it was actively mocking me. Three options lay ahead, and every single one sucked in its own special way.
Option one: stay in the house. The “safe” choice. Except, let’s be real the house had already been breached. Doors unlocked, windows pried open, chairs shifted into front-row seating for my accidental midnight performance. Staying inside was basically slapping a
“Welcome, psychos!” sign on the front door and waiting to become dinner theater.
Option two: head back into the woods. Because obviously, walking into their home turf again was a genius move. What could possibly go wrong in the same forest where I’d already seen them lurking, chatting about making me scream like it was casual Friday banter? Yeah. Big nope. The woods were less “hiking trail” and more “extended murder waiting room.”
Option three: go into town. Public space. People. Civilization. The faint hope of answers. Specifically, the library, because if cursed forests, VHS tapes, and masked stalkers didn’t scream archival research project, I didn’t know what did.
I rubbed my temples. “So… trapped with psychos, hiking with psychos, or reading about psychos. Fantastic choices. Love this game.”
Still, the library felt like the least suicidal option. If nothing else, it offered books, and books were weapons. Heavy, blunt, and full of knowledge. Also, towns came with coffee. And coffee, at this point, ranked higher than oxygen.
Decision made, I trudged down the cracked steps, muttering, “Library it is. Time to trade one haunted house for another.”
The path into town wasn’t long, but every step stretched. My nerves were tuned to maximum paranoia, straining for the sound of footsteps behind me, the flick of branches snapping, the hush of voices. The trio’s words still echoed in my head every dark joke, every taunt about suspense, every too-smooth line about fire and panic.
I adjusted the straps on my backpack like it was armor and forced my legs to move. If they wanted me to panic, fine, they’d get a show. Just not the one they expected.
“Note to self,” I muttered as I skirted the treeline. “Don’t walk like prey. Walk like… a very confident raccoon. Bold. Chaotic. Unpredictable.”
I tried to square my shoulders, swing my arms casually, and project an aura of total indifference. Which, in practice, meant I looked like I was power-walking away from a bad date. Totally normal.
The silence didn’t help. Even when I reached the cracked pavement of the old road that cut toward town, I couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes boring into my back. My brain filled in footsteps where none existed, shadows stretching longer than they should, laughter that was probably just wind but still lodged in my gut like a splinter.
Every time I glanced over my shoulder, nothing. Just empty road, trees leaning in like nosy neighbors.
I pressed on, whispering to myself: “Yep. Totally sane. Definitely not the star of a slasher film. Just a girl with a VHS player in her bag, going to casually research her own stalkers. Completely normal Tuesday.”
Somewhere between the abandoned gas station and the sagging fence line of a farmhouse, my paranoia turned into comedy. I could practically hear them narrating my walk.
Hoodie, smooth and amused: Look at her. Trying not to sprint. Cute.
Masky, knife gleaming: If she bolts, I call first blood.
Goggles, tapping his axe in rhythm: I bet she trips. I’m betting she trips.
I rolled my eyes at my own brain. “Fantastic. Now I’m writing imaginary fanfiction about my stalkers. Love that for me.”
I picked up the pace anyway.
The closer I got to town, the more ridiculous I felt. Houses dotted the roadside, windows shuttered, paint peeling, but still people lived here. Real humans with normal problems, like overdue bills and broken microwaves. Meanwhile, I was striding down the street like a discount Van Helsing, backpack stuffed with snacks, a knife, and a portable VHS apocalypse kit.
By the time I hit the library’s block, my nerves were so frayed I couldn’t help laughing under my breath. “Me, tip-toeing through town like a stealthy vampire, except with panic attacks and a VHS player. Perfect disguise. No one will suspect a thing.”
I pulled the door open, the faint jingle of a bell echoing like a shotgun blast, and stepped inside.
The library smelled like dust, old paper, and disuse. The air was colder, the kind that clung to your skin like a warning. Rows of shelves stretched ahead, lined with forgotten knowledge. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, the only sound.
My heartbeat slowed, just a little. Here, at least, the walls felt solid. Here, the trio wasn’t leaning over my shoulder probably. Here, maybe, I could dig up something to make sense of the chaos.
And if they followed me inside? Well, at least I’d die somewhere alphabetized.
The library hummed with stillness, the kind that could lull you into thinking you were safe. Pages whispered when I flipped them, the fluorescent lights buzzed like lazy wasps, and somewhere far away a printer clunked to life, groaning through someone’s overdue essay.
For a second, I let myself breathe. I was tucked between a stack of local history books and an ancient-looking encyclopedia set no one had touched since dial-up internet was cutting-edge. Dust floated in the sunlight streaming through the tall windows, the kind of golden glow that made everything look softer, almost normal.
Almost.
I was halfway through scribbling another objective into my notebook when something pricked at the back of my neck. That primal, skin-crawling static of being watched. It was faint at first like a shadow too long in the corner of my eye but then it thickened, humming against my nerves.
My pen froze.
Slowly, carefully, I lifted my eyes from the page and flicked them toward the nearest window. The glass reflected a warped sliver of my face, pale and tired, but beyond that
I swear something shifted outside.
Not much. Not enough to scream “boogeyman on the loose.” Just a ripple in the light, like someone leaning back at the exact moment I looked up. A smear of dark shape against the brightness before melting into nothing.
My chest tightened.
Perfect. Just perfect.
“Really?” I whispered under my breath, sarcasm my only defense mechanism.
“Watching me here? Couldn’t let me have this one little sanctuary, huh? Glad to be the star of the show again. Do I need to sell tickets?”
The words bounced hollow against the quiet, but my pulse was thundering. My hands itched to yank the bag back up, to check if the knives and flashlight were still there, as if a few shiny tools would matter against well, whatever was out there.
I glanced back at the librarian’s desk. She was still hunched over her crossword, pen tapping rhythmically. No concern. No eerie shapes reflected in her glasses. To her, I was just another weirdo student wasting time. Either she hadn’t noticed or she was practiced at pretending not to.
My gaze snapped back to the window. Empty now. Just swaying branches, a car trundling by, the faint motion of leaves. Completely normal.
Too normal.
I could almost hear Hoodie’s voice again, smooth and smug, about anticipation being the real fun. About savoring every moment.
Yeah, congratulations. Message received.
I tapped the notebook harder than necessary, pen nearly snapping. “Well, enjoy the show,” I muttered to the invisible audience. “Next act’s me losing my mind in the non-fiction section.”
I tried to laugh, but it came out brittle.
Logic if I could still trust that said I was safe here. Middle of town, bright afternoon, public space. No masked psychos were going to waltz in and drag me off while a grandmother shelved picture books two aisles over. That wasn’t their style. No. They liked the suspense. They liked the anticipation.
Which meant I wasn’t free I was being toyed with.
The thought burrowed in, sharp and hot. They’d followed me here, of course they had. Slipped from the trees to the edge of town, watched me shuffle along like prey, then perched outside the library window just close enough to remind me: they could reach me anytime they wanted.
I shoved the notebook aside before my handwriting turned manic.
Focus. Books. Microfilm. Old clippings. Anything to make sense of this.
But the glassy reflection at the corner of my vision lingered, even as I pulled a stack of brittle yearbooks and a history anthology toward me. I could still feel it that hum at the edge of my spine, like static through an old TV.
I pressed my palms flat on the table, exhaling slow. “Okay. Fine. You want to watch? Go ahead. I’ll just pretend I’m auditioning for Most Paranoid Librarian Patron 2025.”
The absurdity almost helped. Almost.
But the truth buzzed underneath: the trio hadn’t lost me, not for a second. And if the Operator was tied into this if he really fed on the suspense then even here, in broad daylight, I wasn’t beyond reach.
That knowledge settled into my stomach like ice water.
The library’s hum swallowed me again, but it wasn’t comforting anymore. Every creak of the radiator, every faint shuffle of books on a shelf, every car horn outside pressed into my nerves until I was twitching in my seat.
Still, I forced myself to drag one of the heavy books closer. Its cracked spine groaned, dust puffing up like it resented being disturbed. My fingers trembled as I turned the first fragile page.
If they wanted to watch, let them.
If the Operator wanted suspense, fine he’d get suspense.
But I wasn’t going to sit here doing nothing.
Not anymore.
The reflection at the window shimmered again, just faint enough that I couldn’t be sure if it was real. I refused to look.
Instead, I scrawled across my notebook in all caps:
STARTING RESEARCH: IF I DIE, THIS IS THE TRAIL.
Then, louder than necessary, I said to myself: “Alright, let’s dig into the spooky tall man in the woods.”
My voice echoed through the empty library, and I almost convinced myself it sounded brave. Almost.
Outside, the branches swayed, and the glass seemed to hum.
The first book I cracked open wasn’t promising just a chunky binder of town records photocopied so many times the text was practically smudged shadows. But halfway through a section on “community growth,” my eyes snagged on something buried in the mundane: Missing Persons – 1912.
I froze.
The entry was short, barely more than a paragraph, but it described three children siblings vanishing from their farmhouse one autumn night. No sign of a break-in, no struggle, nothing. The parents woke to empty beds and open windows. Searches went on for weeks. No remains, no suspects. Case closed unsolved.
My skin prickled.
I flipped forward, faster now, the paper crinkling. Every decade or so, another cluster. 1928: two boys missing after walking home from school. 1940: a girl gone from her room in the middle of a thunderstorm. 1963: four teenagers last seen near the woods never came back.
The language was always the same. No leads. No explanation. Windows found open. Personal belongings left untouched.
The worst part? The records treated it like a seasonal nuisance, just another town problem like bad crops or flooding. They didn’t linger, didn’t speculate. Just neat little summaries: vanished, gone, end of story.
I rubbed my arms, suddenly cold under the fluorescent lights.
In the margins of one old microfilm article, someone had scrawled a note in pen decades ago: The Tall Man takes them. The handwriting was shaky, but it looked urgent, like a warning.
Tall Man.
Operator.
Of course.
I flipped another reel, and the projector spat out a grainy photograph of a search party: locals standing stiffly at the edge of the forest, dogs straining at leashes, faces caught in blurred fear. Behind them, in the tree line, the photo warped like the film itself had melted. My breath caught.
A trick of the old camera, probably. Probably.
I sat back hard in the chair, heart hammering. Missing kids, decades of them. Parents waking to open windows. Unsolved cases gathering dust while people pretended life was normal. And some stranger or maybe a desperate local scribbling about a Tall Man in the margins like it was common knowledge.
My notebook felt heavier when I picked it up again.
“Well,” I whispered to myself, voice thin, “looks like I’m starring in a long-running show. The children’s edition aired a hundred years ago. Guess I’m the modern reboot.”
The joke tasted bitter.
Chapter 9: Recognition and Regret
Notes:
New chapter done I hope you enjoy!!
Chapter Text
The words blurred on the page, though not because of bad print quality this time. My brain just refused to process it all in one gulp. Missing kids. Decades of them. Families fleeing overnight like someone had sounded a fire alarm only they could hear. Empty houses left to rot. People whispering about The Tall Man like it was the town boogeyman.
I leaned back in the stiff wooden chair, my notebook balanced on one knee, and muttered under my breath,
“Sure, just a casual hundred years of child disappearances. Totally fine. Definitely nothing to panic over. I’ll just add it to my scrapbook of things keeping me up at night.”
If sarcasm was oxygen, I was a marathon runner right now.
Flipping another brittle page, I found myself staring at an article about “unexplained illnesses.” Great. Because what this situation really needed was the bonus content of random plagues. The descriptions were vague, of course: residents complaining of migraines, nosebleeds, violent coughing, but always clustered near the edge of the forest. The reporter at the time chalked it up to “bad water.” Because obviously contaminated wells make people hallucinate shadowy men in the treeline.
Every few pages, something small and creepy would crop up like old radios going haywire, static cutting through sermons at the church, or people hearing their names whispered on the wind. No one ever got to the bottom of it, but instead of panicking, everyone just… packed up and left. The town treated it like an annoying seasonal problem. Blight in the fields, mice in the barns, children vanishing into thin air. Ho hum.
My pen scratched angrily over the paper. Notes spilled onto the page, but they looked like a conspiracy theorist’s grocery list: missing kids, windows open, static, Tall Man = ??? I sighed and dropped my pen.
“This is the world’s worst Wikipedia rabbit hole, minus the citations. Just mystery meat folklore, all vibes, zero facts.”
I stacked another dusty folder on the teetering pile beside me, the weight of it like the physical embodiment of “good luck sleeping tonight.”
That’s when I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. Not the ominous kind thank God but the decidedly human kind of a librarian shuffling over, clutching a clipboard. She was older, gray hair pulled into a bun so tight I could feel my own scalp ache in sympathy. She peered down at my mess of clippings, lips pursed.
“You doing some kind of project?” she asked, voice pitched somewhere between curiosity and disapproval.
“Sure,” I said, deadpan. “Extra credit for Creepy Folklore 101.”
Her expression didn’t budge, but her gaze lingered on the word “Tall Man” circled aggressively in my notes.
She lowered her voice. “If you’re serious about… that stuff… you might talk to Harker. He lives out in the next town over. He still ” she hesitated, glancing around the quiet library like someone might be eavesdropping, “ talks about that nonsense.”
“Nonsense,” I repeated, raising my brows. “You mean ‘children disappearing, people going insane, forest poltergeists’ kind of nonsense, or like ‘flat earth and lizard people’ kind of nonsense?”
Her lips pressed tighter. She clearly regretted opening her mouth at all. “He was a logger once. Claims he saw things in the woods. Folks around here… don’t take him seriously. Best not mention it too loud.”
“Right. Wouldn’t want to offend the local cryptid fan club,” I muttered, but she ignored me, already backing away toward the circulation desk.
I sat there for a long moment, chewing my lip. The rational part of me screamed that chasing down the ramblings of some cranky old man was a waste of time. But rationality had left the building back when my windows started opening themselves at three in the morning.
I tapped my pen against the notebook. What were my options? Stay at the house and wait for the hoodie-and-mask fan club to get bored of lurking around my kitchen? Venture back into the woods and play hide-and-seek with an eldritch nightmare? Neither sounded appealing.
Going to see Harker… yeah, that sounded stupid too. But at least it was productive stupid.
I shoved the folders into a messy pile, ignoring the way the librarian winced as I crumpled fifty-year-old newsprint, and stuffed my notebook into my bag. My reflection in the glass window beside the table was pale and wild-eyed, hair sticking up from running my hands through it too many times. Fantastic. I looked like a conspiracy theorist on the brink of yelling at strangers in a Walmart parking lot.
As I walked toward the exit, I muttered under my breath, “Congrats, self. You’ve officially graduated from Creepy VHS Club to interviewing the town loon for insider knowledge. Can’t wait to see how that turns out. Probably with me in a shallow grave.”
The librarian didn’t even look up when I pushed open the heavy door and stepped back into the daylight.
But the weight of her hushed tone stuck with me. He still talks about that nonsense.
I slung my bag over my shoulder and squared my shoulders, sarcasm my only shield. “Well. Guess it’s road trip time. Because when masked stalkers won’t leave you alone, the best strategy is obviously chatting up a random old man who thinks trees talk to him.”
And with that, I headed out, already dreading what kind of answers I might actually find.
I packed up my “research,” which looked less like a serious academic endeavor and more like I was building a shrine to bad vibes. Newspaper clippings? Check. Scribbled notes that made me sound like a paranoid Reddit poster? Check. An entire folder labeled “missing children”? Double check.
The tapes went in next, stacked in their cracked plastic cases like cursed Pokémon cards. Then I shoved in my emergency granola bars, a water bottle, and because apparently I’m living in my own slasher movie now a kitchen knife. Not even a cool knife, either. Just a plain, slightly dull one from the house drawer. It sat awkwardly in the side pouch of my bag like it was embarrassed to be here. Honestly, same.
When I slung the bag over my shoulder, the thing felt like a survival kit assembled by a hungover raccoon. Still, it was my only “Operator defense kit,” and I wasn’t about to face the great unknown empty-handed.
Walking out of the library with all that strapped to me earned exactly the looks you’d expect. A mom with a toddler clutched the kid’s hand tighter as I passed. Two college-aged guys gave each other that “do we call the cops, or just avoid eye contact?” face. The librarian, bless her heart, pretended very hard not to notice me leaving with a stack of their historical archives tucked under my arm like contraband.
“Don’t mind me,” I muttered under my breath. “Just your local disaster enthusiast, off to investigate spooky folklore while looking like a doomsday prepper.”
My car sat waiting in the parking lot, still coated in a thin film of dirt from the forest roads. It looked like even it was judging me for what I was about to do. I tossed my bag into the passenger seat, climbed in, and immediately locked the doors, because clearly a thin layer of metal and glass is all that stands between me and eldritch horror.
The engine sputtered to life, and I pulled out onto the narrow road leading toward the next town over.
The drive wasn’t long twenty, maybe thirty minutes tops but it was the kind of distance that stretched forever when your nerves were shot. Trees pressed in on both sides of the road, their branches arching overhead like they wanted to knit together into a canopy and shut out the sun. Every so often, the shadows seemed just a little too long, like they were trailing after the car rather than standing still.
“Yep,” I said aloud, gripping the wheel tighter. “Nothing screams ‘totally not cursed’ like hitching a ride through murder-woods while clutching VHS tapes. Real normal Tuesday afternoon.”
Every car that passed me going the opposite way slowed just a little too much. At least, that’s how it felt. A truck driver craned his neck to glance at me as he rumbled by, and for a second my stomach dropped. Rational brain said, “He’s just nosy.” Paranoid brain said, “Congratulations, you’ve just been marked by yet another stalker.”
I tried to laugh it off, but it came out sounding closer to a cough.
The longer I drove, the more the silence pressed in. No radio static made me twitchy now. No music I didn’t feel like tempting fate with “Highway to Hell.” Just me, the engine hum, and the creeping sensation that the trees knew I was passing through.
At one point, I swore I saw movement in my rearview mirror. A figure standing on the side of the road, way back where the forest opened into a clearing. When I blinked, it was gone. Or maybe it had never been there. My pulse thudded in my ears anyway.
The road spat me out onto cracked pavement and suddenly bam civilization, or at least the local knockoff version of it. A few squat brick buildings lined the main drag, their paint faded into that universal shade of “abandoned chic.” The gas station looked half-dead, like it had given up somewhere around 1995 but still sold Slim Jims and windshield wipes out of sheer spite.
Quaint, I thought, but in the way where “quaint” is code for “if you linger too long, someone will warn you about the curse.”
I slowed at a stop sign, eyeing the place. A laundromat with a peeling sign that read SPIN 4 LESS. A barber shop with faded photos of men’s haircuts taped to the window, all of which looked like they’d been stolen from a 1970s yearbook. A diner with a neon sign that buzzed faintly even in daylight, flickering the word EATS like it wasn’t fully committed to the concept.
People were out, but sparse. A pair of older women hunched over coffee on a bench. A man sweeping in front of the hardware store, his broom strokes slow, methodical, like he was more invested in watching the cars pass than actually cleaning. A group of kids on bikes darted past me, laughing, but their voices didn’t sound… carefree. Too high-pitched, like they were pushing it.
My skin prickled.
“I love it,” I muttered. “Norman Rockwell’s nightmare sketch. Exactly where I wanted to spend my afternoon.”
Pulling into a parking spot near the diner, I killed the engine and sat there for a minute, staring out at the town. On the surface, nothing was wrong. People moved, cars passed, a dog barked somewhere in the distance. But underneath, there was a static hum—like the whole place was tuned just slightly off-key.
Maybe it was me. Probably it was me. My brain was still chewing on missing kids, “Tall Man” scribbles, and the not-so-gentle reminder that I had three mask-wearing psychos with a front-row seat to my life.
Still, the way people’s eyes flicked to me when I stepped out of the car… yeah, that wasn’t just me. Their looks were too quick, too dismissive, like I’d already been filed into the “outsider” drawer.
I adjusted my bag strap, trying not to look like the town lunatic with my knife-and-VHS survival kit rattling inside. “Don’t mind me, folks. Just passing through, ready to interview your local cryptid expert. Very casual.”
Somehow, that made me feel even less casual.
The diner loomed like a safe option food, coffee, fluorescent lighting. All the ingredients for pretending everything was normal. But before I could make it across the street, someone intercepted me.
“Looking for something?”
The voice was dry as sandpaper. I turned and found an older woman standing near the laundromat, arms folded, eyes squinting against the sun. She had the look of someone who could kill you with gossip alone.
“Uh, maybe,” I said, adjusting my bag. “Depends. Do you happen to have a fully researched dissertation on the supernatural history of this charming little town?”
Her mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “You’re not from here.”
“Wow, psychic,” I deadpanned.
She ignored me. Her gaze dropped to the bag slung over my shoulder. Heavy, bulging, rattling faintly with the weight of tapes and knives and whatever else I’d panic-packed. “You’re looking in the wrong place if you think anyone here will talk about… that.”
“‘That’?” I asked. “Love a good pronoun mystery.”
Her lips pressed together. She leaned closer, her voice dropping. “If you’re really set on digging into stories better left buried, go to the end of that there road. There’s a man. Harker. Old, half out of his mind. But he’ll tell you. He’ll tell you too much.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Half out of his mind sounds promising. Exactly the credibility I’m looking for.”
The woman didn’t laugh. She just shook her head, muttered something about “outsiders never learning,” and shuffled back into the laundromat like she’d never spoken to me at all.
Cool. Totally normal interaction. Nothing suspicious about the town’s unofficial warning committee popping up at random.
I stood there for a second, scanning the street. The sweeping man outside the hardware store had stopped entirely, broom paused mid-air as if listening. The kids on bikes were gone. Even the dog that had been barking earlier was silent now.
My chest tightened. Yeah. This place had “don’t ask questions” carved into its bones. And here I was, with a bag full of cursed tapes, practically holding up a neon sign that said “Please bother me, I’m dumb enough to snoop.”
I blew out a breath, muttering, “Guess I’ve got a date with Grandpa Cryptid. Wonderful.”
Still, the lead was a lead. And something told me this Harker guy wasn’t just going to hand me a bedtime story I was going to have to dig.
The house looked like it had given up about thirty years ago and just hadn’t gotten the memo that it was supposed to collapse already. The porch sagged, the paint peeled in long strips, and the windows reflected nothing but shadows. Of course, this was exactly where the town weirdo who talked about monsters would live. Five stars on Yelp, highly recommend.
I knocked, half-expecting the door to fall off its hinges. Instead, it creaked open a couple of inches.
“Who’s there?”
The voice was sharp, cutting, older but not weak.
“Um,” I said, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder, “a curious stranger with terrible boundaries. I heard you’re the guy who likes to rant about spooky forest men.”
For a moment, silence. Then the door yawned open just enough for me to slip inside.
The inside smelled like dust, old wood, and the faint tang of mildew. Books and newspapers were piled everywhere, stacked on tables, chairs, the floor. A single lamp burned in the corner, throwing everything into uneasy shadow.
And there he was Old Man Harker. Wiry, hunched, eyes too bright for his age. He looked like he’d been living off black coffee and conspiracy theories for decades.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said.
“Wow,” I replied, “what a warm welcome.”
His gaze snapped to me, sharp enough to cut. “I mean it. He doesn’t like questions.”
“‘He,’” I echoed. “Love the cryptic pronoun game. Very spooky.”
“The Operator,” Harker whispered, voice low like even saying it was dangerous. His thin fingers trembled as they tapped the arm of his chair. “Tall. Faceless. He moves between places. Between people. Always watching. Always reaching.”
Chills ran down my spine, though I did my best to cover it with a smirk. “Cool. So, Slenderman but with worse PR.”
Harker ignored me, his voice gathering force. “He doesn’t act alone. He has servants. Chosen ones. They don’t serve him because they want to. They serve because they’ve been hollowed out. Broken. He fills the gaps with himself.”
My throat felt tight. I thought of the trio the yellow hoodie, the knife-happy one, the jittery axe kid.
“You mean proxies,” I muttered.
Harker’s head jerked toward me, eyes narrowing. “Don’t call them that. Not like it’s a title. They’re not people anymore. Not really. They’re pieces. Masks. And once you see them for what they are, you can’t unsee it.”
“Great,” I said. “So you’re telling me I’m being babysat by murder interns with no benefits package. Awesome.”
His lips twitched, not quite a smile. “You joke. But they’ll follow you. They’ll test you. They’ll make you wish you never walked into those woods.”
I shifted uneasily, sarcasm fighting a losing battle against the weight of his words. “Yeah, well, wish granted. Except now I’m here, with you, and apparently starring in the director’s cut of Paranormal Geriatrics.”
But deep down, the pieces were clicking into place. The trio wasn’t just screwing with me. They weren’t kids pulling stunts in the woods. They were something else.
And according to Harker, they weren’t even themselves anymore.
Harker leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping into a rasp like he thought the peeling wallpaper might be listening. “There are signs when he’s close.
“Define ‘signs.’ Because if we’re talking about bad hair days and stress eating, then yes, nailed it.”
His eyes narrowed, unamused. “Static. Not just on the TV. Radios, phones, even in your head. Flickers in the corner of your eye, like someone stepped out of sight. You forget things little things at first. The date. Where you left an object. Why you walked into a room. And sometimes… you feel pulled.”
I froze, hand tightening on the strap of my bag. Pulled. Like the night I found myself standing at the treeline without remembering walking there. Like the windows opening when I swore I’d locked them.
“Pulled?” I asked, forcing a smirk. “Sure, definitely wasn’t just insomnia and me stress-wandering like a lunatic. Thanks, Doc.”
But Harker wasn’t buying my act. His gaze sharpened. “You don’t joke because you don’t believe. You joke because you’ve felt it. You think humor will save you.”
I rolled my eyes, though my pulse was hammering. “What, you gonna tell me a good punchline drives him away? I’ll just start doing stand-up in the woods. ‘Hey Operator, ever notice how humans vanish when you’re around? What’s up with that?’”
For a split second, I thought I saw something like pity in his eyes. “You won’t laugh for long. He stretches you thin. He makes you easy to break.”
I swallowed hard, heat prickling my skin. Images of the trio flashed in my head their masks, their voices, the way Yellow Hoodie had talked about anticipation like it was something intimate.
“So what about the babysitter brigade?” I asked, trying to steady my voice. “The murder interns. If they’re hollowed out, if they’re just pieces, then what happens if I… I don’t know… punch one in the face? Do they break like glass?”
Harker gave a dry, humorless laugh. “No. They break you first. And if you’re lucky, that’s all they’ll do.”
“Awesome,” I muttered. “Really glad I came here for a pep talk.”
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “They aren’t kids. They aren’t even themselves anymore. Whatever they were before… the Operator took that. Left them tools. And tools don’t stop until the job is done.”
“Great. So, I’m basically a home improvement project.” I spread my hands dramatically. “Step one: ruin my life. Step two: make me scream in the woods. Step three: profit.”
But even as the words left my mouth, I couldn’t shake the unease curling in my gut. Because deep down, I already knew he wasn’t lying.
Harker’s hands twitched against the chair arms, knuckles pale. “You’ve seen them, haven’t you? The ones he sends. Always nearby. Always circling.”
I kept my face blank. “If by ‘seen’ you mean nearly had a heart attack in the woods because three cosplayers with a flair for dramatics popped up, then sure.”
His stare didn’t waver. “One wears yellow. Always watching, always smirking under that mask. He doesn’t need to chase. He waits. He talks like the game is already won. And when he looks at you…” Harker’s voice faltered, thin and shaking, “…you’ll feel like prey. He likes that.”
I shifted in my seat, pulse thudding. My brain screamed: don’t remember the smirk, don’t remember his voice purring about anticipation. My mouth, however, went with: “Cool. So Yellow Raincoat is a sadist. Thanks for the character breakdown.”
Harker ignored me, voice hardening. “Then there’s the one in the white mask. Sharp, quick to temper. He doesn’t play with his food. He cuts. Direct. Efficient. Violence is his language, and he speaks it fluently.”
“Great,” I said. “Anger management drop-out with a knife. Guess every group needs one.”
“And the last…” Harker’s voice softened, almost mournful. “The one who twitches, moves too fast, too restless. The axe in his hand is just an extension of it. He laughs at things he shouldn’t. He enjoys the breaking. Not a child, though you’ll want to believe he is. That’s the danger.”
I swallowed, throat dry. My brain conjured the erratic beat of the axe against a leg, the jittery shuffle of boots. Harker’s words made it sound worse. Made it sound real.
“Perfect,” I said, forcing a thin smile. “So my fan club consists of Sadistic Yellow, Stabby White, and… Twitchy McMurderface. Thanks for the introductions, Grandpa Cryptid. Really clears things up.”
His gaze pinned me in place. “They aren’t boys anymore. They aren’t men, either. They’re his shadows. Tools. And if you’re seeing them this close, it means he’s already chosen you.”
Something in my chest twisted, but I shoved it down. “Well,” I said brightly, “guess I should feel flattered. Not everyone gets a stalker trio and a faceless eldritch sugar daddy. Really makes a girl feel special.”
But Harker didn’t laugh. He just leaned back into his chair, shadows swallowing his sharp face. “Special doesn’t mean safe. You can’t hide from them forever.”
I stood in the dusty sunlight spilling through Harker’s grimy windows, blinking like I’d been hit with reality in widescreen. “Special doesn’t mean safe,” he’d said. Yeah, thanks, Grandpa Cryptid. Next time maybe toss in a sticker and a gold star while you’re at it.
Stepping outside, I swallowed the urge to hurl my bag of tapes into the nearest dumpster. The “Operator defense kit” felt heavier than ever, loaded with notebooks, VHS tapes, granola bars, a couple of knives, and a flashlight that had the personality of a soggy sponge. I tried to imagine someone seeing me now, and immediately smacked my own brain. No one needed that image.
I jogged to my car, muttering under my breath. “Hiker, survivalist, amateur cryptid detective. All the rage in every small town, obviously.”
The drive to the diner was quiet, but my senses were vibrating on overdrive. Every rustle in the trees, every honk, every distant bark became a potential sign of surveillance. Paranoia was like glitter you couldn’t get rid of it once it got on you. I told myself the worst-case scenario was probably just a cat. Probably.
Pulling into the diner lot, I immediately noticed the faded neon sign, half-working, humming in orange. I half-expected a fog to roll in dramatically, but no. Just a normal, slightly grimy roadside diner where someone would inevitably ask if I wanted fries with that terror. Perfect.
I grabbed my bag and ducked inside, bell over the door jangling, scraping off the tension like it was a layer of bad wallpaper. A few locals gave me those looks the one that says, “What exactly are you doing with that weird bag and the wild hair?” I returned a sarcastic grin. “Oh, just hiking for fun. You know, casual apocalypse prep.”
I slid into a booth near the counter, shoving my bag of apocalypse essentials under the seat, and immediately regretted the decision. Not the bag the location. Because that corner had a perfect, unobstructed view of them. Three ordinary-looking guys, leaning in, talking quietly, but something about them was… off. One was blonde with a small gap in his teeth, one had dark brown hair and a red flannel on and the last had shaggy brown hair with a face mask over the bottom half of his face.
I ordered a burger and fries, extra sarcastic internally, “Perfect fuel for stalking suspects in a town that clearly has no idea how cursed I am.” The waitress scribbled on the pad with a bored expression, and I tried to act casual, while my eyes kept flicking back to them.
They were… familiar. Not “I saw you at the store” familiar, but that twitch-in-my-gut, echoing-memories kind of familiarity that made me nervous and weirdly aware of my pulse. Dirty blond hair, a confident smirk that made my stomach twist, dark brown flannel clinging casually to one guy with sharp eyes, and the last one with shaggy brown hair, half-mask hiding most of his face but not the restless energy radiating from him.
I studied them like a detective in a cheesy noir film, noting gestures, the rhythm of their voices, the way they leaned slightly into each other’s space. Each laugh, each shared glance made the hairs on my neck rise. They were… watching me. Not in the creepy, forest way yet, but… definitely aware.
My burger arrived, and I jabbed at it with the fork like a prop in a scene I didn’t audition for. “Thanks,” I muttered, because that’s what normal people do while keeping an eye on potential stalkers masquerading as dinner patrons.
They glanced my way. Not a quick look. The tall blonde one sat there looking at me and tilted his head, smirk still in place. Eyes sharp, assessing, and damn near smug. The other two glanced briefly, then returned to their discussion, but the glances lingered long enough that my stomach sank and sparked.
I tried to focus on the fries, stabbed a couple, and muttered, “Okay, brain, figure it out. You know these guys. You have to. Don’t be stupid.” My mind kept looping through the forest. The masked trio. Their voices. The laughs. That unsettling, teasing rhythm of their jokes. Could it…?
I took another bite, pretending not to notice the blonde's eyes on me again. His smirk didn’t soften it only deepened, sharper, like he knew exactly what I was thinking, like he knew I was trying to place them, and he found it amusing.
I jabbed at a fry again. My brain started humming through possibilities. Who the hell were these guys? Why did they feel… familiar?
The blonde leaned back, hand brushing against the table, smirk turning into something more dangerous, teasing. Flirty. Not quite overt, but heavy with undertones that made me hyper-aware of my own pulse. His gaze lingered in a way that made the burger taste like ash. “Funny seeing you here,” he said lightly. No name, just casual, but… the tone.
I froze mid-bite. Funny seeing me here? That wasn’t normal diner small talk. My heart jumped. The slow realization crept in, teasing me like a cat with a mouse. My brain snapped to a stop. That voice. That laugh. The way they move. Oh, crap. Oh no. Oh yes.
I tried to act normal, finishing fries with forced casualness. The one with dark brown hair and a flannel laughed quietly, glancing at me like he was enjoying the little panic dance my internal monologue was performing. Face mask guy, adjusting his mask, smirked in a way that said, Yeah, I know you’re noticing.
They were… normal. Almost too normal. Except that when Brian’s gaze lifted, it landed on me, just a fraction too long. My chest heated. He raised a hand, a small, teasing wave.
I raised an eyebrow, sarcastically: “Hi there, fan club. Did the Operator send you, or is this just a casual Tuesday?”
Hoodies smirk deepened, tilt of the head confident and teasing. “Operator doesn’t do Tuesday specials,” he said, voice low, flirty, just enough to make my sarcasm wobble. “But I think we might enjoy watching you anyway.”
Masky snorted beside him, leaning back in his chair. “Seriously. You carry that thing everywhere? It’s like a museum of bad choices in a bag.”
The third, Toby, adjusted his mask, voice clipped but amused, “Careful. You’ll scare her off. Or entertain her. Hard to tell with this crowd.”
I felt my mind sprinting. Something about the way they moved, the way their laughter carried, the ease with which they leaned in toward each other it was the same rhythm as the trio from the woods. My pulse quickened. “Wait a second…”
I caught myself staring a moment too long. My inner monologue flared up like a neon sign: Damn it. They’re hot. And I’m totally noticing. And yes, that’s completely inappropriate. And holy hell, that’s Brian’s voice…
I sipped my coffee, trying to play it cool, tossing sarcasm like a shield: “So, local guys doing local things? Or just really committed to the weird diner aesthetic?”
Brian chuckled low and easy, the kind of laugh that made you want to lean closer just to hear it again. “Depends on your definition of committed.” His eyes glinted with something that made my stomach knot in a dangerous way. “I’d say we’re experimental.”
Tim and Toby exchanged a glance, smirks hiding somewhere between amusement and mild challenge. I kept a careful distance, pretending to scroll through notes, while internally screaming. I didn’t piece it all together yet, but my gut, that panicked little alarm bell, was going off like crazy.
They finished their conversation and started standing up. I grabbed my things, heart hammering, trying to act casual, but internally cursing: Don’t make it obvious. Don’t make it obvious.
As I left the diner, I kept glancing over my shoulder. The last thing I saw before turning the corner was Brian’s smirk, just a hint of mischief in his eyes, and a silent, teasing wave goodbye. That little gesture burrowed under my skin, and my mind refused to shut off with sarcastic rationalizations.
By the time I walked back to the car, pieces clicked together. Their voices, the way they’d laughed, the timing of gestures… oh, yes. The forest trio. Right there. Just… fully human and dangerously charming in plain sight.
I muttered under my breath, shaking my head. “Great. Hot stalkers. Normal guise. Fantastic. Totally safe drive home.”
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I exhaled like I’d just run a marathon I didn’t sign up for. The engine hummed, and I tapped my fingers against the wheel. Great. Hot stalkers in plain sight. Totally casual. Totally safe. Totally going to sleep tonight without nightmares? Ha. Nope.
I glanced at the rearview mirror like it was a magic portal to their amusement. Of course, nothing. But my imagination refused to cooperate. Blond hair smirk, flannel glare, masked restless energy danced across my vision like a slideshow of impending doom with bonus eye candy.
“Okay, rational thinking,” I muttered to myself. “You saw them. Not masked. Definitely… human. But, also definitely them. And not your friendly human they’re… more. Operator more. Dangerous more. And, yes, annoyingly attractive more. Fantastic.”
The streetlights flickered past, and my paranoia flared. Was that a car following? Shadows twitching? Or was it just my brain overproducing fear because apparently normal life now included stalking hot men who might, if motivated, be able to kill me in five different creative ways?
I couldn’t resist. I muttered under my breath, sarcastic to the max: “Yeah, because nothing screams ‘totally fine’ like tiptoeing home from a diner while your forest stalkers are possibly tailing you in a sedan. Totally not a horror movie cliché.”
My thoughts wandered to Blond. To the smirk. The teasing tone. That comment about experimental commitment. Even the tiniest mental replay of the words made my stomach flip. And the worst part? I knew exactly why it made me feel… something. “What the hell is wrong with me?” I whispered to the empty car. “Why is the fact he’s dangerous and hot and probably thinks I’m a joke, why does that… work for me? Totally inappropriate, by the way.”
I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel again, imagining different scenarios. What if I tried to confront them? Could I bluff my way through? Probably not. I’d end up stuttering, tossing VHS tapes at them like weapons, and still somehow be flustered.
Then, another thought hit. What if I just… didn’t? What if I went home, locked every possible surface, and tried to research more about the Operator while keeping some semblance of human dignity? Logical. Safe. And infinitely less likely to result in stabbing, gunfire, or… awkward flirting with men who could kill me at will.
The thought made me smirk despite myself. “Yeah, stay home. Research. Ignore that you just saw three very human versions of your personal nightmare and that one of them made you want to simultaneously laugh, run, and… something else. Perfect plan. Totally sane.”
I hit a stoplight, and of course my imagination started running again. Blond leaning against a tree somewhere, smirking, probably commenting on my driving. Flannel plotting some small, terrifying prank. Shaggy masked guy tapping his fingers against a knife hilt just to amuse himself. I shook my head. “Totally normal people. Just… normal.”
The street stretched ahead, the darkness curling like a blanket over the town. I glanced at the pile of papers, maps, VHS tapes in the passenger seat. My “Operator defense kit,” as I’d dubbed it sarcastically, sat there like a promise of chaos.
“Maybe I should start charging admission for my personal horror show,” I muttered. “Or sell tickets. VIP access for the forest trio. Or, more accurately, the human versions in the diner. Yeah, that sounds profitable. Or fatal. But hey, at least I’d look good on the posters.”
I flicked on the wipers for effect. Rain would be dramatic. Fog, even better. Couldn’t have a proper horror movie moment without a little atmosphere. My own internal monologue supplied the rest: “Seriously, calm down. You are not in a horror movie. You are in a horror show written by a sadistic Operator with a very questionable taste in assistants. And also… very attractive assistants. Fantastic.”
Finally, pulling into the driveway, I parked with deliberate slowness, every creak of the brakes echoing like a drumbeat in a horror soundtrack I absolutely did not sign up for. I killed the engine, grabbed my bag, and took a deep breath.
“Home sweet haunted home,” I muttered. The thought of those three Blond, Flannel, Face mask still lingered in my chest. My heart raced, but I reminded myself sarcastically: totally fine. Totally safe. And tomorrow, I’d figure out how to handle the whole stalking/hotness issue without dying or swooning.
For now, though, I just needed to survive one more night. Maybe double-check the locks. Maybe… triple-check the VHS tapes. And definitely, definitely not think too hard about the fact that they were probably watching even now.
Down_horendus22 on Chapter 1 Mon 09 Jun 2025 11:58PM UTC
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RUSSELLLLL on Chapter 1 Thu 04 Sep 2025 09:11AM UTC
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ctvrty on Chapter 3 Sat 31 May 2025 06:37PM UTC
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Kattaniau on Chapter 4 Sun 06 Jul 2025 04:25PM UTC
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bedheadnoodle on Chapter 4 Fri 18 Jul 2025 06:43AM UTC
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Juvabluee on Chapter 4 Fri 22 Aug 2025 06:26AM UTC
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Melodies_Blue on Chapter 6 Fri 05 Sep 2025 03:14AM UTC
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F0rget_MeNot on Chapter 7 Fri 22 Aug 2025 06:59AM UTC
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Iateurheart on Chapter 7 Sat 23 Aug 2025 09:20PM UTC
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That_Oracle on Chapter 7 Fri 29 Aug 2025 07:04AM UTC
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J (Guest) on Chapter 7 Wed 10 Sep 2025 08:49AM UTC
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Melodies_Blue on Chapter 8 Fri 05 Sep 2025 01:54PM UTC
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