The fire spits sparks into the dark while the group circles closer, trying to ignore the feeling that the trees have crept nearer since sunset. The forest here is silent. No crickets. No wind. Just crackling wood and anxious breathing.
A counselor once warned them never to camp beside the old logging trail. Something hunts on that road. Not an animal. Something that remembers it used to be human. It stalks campers who wander too far from the firelight. Those who see it describe a tall figure with snapped wrists dragging along the ground and a jaw that hangs too low, like it’s always ready to bite.
One of the kids steps away to grab his dropped flashlight. The moment his foot hits the dark, the sound returns. A dragging noise. Slow. Heavy. Getting closer. He barely whispers a terrified “guys?” before the noise lunges forward, impossibly fast. There’s a scream that ends way too quick.
The others scramble to shine their lights outward. Nothing. Just disturbed dirt…and long, fresh drag marks leading deeper into the trees.
Stake: tahawkin
