It's Waiting
“Where is it?”
Gone.
“Are you sure?”
I saw it.
“You saw it go?”
No.
“Then how do you know?”
Because it stopped watching.
Silence. The kind that presses in, thick and wet. They stood at the edge of the tree line. The truck was behind them, dead as bone. No lights. No heat. Just the stink of oil and something burned.
“The road’s gone,” the boy said.
“I know.”
He looked back anyway. Gravel turned to roots. Asphalt choked by moss and time.
“That wasn’t like that before.”
No.
“Is it doing that?”
Yes.
They walked a little. Not forward, just... sideways. Trees leaned in like eavesdropping old men. Nothing rustled. Not a leaf. Not a bird. Just the soft drag of their feet and the distant, patient scrape of something big.
“Why us?”
Because we stopped.
“What does it want?”
To be seen.
“So don’t look at it.”
Too late.
The boy crouched behind a stump, his breath showing even though the night wasn’t cold. The man stayed standing. Watching nothing. Watching everything.
“Did it take the others?”
All of them.
“You’re sure?”
I heard them scream.
“I didn’t.”
You were asleep.
Pause.
“I dreamt about it.”
I know.
The boy looked up.
“How?”
Because I did too.
Far off, something snapped. A branch or a neck.
“Is it close?”
Closer than it was.
They didn’t run. Running made noise. Running made you prey.
“We can’t stay here.”
No.
“We can’t go back.”
No.
“So what’s left?”
Through.
The boy didn’t move.
“Through what?”
Through it.
The man pointed. Not far ahead, where the trees pressed tighter. A space. Not a path. Just a wrongness. Like the woods had swallowed a piece of sky and couldn’t quite digest it.
“That wasn’t there before.”
No.
“Is it a trap?”
Yes.
“Why go in?”
Because it wants us to stay out.
They stepped in. The dark swallowed sound. No footsteps. No breathing. Just the weight of everything they’d ever feared pressing down on their spines.
“I feel sick.”
Keep walking.
“It’s behind us.”
Yes.
“No, I mean it’s—”
I know.
The boy turned.
The man didn’t.
“It’s not a thing,” the boy said.
No.
“It’s a place.”
It’s both.
“It’s wearing the others.”
Yes.
Shapes, wrong and wet and twitching, slithered between trees. A face here. A hand there. Familiar. Torn. Still blinking.
“They’re not dead.”
Not fully.
“Can we save them?”
No.
They reached the clearing. If it could be called that. A circle of nothing. No trees. No grass. Just dirt, damp and pulsing.
In the center, a hole. Blacker than night. Breathing.
“What is that?”
Its mouth.
“You said it wasn’t an animal.”
It’s not.
“Then what is it?”
Memory.
The boy didn’t ask what that meant. He already knew. Somehow.
A voice came out of the hole. Not loud. Not a whisper. Just inside them. A voice made of echoes and rot and the guilt you swallow when no one’s looking.
Come closer.
The boy stepped back.
The man didn’t.
“Don’t,” the boy said.
“I have to.”
“Why?”
Because I brought it.
The boy blinked.
“What?”
I led us here. I made the wrong turn. I ignored the sign. I thought I could outrun it. I was wrong.
He knelt at the edge of the hole.
“Tell your mother I’m sorry.”
“She’s dead.”
The man nodded.
Then I guess it doesn’t matter.
And he dropped.
No sound. No scream. Just gone.
The hole closed.
The boy stood alone in the clearing. No trees. No breath. No time.
Then the whisper came again.
Not you. Not yet.
You're still afraid.
And the dark began to move.